Loomis’ Music Picks

Supercrush, SODO Pop—hard edged, jangly guitar band sounds exactly like classic Teenage Fanclub, albeit without the Scottish accents. Which, since Teenange Fanclub hasn’t sounded like itself for years, is a good thing. (“I Cant Stop Loving You”; “Get It Right”).

Young Jesus, s/t—haunting postpunk from LA variously evokes Talk Talk and shoegaze, while  the principal croons uncannily like Jeff Buckley. The long, meandering songs and poetic, stream-of-conscious lyrics are oddly hypnotic, though they keep you off guard with some jagged metal passages. This is a real find.

Phoebe Bridgers, Punisher—this sort of femme altfolk definitely ain’t my genre, and she’s neither musical nor big-voiced enough to grab me. She is, however, a brilliant lyricist—sardonic, fearless and funny—and this is worth the megahype if only for “Moon Song” (“we hate Tears in Heaven/but it’s sad his baby died”).

Holy Wave, Interloper—spacey neopsychedelics mine the same Spacemen 3-meets-Krautrock vein as peers like Wooden Shjps, but are hookier and more tuneful, with well-crafted songs, understated vox and a keen sense of dynamics.

Orange Humble Band, Assorted Creams—something of an underground supergroup founded by Aussie Daryl Mather, who enlisted powerpop luminaries like Ken Stringfellow and Mitch Easter to sing his unfailingly catchy tunes. Strangely soulful in spots, though there’s an Americana, countryish vibe to much of this, while songs like “Fanclub Requiem” and “Little Picture Story Book” have the feel of classics. Impecable production.

Eleventh Dream Day, Beet—long running Chicago altrockers in the vein of Yo La Tengo or the Feelies have been making good-to-excellent records since the late 80s, of which this is probably the earthiest. Rick Rizzo is a good shredder and a serviceable frontman, but it’s his ex-wife/drummer who writes and sings the best stuff here, like “There’s This Thing” and “Rose of Jericho”. 

John Prine, “Pink Cadillac” the venerable folk songwriter wasn’t known as a hard rocker or an interpretative singer (or, for that matter, as much of a singer) but here he covers classic rockabilly stompers like “Ubangi Stomp” and “Baby Let’s Play House” along with a handful of originals like “Saigon,” which sound just as authentic. Surprisingly raw and raucous; his Covid death this year is particularly irksome.

Palace Brothers, “There is no One What Will Take Care of You”—in the wrong hands this kind of rootsy, intentionally primitive alt-country can sound pandering, and I haven’t really connected with the rest of Will Oldham’s lengthy oeuvre. This debut, however, is something of a lo-fi masterpiece, with his cracked warble somehow meshing perfectly with melodies so primal you wonder why you’ve never heard ‘em before. (“Long Before”).

Flaming Lips, “American Head”— I’ve always admired their ambition, but found most of their records since 1993’s “Transmissions from the Satellite Heart” to be generally forgettable. This latest retains the usual ork-pop template but, however, is surprisingly songful with wistful (and deeply disturbing) autobiographical tunes and real hooks (“Assassins of Youth”, “My Religion is You”).

Population II—“A La O Terre”—young French Canuck trio play a jammy, spacey sort of prog in the manner of Dungen, although I also hear a lot of exploratory, avant/ jazzy 60’s influences like Soft Machine and Can. They can play their instruments, but are more about atmosphere and feel than virtuosity, with enough heavy/noisy passages to awaken your inner metalhead.  I’ve had this on repeat for a week now.

Smashing Pumpkins, “Siamese Dream”—I have real issues with Billy Corgan’s mewling, hyper-emotive voice. Fortunately for him, this is a guitar record. Sonics/songwriting are beyond reproach. (“Rocket;” “Cherub Rock”).

Smashing Pumpkins, “Cyr”—the virtual antithesis of the aforesaid, there’s barely a guitar to be heard on this synth-laden New Wave horror.  A real singer might have mitigated some of the damage, but I’m not that convinced the songs are there, either. Lousy album cover.

Strum and Thrum: The American Jangle Underground 1983-1987—an unexpected gift for music geeks—28 tunes from the innumerable Rickenbacker-toting bands who emerged in the wake of REM. A few of these (Windbreakers, Absolute Grey) got some critical love (if not record sales) back in the day; others like The Darrows and Vandykes are wholly unknown even to obsessives like me, but are no less worthy. Much like 80’s Sarah and Flying Nun, there’s a shared ethos to these bands—melodic, pastoral and hooky as hell—and this is a nice counterpart to the glossy New Wave and heavy punk of its era.

The Gun Club, “Miami”—I’d previously underrated this psychobilly/cowpunk outfit,  who were  indifferently recorded and lacked the musical chops  of X or the campy charisma of the Cramps. On re-listen, however, they  were actually pretty great, with lotsa wild slide, some ace tunes like “Mother of Earth” and “Carry Home” and an intense lead singer who wails like a cross between Johnny Cash and the Wipers’ Greg Sage.

Vincent Gallo, “When”—gentle, ethereal balladry is the last thing you’d expect from the oddball filmmaker/actor, but this is haunting stuff. The best parts of this are just his guitar and quavery, almost feminine vox (think Jose Gonzalez or Bon Iver), though he periodically throws in minimalist keys or electronics for color. Perfect listening for before bedtime or after a few anisettes.

Verbow, “Chronicles”—the principal’s an excellent musician and Cobainesque singer best defined by his idolatrous worshipof Bob Mould, who produced here. First-rate tunes like “Holiday” and “Fan Club” would fit perfectly on a Sugar record, although the liberal deployment of cello gives a nice symphonic swell to these proceedings. 

Guided by Voices, “Do The Collapse”—a Ric Ocasek production reviled by purists who resent their transformation from shambolic lo-fi rock to polished, New Wave-y professionalism. I find it oddly endearing—Robert Pollard’s lyrics have never been more inscrutable, but Doug Gillard’s guitar cuts through all the studio trickery and the whole thing sounds good. “Teenage FBI” and “Surgical Focus” rank with the very best of Pollard’s 57,000 or so compositions.

Califone, “Roots & Crowns”—atmospheric blend of postrock, ambient, folk and blues from longtime Chicago scenesters. They have a unique ability to shift from spacey to thrashy to earthy without sounding schizophrenic. “The Orchids” is a perfect song.

Spinanes, “Manos”—90’s guitar/drum duo played a restrained sorta shoegaze/dream pop dominated by the sultry alto and interesting, cryptic tunes of Rebecca Gates. I like how they leave a lot of space between instruments without sacrificing power; occasional dissonance and guitar skronk keeps this from fading into mere pretty background. (“Dangle,” “I love That Party”)

Flamin’ Groovies, “At Full Speed—The Complete Sire Recordings”—after the departure of co-founder Roy Loney they mutated from Stonesy garage rockers to jangly Byrds/Beatles imitators. Here they do a surfeit of straight covers of their idols (along with an inspired version of “Werewolves of London”) along with a bunch of “originals” which, comically sophomoric lyrics notwithstanding, sound just as tuneful. Derivative as hell, but they have a fantastic guitar sound and this is like crack for power pop fans. (“Tell Me Again,” “You Tore Me Down”).

Rolling Stones, “Goat’s Head Soup (2020 Deluxe Remaster)”– as I understand it, a strung-out Keith left Mick to do the heavy lifting here, and coming off the visceral, cathartic “Exile,” this slick, mainstream follow-up can’t help but disappoint. That said, Mick does a yeoman’s job here–“Dancing with Mr. D” and “Heartbreaker” are mere product,  but he nails a bevy of uncharacteristically understated, ephemeral ballads like “Winter” and “Coming Down Again”, while the greasy Chuck Berry rewrites “Silver Train” and “Star Star” prove they haven’t lost their mojo. The demos and and bonus tracks on Disc 2 aren’t revelatory, but they include a tough live set, which, if nothing else, shows how much they’d miss Mick Taylor.

Robyn Hitchcock & the Egyptians, “Fegmania”—the  insects-and-ghosts fixations get repetitive, and unlike his idol Syd Barrett, his weirdness is more shtick than genetic. Yet like Barrett his songcraft is impeccable, and I’ve always envied his chiming, folk-influenced guitar. “Heaven” makes a fitting requiem for our dying planet.

Dramarama, “Stuck inWonderamaland”— my vote for the best American band of the late 80s (you thought I’d say the Pixies?). Majordomo John Easdale’s brilliant, concise tunes fuse the brainy decadence of  Lou Reed with the insular introspection of a Nick Drake, while the band rollicks like Mott or the NY Dolls. The FM classic “Last Cigarette” and the uncharacteristically Byrdsy  “Lullabye” are the obvious attention-getters, but it’s the lower, slower “It’s Hardly Enough” and “Would You Like” that will haunt you eternally.

Small Faces, “Ogeden’s Nut Gone Flake”—according to Steve Marriott, although co-credited, he wrote all their big hits, while Ronnie Lane wrote the uncommercial weird stuff. On this disc, while straight ravers like “Son of A Baker” and “Afterglow” roar mightily, it’s the weird stuff that elevates this to classic status. The wacked-out rock opera on Side Two has held up a lot better than “Tommy” or “The Wall”.

PJ Harvey, “Dry: The Demos”—not that Chrissie Hynde or Courtney Love don’t rock as hard as any boy, but they needed their bands to put them over. PJ, on the other hand, has always been a wholly self-contained unit, and her voice and guitar dominate even her more lavishly arranged efforts. These skeletal, acoustic versions of her loud debut make up in intensity what they lack in volume and, if nothing else, reminds you how goods these songs were.

Terror of the Deep, “The A-Team”—all of a sudden there are innumerable bands channeling the Go-Betweens (Twerps, RVG, Rolling Blackouts, etc.), but these Kiwis, with a Robert Foster soundalike at the mike, are the best I’ve heard. Their lyrics lack the sheer poesy of their forefathers, but they have the feel down cold. 

Nick Lowe, “Jesus of Cool”—this hyper-clever, studio-gussied sort of English pop can sound smarmy in the wrong hands, but this is great stuff, mainly because he has an instinctive genius for three-chord melody. He’s funny, too (“Marie Provost;” “Little Hitler”), though he’s at his best when he plays it straight, as on the white reggae “No Reason” and the unexpectedly tender “Tonight.” Drummer/Rockpile cohort Terry Williams swings mightily throughout.

Let’s Active, “Big Plans for Everyone”—like Game Theory or the underrated Superdrag, Mitch Easter connects the dots between Abbey Road and Big Star. His adenoidal voice is an issue for some, but he’s an outstanding musician and producer who can throw a lot into the mix without cluttering the sound. “Badger” ranks with “Waterloo Sunset” or “God Only Knows” for sheer beauty.

Shoes, “Elektrafied”—their playing was merely serviceable, although they harmonized beautifully, and they sang almost exclusively about perfidious girlfriends, but they had an uncanny knack for the giant, crunchy pop hook. This box set contains the three major label discs released in the wake of their lo-fi DIY masterpiece Black Vinyl Shoes.  The first two are virtually flawless—recording with  big-name producers in an actual studio did little to temper their melodic genius, and tunes like “Only in My Sleep” and “Now and Then” are time-capsule worthy.  By the third disc, Boomerang, you can sense them struggling for commercial relevance, with slower tempos and some ill-advised synth flourishes, although “In Her Shadow” and “Under the Gun” are among their best. The live set included here is surprisingly ragged.

Catherine Wheel, “Ferment”—on the basis of their later American releases I had dismissed these shoegazey Brits as mere Swervedriver/Ride wannabes. This comparatively raw debut, however, is one of the best records I’ve heard of late, with furious-but-fluid twin guitars, a limber rhythm section and a heartwrenching crooner in Rob Dickinson, who commands the stage without over-singing. The lighter-waving power ballad “Black Metallic” is the obvious hit, but the ruder deep tracks shouldn’t be overlooked. 

Café Racer, “Shadow Talk”—Chicago neo-psychedelics purr like a tamer Tame Impala, although they also evoke the gloomy post-punk of 80s Brits like Echo and the Cure. They’re not especially songful , but they’re atmospheric as hell, with a lovely flowing guitar sound, and this would make a fitting soundtrack to the pending apocalypse. 

Bob Dylan, “Rough and Rowdy Ways”—the Nobel laurels seem to have inspired him, as this is his densest, most literate set of lyrics since the 80’s. His melodic gifts, unfortunately, seem to have waned—most of these tunes are generic jump-blues or pallid Tin Pan Alley balladry—while his voice has settled into an uninviting Tom Waits growl, all of which make this better absorbed as poetry than as popular music.

Neil Young, “Homegrown”—just-unearthed 1975 set proves that his discards are better than most major artists’ hits.  Recorded around the same time as Tonight’s the Night and Zuma, this is folkier and more introspective (and at times weirder), but no less worthy.  The closers “Little Wing” and “Star of Bethlehelm” pinch melodies from JJ Cale and Johnny Cash, respectively, but are lovely nonetheless.

Bottle Rockets, “Live in Heilbronn”—they’ve made some very good studio records, but their real milieu is the barroom, which makes this live German set a good starting point. Usually typecast as alt-country, they actually hew closer to vintage Skynyrd, with live-wire guitars  and one of the best writers in the genre in frontman Brian Henneman. The funny, wise  “1000 Car” and “Gotta Get Up” are working-class anthems for the ages.

Urge Overkill, “Saturation”—their retro hipster pose was annoying, and their creative peak was short, but this is a great album, with memorable songs and excellent, fat-free production. Miscast as grunge, they’re really closer in spirit to sinewy classic 70’s Stones or Bowie, while kitchy-but catchy power ballads like “Turn Your Back” wouldn’t sound out of place on a Boston record. (“Postive Bleeding;” “Bottle of Fur”).

Dangtrippers, “Days Between Stations”—80’s Iowa jangle pop trio didn’t stray far from the  REM-inspired template of peers like Dumptruck or Guadacanal Diary, but stand out for their inventive guitar solos, Byrdsy harmonies and  some really sharp tunes like “Masquerade” and the searing “When Time Runs Out”

Golden Palominos, “Vision of Excess”—something of an underground supergroup built around drummer Anton Fier and a rotating cast of guitarists (most notably Richard Thompson) and vocalists (Michael Stipe, Johnny Rotten, an inspired-sounding Jack Bruce and the superlative, previously unknown Syd Straw). Sort of a cross between artsy King Crimson prog and the driving pop of Moby Grape (whose “Omaha” is covered here);  despite the pedigree of the musicians, this is no mere exercise in virtuosity—the songs have real hooks and there’s enough skronky edges to keep this sounding fresh. (“Boy;” “Kind of True”).

The Jam, “In The City”—Pete Townsend recently complained in an interview about how hard it was to play with Entiswistle and Moon, whose lack of musical discipline left it to Townsend to hold the rhythm together. His acolyte Paul Weller had no such problem—his bassist and drummer stay locked-in even at their thrashiest. This debut isn’t breathtakingly original, but shows plenty of pop smarts and steers clear of the Grand Statements and over-earnestness that marred Weller’s later works. (“Art School”).

Fiona Apple, “Fetch the Bolt Cutters”—this has quickly been anointed a masterpiece (including a perfect 10 from Pitchfork), and while it’s not quite all that it is quite striking. Her sonic approach is very narrow—most of these tunes feature the same slow jazzy tempo with minimalist piano/bass/drums and soul sistah backing vox, and this can get wearying over the course of a whole album. However, she is a commanding vocal presence, even if she lacks the sheer lungpower of some of her peers, the angsty, psychosexual lyrics are supersmart, funny and frequently harrowing and she’s nothing if not her own woman. (“Ladies; “For Her”).

A.C. Newman, “The Slow Wonder”—his fizzy New Pornographers are something of a mixed bag for me, but these 11 concise, slightly off-kilter pop tunes are close to perfect. Usually (and fairly) compared to Todd Rundgren, though you can also hear the effortless melodicism of a Paul McCartney and the glammy flash of Hunky Dory-era Bowie in tunes like “Secretarial” or the sad, sweet  “Drink to Me.” 

Dark Blue, “Victory is Rated”—very Brit-sounding gothy garage postpunk from Pennsylvania band, with a ragged, crunchy guitar sound and a wondrously deep-voiced Peter Murphy soundalike at the mike. They won’t make you discard your Bauhaus and Joy Division records, but they have a real feel for the form and deserve props for keeping the postpunk flame aglow.

Lucinda Williams,  “Good Souls Better Angels”—never a cheery broad, her records since 2001’s Essence have grown progressively more somber and harder to listen to. This latest, however, is something of a reversal of course—a stripped down, surprisingly heavy bar band affair which is closer in spirit to Credence than it is to Hank Williams. A bit underwritten in spots—some of the tunes are mere recycled blues clichés—but she sounds wholly committed on tracks like “Bone of Contention” and can still rock damn hard for a 67-year old.

Lyres, “Lyres Lyres”—oft-imitated, never-surpassed garage rock framed around the plaintive wail and overdriven Farfisa of 60’s obsessive Jeff Connoly. He has a knack for finding and covering obscure gems (“I Love Her Still”), but his own songs are excellent and he’s an underrated singer who can do rude and raucous or tender and soulful with equal aplomb. “She Pays the Rent”, done both as a slow blues and a loud rave-up, is the bomb.

Kurt Vile, “Smoke Ring for My Halo”— oddly appealing freak-folk  from prolific stoner (and J. Macis soundalike), who also  contributed to the critically overpraised War on Drugs. Somewhat monochromatic in melodic approach—he tends to default to a sort of densely-strummed mid-tempo shuffle—but he’s got a rich ambient guitar sound and is an instinctive tunesmith who periodically puts down the bong long enough to pen an offhand classic like the title track or “Jesus Fever.” 

Pearl Jam, “Gigaton”—I sorta get why hipsters hate on PJ—too earnest, too commercial, too white—but even arch-nemesis Kurt Cobain acknowledged that they were nice people, and they do have a knack for the big dramatic singalong. This latest mostly eschews their grunge side in favor of a glossier, generic pop sound which betrays a curious lack of hooks and energy even on the stompers. The low-key, acoustic ballads towards the end (“Comes Then Goes;” “River Cross”), however, are awful purty.

Translator, “No time Like Now”—80s SF guitar band with a driving New Wavish sound somewhere between REM jangle and bright hooky fare like Duran Duran or the Cars. I don’t quite get the fey Brit accents, but they had two strong frontmen and a passel of sharp tunes ranging from the upbeat/anthemic (“Un-alone”) to the emotive/somber (“I Hear You Follow;” “I Love You”).

Strokes, “The New Abnormal”—these overage prepschoolers have been rewriting the same song since 2000, and the drummer and guitarist still haven’t absorbed much more than the rudiments. They are, however, nothing if not comfortable in their vacuity, and frontman Julian Casablancas (in fine falsetto here) exudes charisma. This latest is good for a sugar buzz,  with a nice loose swagger and a raw, almost punkish sound which screams out to be played really loud.

Scrawl, “Travel on, Rider”—forgotten femme trio played a smart, stripped-down sorta punk-pop reminiscent of early PJ Harvey (who also enlisted Steve Albini to produce). This is no mere riotgirl screamfest—the principal is a nuanced, highly expressive singer, bass riffs are slithery, and they have an innate sense of dynamics. Songs like “Good Under Pressure” and the oddly tender “Story Musgrave” are grabbers, but my fave is the thrashy “He Cleaned Up” (“…she took him back/he fucked up/she kicked him out”).

Cowboy Mouth, “Cowboys and Indians”— not the forgettable Louisiana roots-rockers of the same name, but rather NYC-based David Lichtenstein, who (from what little I’ve gleaned) is a former John Cale sideman and son of the pop artist Roy. With hiccupping rockabilly vocals, eerie simple synth lines and chiming guitars, this plays like a mélange of Murmur-era REM and off-kilter Devo-ish New Wave pop. Weird but original; songs like “Long Hard Ride” and “Indy Man” grab you like a stray coronavirus.

Black Pumas, s/t—70’s soul revivalists with an Al Green-soundalike at the mike. The songs hew so close to their influences as to veer towards parody, but they really know their way around the studio, with phunky rhythms and a virtuosic, psychedelicized guitar sound which gives an acid-rock vibe to the proceedings. Supposedly a shit-hot live band.

Stephen Malkmus, “Traditional Techniques”—not that Pavement wasn’t great, or influential, but their shambolic, too-cool-to-tune-my-guitar vibe could be a bit off-putting. Which makes it surprising that Malkamus’s solo outings have been so tightly constructed and professional-sounding. This latest eschews most of the guitar flash and rock-dynamics for a subdued acoustic sound somewhere between Beck and 60’s Britfolk ala Donovan.  This initially registered as melodically underwhelming, but on close listen songs like ShadowBanned and Amberjack show a surprising depth and resonance. Subtle but worthwhile.

Barbara Manning, “In New Zealand”—very talented indie-rock songwriter who, I’m absolutely convinced, would have been a major star if she looked more like, say, Carrie Underwood than Rosie O’Donnell. This set of moody, minimalist folkie tunes is collaboration with principals of some of the best Kiwi bands (Tall Dwarfs, Verlaines, Clean) and, unsurprisingly, sounds a great deal like classic Flying Nun, with insidious guitar hooks, poetic lyrics and an unforced, pastoral beauty.

Tame Impala, “The Slow Rush”—curiously popular Aussies have evolved from gutsy, Pink Floyd-inspired psychedelic guitarism  to a much more eclectic, pop-oriented sound.  With ubiquitous synths, trip-hop beats and other such studio trickery, this latest isn’t too far removed from the commercial electro-pap trotted out by the likes of MGMT or Of Montreal. Well manicured and well=performed, but I defy you to actually remember any of the songs.

Air, “Moon Safari”— I’m xenophobically contemptuous of the knob-twiddling Euro-electronic genre, which generally reminds me of the “Sprockets” parody on SNL. That said, this record is actually pretty great, with real melodies, lovely female vox and a broad pallet ranging from trip-hop to Krautrock to cheesy film scores, all impeccably produced and performed.  World-class bassline on “La Femme d’Argent;” 

T-Bone Burnett, “Trap Door”—ubiquitous producer’s later works became progressively more artsy and inaccessible, but this rootsy 1982 EP is near-perfect, with five tight, shimmery originals and a genius reimagining of “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend.”  

Kevn Kinney, “MacDougall Blues”—his Drivin N Cryin weren’t fully convincing as heavy rockers, but he’s a natural at this pure folkie milieu. His adenoidal tenor is unpretty (if expressive), but he’s a strong acoustic player and tunesmith and no stupe as a lyricist—sagas like “Maddie Hope” and “Tina’s  Grocery” show surprising depth and resonance. 

Comsat Angels, “Waiting for a Miracle”— debut from atmospheric Brit postpunks, whose first three hard-to-find releases make a strong a trilogy as anyone’s.  More melodic than Joy Division and more cerebral than the Cure, the songs are uniformly superb, with spare, driving rhythms and memorable dadaistic lyrics. “Total War;” “Independence Day.”

The Johnsons, “Break Tomorrow’s Day”— hooky, smart raw-edged  guitar pop from Pennsylvania trio who dropped one disc in 1986 before vanishing from the face of the earth. There’s a classic 60’s folkrock vibe to these songs—Lovin Spoonful and Beau Brummels come to mind– though you can also hear the ebullient drive of early Beatles and the effortless harmonies of the Hollies. The punchy cover of Peter Laughner’s “Sylvia Platt” is spot-on, but originals like “Call Your Name” and “Burning Desire” are just as good.

The Wrens. “Meadowlands”— literate indie guitar pop evokes Pavement or Built to Spill, but has a confessional, impassioned edge that’s quite original. The dramatic “She Sends Kisses” and “13 Months in 6 Minutes” are exceptional.

Bram Tchiakovsky, “Strange Man, Changed Man”—amidst all the glossy New Wave and punky angst of their 80s peers, these pubrockers aspired to nothing more than a fat guitar sound and a hooky chorus. Songs like “Sarah Smiles” and the FM staple “Girl of My Dreams” may sound like they took ten minutes to compose but stick in your craw nonetheless.

The Windbreakers, “Time Machine”—THE ultimate jangle pop band, with memorable songs and two good writers in the hard-edged Tim Lee and the more lyrical Bobby Sutliff, whose Byrdsy Rickenbacker prowess is underrated. This compilation has a few duff tracks at the end, and isn’t as seamless as their studio records, but is a good intro to an essential (if commercially irrelevant) band.

Martin Courtney, “Many Moons”—solo record from principal of Feelies-inspired  folkrockers Real Estate, whose “Days” and “Atlas” were among the better records of this decade. Unsurprisingly, this sounds a lot like his old band, albeit with a more pastoral feel ala Buffalo Springfield-era Neil Young or 80s Flying Nun bands like the Clean. His lyrics are fairly inscrutable, but he’s got unique melodic gifts, with a seemingly limitless repertoire of descending chords and orbiting arpeggios. Pretty stuff.

Latin Playboys, s/t—I always respected Los Lobos more than embraced them, but this trippy offshoot of fragmentary songs and sonic experiments is oddly gripping. Alternately unsettling and calming, there are some memorable riffs buried in the mix + the whole thing sounds good on headphones.

Procol Harum, “Exotic Birds and Fruit”—post-Robin Trower, and largely bereft of orchestral pomp, this set is focused on Gary Brooker’s strangely soulful vox and percussive piano (which reminds me, oddly, of Aretha’s). “The Idol,” “Strong as Samson” and “New Lamps for Old” are as strong as anything they’ve penned.

Ron Wood, “I’ve Got My Own Album to Do”—he’s no one’s idea of a great musician, and his longevity in important bands seems to  have more to do with his being a genial guy with a good haircut. That said, this busman’s holiday has an endearing, loose swagger wholly missing from the Stones’ albums since the 70s and two unexpectedly classic songs in “I Can Feel the Fire” and “Mystifies Me” (later crushed by Son Volt).

Santana “III”—it’s been said, not inaccurately, that Carlos can only play one solo, so adding the fleet-fingered teenager prodigy Neal Schon gives this some flava. Carlos rarely sang, but his vocal on “Everything’s Coming Our Way” is suprisingly moving. Cool album cover.  I never before noticed that “No One to Depend On” had only one line of lyric.

Lucy Show, “Mania”—mostly-forgotten, hyper-tuneful 80s Britpoppers bypassed the synth-driven New Wave of their contemporaries in favor of bright, ringing guitar rock ala the Smiths or the Chameleons. Hooky and big-sounding; songs like “New Message” and “Million Things” still resonate some 30 years later.

Jessica Bailiff, s/t–eerie fusion of Cocteau Twins dreampop and distorted MBV-like slowcore. Like the similarly-inclined Low, she’s moody but not amelodic, and her understated vocals are really haunting. Quite exceptional.

Yummy Fur, “Piggy Wings”—noisy-but-tuneful Scottish punk-pop mines the same jagged, minimalist turf as Gang of Four or the Fall, but had their own brash, oddball approach to the form.   A couple of these guys went on to the distinctly less interesting Franz Ferdinand.

Gene Clark, “American Dreamer”—I saw the last show he ever played, which was memorable if only for the fact that he remained coherent after 50+ shots of bourbon. This compilation is as good as any an overview of the guy who, as much as anyone, pioneered folk-rock and country-rock. You can quibble about some of the omissions, although it does include his best Byrds song, “Set Your Free This Time” and a smattering of his coked-out, baroque pop masterpiece “No Other.” If nothing else, it demonstrates how many great Gene Clark songs there were.

Wire, “Pink Flag”— I had forgotten what a great, snarling punk rock singer Colin Newman was until I re-heard “Ex Lion Tamer.” The records they’ve churned out since 1978 are consistently better than 99% of the pap out there, but this debut remains the ultimate mofo. 

Three Johns, “Live in Chicago”—Jon Langford’s pre-Mekons project had the anarchistic furor of the Sex Pistols and the pulsing drive of Public Image Ltd., but were much smarter than the former and funnier than the latter. This live set includes both their shambolic parody (“McDonna”) and massively hooky near-pop (“Death of a European”) and is the best representation of their distinctive, if minor, genius.

The Suburbs, “Credit in Heaven”—I recall these New Wavers getting a lot of critical adulation in the early 80s, though they seem to be have been forgotten in time. Very reminiscent of (and musically at least on a par with) early Talking Heads; unlike most of the genre this record hasn’t dated at all, with sharp sardonic songs and a broad sonic palette—the really deft rhythm section keeps this sounding a bit raw. 

Freedy Johnston, “Right Between the Promises”—you’ll turn this off if you don’t connect with his quavery, eccentric tenor, which is a shame because his songcraft and sonics are impeccable. Much of this is his trademark melancholic chamber-folk, but the best tunes here hit harder than you’d expect .(“Waste Your Time” “Anyone”).

Jaimie Branch, “Fly or Die”—unusual trumpet-cello soundscapes from Chicago free jazz scenester. Exploratory but not amelodic; the principal has a thin, icy tone reminiscent of Nils Petter Molvaer, while the rhythm section give the ethereal, Eastern-sounding compositions a solid post-bop foundation. Very good late night music. The subsequent “Fly or Die II” features African rhythms and gratuitous vocals and isn’t as compelling. 

Timothy Eerie, “Ritual”— retro-psychedelia from complete unknown, who can churn out a tightly constructed tune like “She Talks to Mushrooms” and “Sold My Sunshine” without a trace of irony. Well sung, with a great fuzzed-out guitar tone and overall grrovy.

The Rutles, s/t—I generally have trouble getting past “Goose Step Mama” (“you’ve got nothing to eins zwei drei Fear!”), but “I Must Be In Love” and “Ouch” are genuinely melodic gems. I’m still aghast that the Beatles’ publisher sued for copyright infringement—I thought it was the Krauts who lacked a sense of humor.

Joe Jackson, “Big World”—I have decidedly mixed feeling about JJ—he’s a very good musician and composer, but a lousy singer and fitfully ham-fisted lyricist. This live recording of all-new material, however, is pretty compelling, with pristine sound and some of his best songs like “Right and Wrong”, “Shanghai Sky” and the riotous ugly American stomper “Jet Set”.

Roy Montgomery, “Hey Badfinger”— soundtrack to an imaginary film by renowned experimental Kiwi guitarist. While much of his extensive body of work veers towards shoegaze/noiserock, these solo pieces are surprisingly poppy and accessible, with ubiquitous hooks and a rich chiming tone. Repetitive but oddly hypnotic.

Basehead, “Play With Toys”— a concept album of sorts about old girlfriends, slacking and beer, this fuses Sly-like funk, old school hip-hop and shambolic guitar rock into something funny, poignant and tuneful as hell. Perhaps the great lost record of the 90s (and oddly unavailable on Spotify/Tidal). (“Not Over You”).

Dick Diver, “Melbourne Florida”—usually compared to the Go-Betweens, these Aussies actually hew closer to the tightly-crafted NewWavey pop of Men At Work or the Cars, with an ambitious sonic palette and a bunch of hooky tunes.

Kevin Salem, “Gimmer”–unsung ex-Freedy Johnston/Dumptruck guitarist made a couple of outstanding records in his own name, of which this is the rawest. An excellent, literate songwriter with a cool Lou Reed-like voice, this’ll appeal to fans of Springsteenish heartland rock, but has a uniquely skronky 80s New York edge–tunes like “Run Run Run” and the extended “Destructible”  sound like lost Television classics.

Lenny Breau, “Hallmark Sessions”—Canuck  jazz guitarist with impressive stylistic range, from classical to Arabic and Flamenco to country,  accompanied here by Rick Danko and Levon Helm from the Band, who keep up better than you’d imagine. Cerebral and subdued in tone, but his’ll get you through the ironing as well as anything.

Artful Dodger, “Honor Among Thieves”—overlooked Virginia band played very British-sounding melodic rock in the vein of Faces or early Who, with memorable tunes, concise guitar solos and an outstanding singer who caterwauls like Rod Stewart on the loud ones but can also get slow and soulful (“Scream;” “Remember”). Their swan song, “Rave On” is even better but hard to find and, as far as I know, never released on CD.

Bill Llloyd, “Feeding the Elephant”—ex-country star turns to super-hooky, jangly guitar pop in the manner of Marshall Crenshaw. His vox are pedestrian, but he’s an outstanding guitarist and tunesmith—“This Very Second” and “Lisa Ann” will remain permanently imbedded in your cranium

Peter Case, s/t-–ex-Plimsoul reinvents himself as a modern folkie in the vein of  Freedy Johnston or Joe Henry. I never liked Mitchell Froom’s overmanicured production style, but he and T-Bone Burnett do very well here—this is a great headphone record, with pristine layering and a crisp percussion sound. Case does well by the songwriting—smart and melodically quirky–though the cover of the Pogues “Pair of Brown Eyes” is the best thing here.

Blankenberge, “Radiogaze”—Siberian kids play swelling, Mogwai-styled postrock, with wispy female vox giving it a bit of dreampop feel. Intense and very dramatic, if not breathtakingly original. This would make a good soundtrack for a Russian war film.

Steve Miller, “Welcome to the Vault”—the LA rock critic Robert Hillburn had an interesting theory about “active” artists like the Clash or Springsteen, who require listener attention and engagement to appreciate, and “passive” artists like Boston or Foreigner, who merely present a glossy surface for you to effortlessly absorb. By this standard, Miller is as passive as they come—his records are virtually all glossy surfaces. That said, my brain needs occasional respite from all the fury out there, and this collection of outtakes and other emphemera works as well as any, proudly vapid but tuneful and well-played.

 Tom Petty, “You’re Gonna Get It”— generally dismissed as an less-refined rehash of their preternaturally accomplished debut, and it is fairly dark and garagey, with a ragged drum sound. On re-listen, however, I think it’s their best, hardest hitting set of songs, closer in spirit to their Southern Rock roots than to the glossier, poppier records that followed.  (“When the Time Comes;” “Too Much Ain’t Enough”).

The Bad Plus, “Activate Infinity”—long-running piano trio are slicker than my usual, but they do this sort of consumer-friendly postbop very proficiently, with expansive sound and the sort of telepathic interplay that reminds me of an updated Bill Evans Trio. This latest, with a new pianist, is more subdued than previous fare and works well as bedtime music.

Young Guv, “GuvI/II”— guitarist for noisy Canuck hardcore outfit Fucked Up moonlights as a melodic pop maestro (he supposedly ghostwrote for Taylor Swift). The best of this channels classic Teenage Fanclub, with jangly guitars and surprisingly deft harmonies, although he can also do an uncanny facsimile of glossy Fleetwood Mac-style AOR and even old-school R&B. Very talented guy.

Lucille Furs. “Another Land”—a JK recommendation, this Chicago band plays tightly-crafted, 60’s inspired pysch-pop in the (somewhat esoteric) manner of the Move or the Zombies. The songs aren’t quite there yet, but they have the sonics down cold with close harmonies, vintage keyboards and chiming Rickenbackers and are definitely a gang worth watching. 

Beatles, “Abbey Road” (50^th Anniversary)—this was generally regarded as Paul’s record, and his ambition and melodic sophistication here vastly surpassed John’s. That said,  it’s John’s comparatively primordial blues (“Come Together”, “Polythene Pam”) that stick. The innumerable demos and alternate versions on this reissue do demonstrate that, if nothing else, Paul could play the hell out of that bass.

Angel Olsen, “All Mirrors”—I liked her lo-fi, alt-country “Half Way Home”, but she clearly had wider ambitions, and this Spectoresque, string-laden chamber pop is closer to Dusty Springfield or Bjork than it is to Patsy Cline. Very cinematic (some of these songs could have been Bond themes), but surprisingly effective—she writes economically and has the pipes and melodic chops to bring off what could have been baroque overkill. Not rockin, but she does seem like a major artist.

DIIV, “Deceiver”—it’s not like the world needed another MBV-obsessed shoegaze band, but these guys are more songful than most, with a heavier-than-typical guitar sound and a bit of pulsing Krautrock groove.

Elvis Costello, “Get Happy”—it has been observed to me that women don’t like Elvis Costello, and I can sorta see why—he can be treacly and morosely self-pitying, and there’s usually a certain acid edge to his lyrical  gymnastics. This neo-R&B record, however, catches him in a cheerier place; he assiduously avoids the oversinging and palpable anxiety of his later works. There’s a loose, tossed-off quality to many of these tunes, and the mastering is somewhat compressed, but “Secondary Modern” and “New Amsterdam” are among his very finest.

The Real Kids, s/t—Unlike the Ramones, whose punky image always seemed like a bit of a put-on, these guys wear their working-class stupidity very naturally. This is pure, alcoholic garage rock; leader John Felice has a distinctive snarl and a deft way with the big tension-and-release, best shown on the mighty “All Kindsa Girls” and the Bo Diddley-ish “Reggae Reggae.” I was at one of their shows the night my son was born, and I gotta admit I still have regrets about leaving early.

Sun Kil Moon, “April”—I’ve seen Kozolek perform live and he came across as a boorish dick; it seems unjust that he would bestowed with such amazing musical gifts. This set is probably the best showcase for his lyricism, with delicate fingerpicked acoustic offset by harder-edged Crazy-Horse churn, all framed by plaintive vocals and tense, mesmerizing melodies. 

The Records, “Smashes, Crashes and Near Misses”—their comparative obscurity is somewhat puzzling—Birch and Wicks were world-class tunesmiths, and they’re underrated as a guitar band, with virtually every tune featuring a big, fluid solo. “Paint Her Face” and “Golden Disc” are every bit as resonant as their classic “Starry Eyes,” although the pervy (if maddeningly catchy) “Teenarama” would not be well-received in today’s social climate.

The Scruffs, “Wanna Meet the Scruffs”—a standout among the myriad of late 70s powerpoppers, with memorable songs and a charismatic lead singer. Much of this is early-Beatles stomp (“Tommy Gun”), but they’ll surprise you with their songcraft, as on the Zombies-like “She Said Yeah” and the gorgeous string-sweetened closer, “Bedtime Stories”. Cool slide part on “Revenge”.

John Coltrane. “Blue World”—being dead for 50 years hasn’t seemed to slow him down, as a font of worthwhile releases keep rising from the crypt. Consisting of re-worked versions of his old classics like “Naima,” this ‘64 set seems like something of an aberration from the Eastern/avant direction he was pursuing at the time, but his approach is more meditative than on the originals and his tone is slower and fatter while the normally subdued Jimmy Garrison’s bass is frequently front and center. Worth your time.

Todd Rundgren, “Something/Anything”—wildly self-indulgent by definition, but this one-man twofer has surprisingly few misses among its dizzyingly diverse 25 tracks. He’s a master at the lightweight blue-eyed soul ballad (“It Wouldn’t Have Made Any Difference;” “Cold Morning Light”), though the Hendrixy “Black Maria” is genuine heaviosity and the oddly evocative “Piss Aaron” and “Slut” are good dumb fun. The soaring “Couldn’t I Just Tell You” is one of the best songs of the 70s.  

Pure Prairie League, “Busting Out”—this may be the unhippest record I own, but good is good, and this country-rock staple is pretty much flawless, with expansive production and a singer who can really get into bed with these pretty songs. The overplayed standard “Amie” is here, but the best tunes are “Angel #9” and “Leave My Heart Alone”, which have a surprising amount of electric bite. Mick Ronson, oddly enough, adds the well-placed strings.

Chrissie Hynde, “Valve Bone Woe”— I hate the sanitized, Diana Krall-style “adult” pap they force you to listen to in high-end stereo stores, but this retro-jazzy detour by Ms. Pretender ain’t half-bad—there’s still some rock dirt in her voice, and she nails some oddball Nick Drake and Ray Davies covers along with the predictable standards.

Matt Keating, “Killjoy”—underrated singer songwriter slots somewhere between the wry, literate folk of Loudon Wainwright and the driving pop of early Elvis Costello. He’s a pedestrian singer, but has real knack for melody, a crunchy guitar and drum sound and a bunch of first-rate tunes, including the uptempo title track and the acerbic, funny “The L Word.” Great line: “you wanted a man who had substance/you got one with substance abuse.”

Enrico Rava/Joe Lovano, “Roma”—live set has roots in classic 60s Miles Davis Quintet, but moves subtly into modal and free jazz. Very, very well composed and played, especially by Rava, whose cool-but-powerful tone dominates. Exploratory yet accessible, this is a good entry drug to the avant garde.

Byrds, “Untitled”—the surprisingly raw live side of this twofer is actually pretty great. Bluegrass prodigy Clarence White was the best musician to ever pass through the band and McGuinn sings with a fury–check out his pissed-off take on “Rock and Roll Star.” The eclectic studio side has the shaggy-horse story “Chestnut Mare” and some worthy deep tracks like “Well Come Back Home.”

Mazzy Star, “So Tonight That I Might See”—other than the transcendent three-chord “Fade Into You” and the Arthur Lee cover, the songs don’t stick with you, but taken as a whole this is a mesmerizing, fantastic-sounding record—pristine slide, drony organ, crisp drums. Plus that haunting, ethereal voice really could tempt the devil.

Chris Whitley, “Terra Incognita”—his acclaimed debut was impeccably produced and performed roots-rock, but he was clearly looking for something more fugged up and primal, and his subsequent records got progressively more stripped down and rawer. This record is something of a cross between hallucinatory electric Hendrix and acoustic Delta blues– he’s a better player and singer than he is a writer (although “Weightless” is a gorgeous), but the intensity is there and this has a hypnotic feel that’ll stick with you.

Tool, “Fear Innoculum”—  I confess to being underwhelmed by this long-awaited comeback, mainly because they’ve almost wholly abandonded their thinking-man’s metal roots in favor of jammy prog which is closer in spirit to Rush than it is to Slayer. Forsaking the heaviness and tight structures of their earlier work, these really, really long songs devolve into a sort of atmospheric formlessness (“Chocolate Chip Trip” in particular meanders endlessly). Keenan is still an engaging singer, even if I can’t decipher what he’s singing about, and good sonics are a given for this crew, but the drummer overplays to the point of parody—he makes Keith Moon seem comatose by comparison. 

Green, “Green”—recorded on a shoestring by a ragged, garage-y Chicago trio, this 1986 set is something of a tour-de-force. They love the Kinks and the Buzzcocks but also hint at country (“For You”) and even soul (“I Don’t Want Say No”). The principal has an amazing voice which ranges from punkish howl to tender croon to shrieking falsetto, often within the same song.  The anthemic “Better Way” and “She’s Not A Little Girl Anymore” are standouts, but every one of these tunes connect, and this is well worth tracking down.

Lemonheads, “Car Button Cloth”—Robert Christgau described Evan Dando as “a good looking guy with more luck than talent and more talent than brains,” which is funny but perhaps a tad dismissive–the guy may be drug-addled but is unquestionably a natural. This curious, eclectic set veers wildly from sharp, radio-ready pop (“If I Could Talk”) to intense, brooding psychedelia (“Losing Your Mind”) to murder ballads and country, but other than the pointless, noodling closer, holds together surprisingly well. “Break Me” is a truly great song.

Dwight Twilley Band, “Sincerely”—Studio rats Twilley and Phil Seymour were influenced as much classic Sun Records as by the Beatles, and you can hear a lot of Roy Orbison and Everly Brothers in their approach. The original recording was somewhat compressed-sounding, but the remastered version on Spotify/Tidal is much better-sounding, and musically this is near-perfect with enduring songs like “You Were So Warm” and the sorta-hit “I’m on Fire”. The amazing guitar solo on the title track is played by electronic pioneer Roger Linn, who more or less invented digital sampling.

Hoodoo Gurus, “Mars Needs Guitars”—ebullient garage rock from Sydney. Gregarious frontman Dave Faulkner is a smart, funny tunesmith (like the Ramones, there’s a lot of classic Brill Building in his songs), but their real edge is guitarist Brad Shepherd, who has a fat, rockabilly-influenced tone reminiscent of Mick Jones or Johnny Thunders. “Bittersweet” is their acknowledged masterwork, but my favorites are the gothy “She” and the arch, cutting “Poison Pen” (“everyone enjoys sharing a rumor/but when it’s aimed at you it loses its humor…”).

Rolling Stones, “Beggar’s Banquet”—listening to this some 50 years after its release I’m struck by how rootsy/folksy it is, with virtually every song (including the anthemic “Street Fighting Man”) framed around Keef’s acoustic. I never liked “Sympathy for the Devil,” but the rest of these tunes have a depth and sense of humor unmatched by their later, louder opuses. 

The dBs, “Repurcussion”—like Squeeze or the Go-Betweens, the dBs played idiosyncratic guitar pop and hosted two brilliant composers, although they were edgier than the former and less melancholic than the latter. The singing (esp. Peter Holsapple’s) is artless, but the playing is impeccable and the songs are memorable, with Chris Stamey serving as a quirkier Lennon to Holsapple’s more melody-driven McCartney. Future REM/Nirvana knob-dialer Scott Litt gives this a nice sonic sheen. I play this one a helluva lot more than Pet Sounds or Sgt. Pepper.

Ballboy, “The Sash My Father Wore”—another John Peel favorite, this is essentially a showcase for one Gordon McIntyre, who offers minimally-accompanied twee pop in the same vein as Belle & Sebastian. Your reaction to this disc will rest wholly on your tolerance for his Scottish brogue and unabashed sensitively (this ain’t swaggering cock-rock). I find it oddly endearing, especially the rebuke of the “big fat bigoted areshole” and the deconstructed cover of “Born in the USA.”

Matthew Sweet, “Son of Altered Beast”—underneath the honeyed voice and pretty melodies, there’s something deeply sinister and disturbing about Sweet (“I don’t like knowing people/I don’t like people knowing about me”). This (mostly) live set, with Richard Lloyd shredding maniacally throughout, is rawer and harder than his studio albums and includes a lost classic in “Superdeformed” as well as the transcendent “Someone To Pull the Trigger.”

Credence Clearwater Revival, “Live at Woodstock”—suppressed for 50 years because they didn’t like the performance, and it is pretty sloppy, with lumbering drums and frequently out-of-tune bass. John Fogerty, however, howls and plays like a man possessed—he may only know a handful of licks, but delivers ‘em correctly. Deep album tracks like “Commotion” and “I Put A Spell on You” are standouts, while the extended “Suzie Q” channels their inner jam band.

Russian Circles, “Blood Year”— instrumental post-rock from Chicago trio somewhere between the atmospherics of Mogwai and the artsy heaviness of Tool. Scrupulously avoiding solos, the songs are tightly composed and concise, with a jazzbo’s sense of dynamics and a  really, really good drummer.

Jethro Tull, “Benefit” (Steven Wilson Remaster)—Ian Anderson’s subsequent, grandiose art-rock releases veered dangerously close to Spinal Tap, but I keep returning to this disc, with massive riff-rockers (“To Cry  You A Song;” “With You There to Help Me”) and some gorgeous folk melodies (“Sossity”), which seemed to have informed the legendary Roy Harper. I like Anderson’s acoustic strumming much more than that infernal flute, but the real weapon here is Martin Barre, who may be the great unsung English guitar hero. This 2016 remaster radically improves on the murky original, with a cleaner mix and much better instrument placement.

Yim Yames, “Tribute To”— My Morning Jacket has gotten progressively poppier and suckier, but James is unequivocally one of the great singers of his generation, and these solo acoustic renditions of George Harrison songs bring out a depth and resonance that the baby Beatle couldn’t deliver. His “Long Long Long” will get you sobbing like a baby.

Tommy Keene, “Real Underground”—like Game Theory’s Scott Miller or (spiritual godfather) Alex Chilton, Keene had one of those reedy, “alternative” voices that condemned him to cult status, but he wrote excellent, Badfinger-esque songs and was one of the best guitarist in the genre, with a simultaneous lead/rhythmic approach that reminds me of Johnny Marr or Pete Townsend (whose “Tattoo” is covered here). The first five songs on this compilation are fantastic, as are the morose “Safe in the Light” and the Fender workout “Mr. Roland.” 

Underground Lovers, “Cold Feeling”—unknown (to me) 90s Aussie band played a trippy, shoegazy blend of Sonic Youth and 4AD-style dream pop. With soothing male/female vox and reverb-heavy guitars, this is familiar sounding but very hypnotic. Definitely a subject for further study.

Kimberly Rew, “Bible of Bob”—ex-Soft Boy/future Wave was overshadowed by his more flamboyant bandmates, but he’s  a clever, spidery guitarist and ace songwriter with a knack for stripping a tune down to its basics. This obscure pubrock gem finds him backed by three different bands (the aforesaid + the dBs) and has at least two shoulda-been immortal classics in “Stomping All Over the World” and the screamalong “Hey War Pig.” 

Buzzcocks, “Singles Going Steady”— my wife made two salient observations about this record the other night: first, that under all the buzzsaw guitars there’s a lot of 50’s doo-wop and Elvis-style rockabilly in these tunes; and second, there’s almost no bass in the mix—it’s virtually all midrange. True dat, but these are stone classics nonetheless; at least during his late 70s heyday Pete Shelley might have been the great English songwriter.

Ed Kuepper, “Everybody’s Got To”— hard pop masterpiece from ex-Saints guitarist. Largely eschewing his punk past and the dark folk of his earlier solo records, this is closer in spirit to Ike and Tina or Sticky Fingers-era Stones, with blaring horns, big drums and a lovely-voiced backing vocalist. He’s a powerful rhythm player and a distinctive singer, but it’s the songs that really stand out and these are as good as any to emerge from Oceania. (“Lonely Paradise” “Too Many Clues”).

Chris Forsyth, “All Time Present”—he studied under Television guitar madman Richard Lloyd and was obviously a star pupil—most of these compositions sound like variations of “Marquee Moon,” though he also channels Krautrock, Neil Young and Sonic Youth. Mainly instrumental, though his sporadic vocals and lyrics are at least serviceable, this is technically dazzling (if derivative) guitar nirvana.

Sex Clark Five, “Strum and Drum”—Sort of a DIY, indie-rock counterpart to “Who Sell Out” from Alabama, of all places. They fuse REM jangle, Merseybeat, and T. Rex, but have their own unique take on this form, and  virtually all these one and two-minute gems feature a big hook, inventive harmonies and oddball lyrics. John Peel was a big fan.

The Verlaines, “Bird Dog”—sonically akin to, but more ambitious and sophisticated than their Flying Nun labelmates; the principal is classically-trained and uses a lot of shifting time signatures, ethereal choruses and brass and string parts. The somber, melancholic “Makes No Difference” and “Slow Sad Love Song” are the standouts, while the title track is a rousing rumination on old age and German beer, subjects with which I’m growing ever more familiar. 

Pernice Brothers, “Overcome by Happiness”—orchestrated alt-pop in the vein of (and just as good as) “Forever Changes” or “Odessey and Oracle,” albeit with a darker edge. Lead brother Joe is a melodic genius whose world-weary vox and depressive lyrics belie the ebullience of these tunes. “Crestfallen” or “Dimmest Star” are worthy of Brian Wilson or Carole King.

Rory Gallagher, “Calling Card”—he was a purist who refused to dress up his bloozerock for mass appeal; he supposedly turned down Brian Jones’s slot in the Stones because he wouldn’t be able to sing his own songs. His guitar is rightly revered, but I’ve always thought the songwriting was underrated and liked his shopworn voice. This record has more finesse than his usual, with acoustic shuffles (“Barley and Grape Rag”) and wistful ballads (“I’ll Admit You’re Gone”) as well the expected storm-und-drung (“Moonchild”).

Gary Clark Jr., “This Land”—his Hendrixy guitar is a little overflashy, but he’s an outstanding singer who can go from fierce growl to a Prince-like falsetto, and you can’t fault him for ambition. This record, though, is so eclectic as to be almost schizophrenic, with  unconvincing forays into hiphop and reggae offset by tough rockers (“Gotta Get Into Something”) and soulful slow burners like “Pearl Cadillac,” a song so sublime you wish he’d just stuck to his blues roots. 

Black Keys, “Let’s Rock”—their busy, Danger Mouse–produced megasellers didn’t grab me as much as their earlier, primal guitar-and-drums records, though they always sounded big and pounded hard. This latest is something of an enigma—oddly subdued, barely-rewritten rehashes of 70s AOR like Fleetwood Mac (“Tell Me Lies”), Foreigner (“Lo/Hi”) and Stealer’s Wheel (“Sit Around”).  They do know their way around a studio, and the damned thing soundsgood, but this rates about a “D” for effort and passes through you as soon as you hear it. I assume the album title is ironic.

Elephant9, “Psychedelic Backfire Vols I and II”—live organ-fueled improv trio from Norway melds avant-groove, heavy jazz-fusion and prog. The long compositions threaten to veer off into the ether, but never stray too far from their rhythmic bones, and the playing (esp. the drumming) is virtuosic, with a great sense of dynamics and pace. Vol II features the guitarist from Dungen and has more of a jam band vibe, while Vol I hews closer to Tony Williams or electric Miles. Both sets will leave you pining for the fjords.

Beck, “Morning Phase”—he’s always struck me as possessing more  industry savvy than musical genius, but dammit if he hasn’t  gone and written himself a near-perfect facsimile of a Nick Drake record. Similar in tone to his previous “Sea Change” (somber and contemplative), though the arrangements are more austere; there are periodic string interludes and orchestral swells, but the sonic focus is on clean fingerpicked acoustic guitar, with minimal percussion and keyboard coloration.  As on Sea Change, he adopts a somewhat over-emotive, unnatural baritone—a better singer would have crushed this material –but the mostly sad songs themselves are really good and the production is impeccable.

You Am I, “#4 Record”—curiously ignored outside their native Australia, these mod-inspired yobs get my vote as the world’s best bar band, with a Who-like sonic attack and a great frontman in Tim Rogers, who swaggers like Steve Marriott or Paul Westerberg. This record is looser and more live-sounding than their (excellent) prior releases, deftly blending dirty riff-rockers (“The Cream and the Crock”), ballads (“Heavy Heart”) and hard-edged, pretty pop (“Fifteen”).

David Kilgour, “Feather in the Engine”—ex-Clean majordomo draws a line between trad Britfolk like Davy Graham and Bert Jansch, the dreamy din of the Velvet Underground and the Byrdsy jangle of early REM or Yo La Tengo. A subtly brilliant guitarist, he has a real knack for simple, indelible melodies (“Today is Gonna Be Mine;” “Perfect Watch”) and makes this all flow seem effortlessly and naturally.

Posies, “Frosting on the Beater”—probably inspired by their hipper Seattle peers, these popsters added some grunge to their trademark blend of XTC lyricism and Hollies harmonies. Side One (starting with the pounding sing-along “Dream All Day” and ending with the extended “Burn and Shine”) is as strong a set of songs as was produced in the 90s; Side Two is moodier and quieter, though also worthy. I’ve probably listened to this record as much as any I own.

Loudon Wainwright III, “Album II”—the most enduring of the new Dylans, this 1972 set is his best set of songs, ranging from surreal (“Me and My Friend to the Cat”) to sardonic (“Nice Jewish Girls”) to sincere (“Motel Blues,” later covered by Big Star).  As skeletal a production as you’ll hear—almost entirely just his acoustic guitar and reedy voice—but he’s more tuneful than you’d think, and you respond to this melodically as well as cerebrally.

Earth, “Full Upon Her Burning Lips”— atmospheric, instrumental sorta-metal grabs you like a megadose of Robitussin.  There’s not a ton of differentiation between the songs (or, for that matter, between their numerous records)–all feature slow throbbing rhythms and sludgy sustained  guitar riffs ala Sabbath or the Melvins—but this is oddly calming stoner music  which even your mother would love.

Little Steven and the Disciples of Soul, “Men Without Women”— white working class R&B from E-Street guitarist/Sopranos consigliere. He throws a lot into the mix–bullring horns, screeching guitar solos, barrelhouse piano –but keeps it ragged, plus the songs are mostly stellar, esp. the poignant title track and the apocalyptic “Under the Gun.”   I’ve wondered if this would be better with a real singer, but his frenetic yowl suits the bar band vibe just fine. 

Edith Frost, “Calling Over Time”–I saw her play a set of Patsy Cline covers in a tiny bar and was sufficiently moved to pick up this odd hybrid of ambient and countrypolitain. She enlists postrock luminaries like Jim O’Rourke (Tortoise) as well as Microdisney/High Llamas prodigy Sean O’ Hagen to inject some dreampop feel into these proceedings, and this record has a lo-fi, electronic sheen, but she’s a country singer at heart and unlike self-consciously artsy peers like Beth Orton, there’s a very organic, natural feel to these proceedings.  Try this.

Ultra Vivid Scene, “Joy 1967-1990“—NY-born one-man band plays concise neopsychelia reminiscent of the early Church (his vox sound uncannily like Steven Kilbey’s) as well as shoegazy English bands like Ride. His drumming is rudimentary, but he has a great, reverb-heavy guitar sound and really knows how to put a song together—“Staring at the Sun” is a classic.

The Bongos, “Drums Along The Hudson”—jittery New Wavy guitar pop not too far removed from early Talking Heads or the B-52s, albeit without the neuroses of the former or the campiness of the latter. They have punkish energy but sound tight, with precise propulsive percussion in the manner of the Feelies, and they have a knack for a hooky guitar riff and  memorable, oblique lyrics (“flash lights when ready, that’s what she said to me/some assembly required, that’s what I said to her”).  

Absolute Grey, “Greenhouse”— jangly Velvet Underground-inspired acid/folkrock with a great female singer and some inspired tunes (“More Walnuts”; “Remorse”). Rawer and more spontaneous than contemporaries like REM or Thin White Rope, their lack of studio polish is endearing and much of this’ll stick with you long after you’ve heard it.

Bob Mould “Workbook 25”—solo debut from Husker Du principal is much closer to the electric folk of Richard Thompson or John Martyn than it is to the grungy barrage of his former band. He’s still a somber guy, and he doesn’t wholly abandon the blistering distorted guitar solos, but he deploys a lot of cello and 12-string acoustic to give this a much cleaner, almost-orkpop quality; songs like the instrumental opener “Sunspots” and “Dreaming I Am” are outright pretty. Meticulously played and produced and very powerful stuff. The bonus tracks on this reissue include a searing cover of Thompson’s  “Shoot Out the Lights.” 

Skip Spence, “Oar”—ex-Jefferson Airplane drummer/Moby Grape founder recorded this visionary, one-man tour de force in a manic burst following his release from Bellevue. Much of this is minimalist folk blues (“Weighted Down;” Cripple Creek”), though he also touches on gospel,  psychedelia and even music hall (“Lawrence of Euphoria” would do Gilbert & Sullivan proud). Out there but not really unhinged—like Syd Barrett’s solo work there’s real melodic heft to the songs and the lyrics are fraught with strange imagery and clever double entendres.

V/A—Where the Pyramid Meets the Eye—Known for primal garage rockers (“You’re Gonna Miss Me”), the recently-departed Erickson had surprising range as a writer and could pen a tender love song as well as acid-fried paeans to zombies and two headed dogs. His own records are uneven, but this tribute project is a fitting obituary. The bigger names (ZZ Top, REM) do fine, but the standout tracks here are from John Wesley Harding and the generally-forgettable Poi Dog Pondering, who nail the sublime, oddly beautiful “I Had to Tell You.”

Cheap Trick, s/t—they’d strike it big with their later, studio-shiny product, but this heavier, underrecognized debut is one of the best-ever hard rock records. Rick Nielsen’s tunes are sharp and  subversive (“He’s A Whore,” “Elo Kiddies”), while Robin Zander may have the strongest lungs in the genre—check out his microphone shredding take on “Speak Now”.

Nirvana, “Live at Reading”—I’ve always had reservations about the sonic approach to the (overpolished) Nevermind and (artificially grungy) In Utero, which leaves this unfiltered barrage as the truest representation of their genius. “Been A Son” rules.

Aimee Mann, “I’m With Stupid”— she’d prbably be miserable on a camping trip, but nobody writes a better kiss-off song and she scores here with surprisingly tough-minded, Oasis-like rockers (“Long Shot,” “Sugarcoated”) and wistful, cerebral torch songs (“Ray,” “Par for the Course”), all sung in her bell-clear dulcet voice. Producer/cohort Jon Brion does well with the arrangements, wisely stripping away the gratuitous New Wave trappings that murked up her earlier works and leaving in enough raw edges and guitar solos to appease more jaded listeners.

Funkadelic, “Maggot Brain”— I was familiar only with the mindblowing, psychedelic ten-minute title track, but the shorter funk-meets-thrash numbers that follow seem to have influenced not just Prince and Rick James but the whole SoCal skatepunk ethos, while the closer, “Wars of Armageddon” is genuinely trippier than anything Zappa could conceive. That album cover still gives me nightmares, however.

The Hotrats, “Turn Ons”—Bowie’s “Pin-Ups” excepted, most such all-covers project are a wank, but this loud, reverent set from neo-classicists Supergrass is really well done, with creative takes on classic songs by Squeeze, Lou Reed and (esp.) the Beastie Boys. 

The Ponys, “Laced With Romance”— exuberant postpunk from Chicago grabs you from the get-go with overdriven riffs and unrelenting grooviness. They borrow heavily from “Nuggets” era garage rockers as well as from Echo and Television—the principal intones like an Anglicized Tom Verlaine—but somehow have their own primal sound; songs like “I’ll Make You a Star” and “Let’s Kill Ourselves” have a way for insinuating themselves into your cranium. 

Boris “Rainbow”— hypnotic mix of metal, ambient and Melvins-style stoner rock from Japanese power trio, here joined by the face-melting pysch guitarist Michio Kurihara (whose main band, Ghost, is also a must-hear). Pulverizing and/or droning in spots, this is not your typical Satan-worshipping noisefest—the songs are melodic, even gentle at times, with soothing (if incomprehensible) vocals and a great sense of loud/quiet dynamics. Really exceptional.

Preoccupations, “New Material”—a Calgary band who (like the similarly derivative Interpol) does a very credible take on 80s-style gloom merchants like Joy Division, Echo and the Cure. Lyrics are unfailingly dark—suicide, anxiety, doubt—but the tunes are sprightly, the singer emotes convincingly and the band plays with a nice propulsive swing. Inessential but worthwhile.

Vibrators, “Pure Mania”—fat-free Brit punk owes as much to Eddie Cochran as it does to the Clash. Refreshingly unconcerned with politics or alienation—they snarl mostly about women—virtually all these two minute gems feature a tightly wound verse, a cathartic chorus and a frenzied guitar break. This’ll get your heart pumping as well as anything.    

Bark Psychosis, “Hex”— spacy atmospheric postrock in the vein of Talk Talk, though you can also hear swatches of Eno, ECM-style jazz, dub and prog. Built around reverb-heavy guitar, pulsing rhythms and unsettling, whispery vocals, this is an exceptionally lush sounding work which in its own more subdued way is a much a sonic landmark as “Dark Side of the Moon” or “OK Computer.” Very highly recommended.

Chris Bell, “I Am The Cosmos”— co-founder of powerpop deities Big Star, his lyricism and tormented vocals remind me of no one so much as John Lennon. He could rock out convincingly (“I Don’t Know;” “Got Kinda Lost”), but his real forte was intense spiritual/gospelly numbers (“There Was A Light”) and melancholy love songs of extreme delicacy and beauty (“Speed of Sound”). Sound quality is ragged (this was cobbled together posthumously from demos and singles), but this is fantastic stuff nonetheless. The dreampop supergroup This Mortal Coil covered the title track superbly.

Clinic, “Wheeltappers and Shunters”—eccentric Brits use jittery rhythms, vintage keyboards/drum machines and melodica (!) to create an addictive sort of electropop. They’ve clearly listened to the angular postpunk of Gang of Four and Wire as well as to Radiohead—the singer purrs like a sinister Thom Yorke—but they have a very distinctive take on the form. This new set of songs isn’t as memorable as their 2002 masterwork, Walking with Thee, but this still sounds great on headphones.

Smoking Popes, “Destination Failure”—Green Day-style guitar pop with a Sinatra-loving crooner. Better than you’d think, with some great ravers like “I Know You Love Me” and “Before I’m Gone;” you could actually envision Tony Bennett tackling “Star Struck One” or “Megan”. 

Nils Peter Molvaer, “Khmer”—Swedish trumpeter plays eerie electronic jazz which falls somewhere between bop and industrial. Eschewing traditional accompaniment, he plays his (frequently muted) horn over ambient electronic washes, trip-hoppy beats and squalling, occasionally dissonant guitars. Very accessible—the compositions have real structure and his icy tone is crystal clear. His later records drifted towards New Age/Enya territory and kinda suck, but this one is optimal late night listening. 

Microdisney, “Clock Comes Down the Stairs”–aptly branded “iron fist in velvet glove,” these Irishmen paired sophisticated orchestrations with hyper-literate, acerbic lyrics and an outstanding deep-voiced singer. Sonically akin to polished studio pop like Prefab Sprout or Blue Nile, but this has an edgier spirit–like Morrissey or (audioreviews faves) Go-Betweens, there’s an angsty, sardonic feel to these songs. Not for rockers, but a classic of its type; “Begging Bowl” is one of the greatest songs of the 80s. 

Al Green, “Belle Album”–his last secular album, and you can hear him moving from away from the carnal to the spiritual (“it’s you that I want/but it’s Him that I need”). Darker and more stripped-down and guitar-focused than his prior fare, without obvious hits, this has a hypnotic flow capped off by the gospelly “Chariots of Fire” and the slow-burning, transcendant “Dream.” He sings pretty good, too. 

Crazy Horse, s/t—as Americana I rank this ragged barroom fare on a par with “Music from Big Pink” or Little Feat’s debut. OD victim Danny Whitten really was a formidable talent, and his ballads “Look at all the Things” and “I Don’t Want to Talk About It” will literarily break your heart. Neil Young stand-in Nils Lofgren contributes his best song, “Beggar’s Day,” while Ry Cooder is lethal on slide throughout.

Rain Parade, “Emergency Third Rail Power Trip”—the best of the late lamented Paisley Underground scene, this borrows heavily from 60’s folkrock and psychedelia (think “Eight Miles High” or “Hurdy Gurdy Man”), sometimes with the trippy feel of early Pink Floyd. Melodic and well-recorded, with earnest, uncolored singing, a great clean twin guitar sound and some genuinely beautiful tunes (“Kaleidoscope,” “Carolyn’s Song”).

Vampire Weekend, “Father of the Bride”—I understand this is college music, but I can’t for the life of me grasp why college kids would listen to this sanitized, sexless, saccharine sort of pseudo-World music. Well produced and performed, which, in context, is not a compliment.

Blind Faith, S/T—there’s a bit of a tossed-off quality to this prototypical supergroup project–the lyrics are comically underwritten and the extended “Do What You Like” drifts into aimlessness. That said, I’m surprised at how enjoyable this is–Winwood has never sung better and the songs are there, including the certifiable classic “Can’t Find My Way Home” and “Presence of the Lord,” which may be Clapton’s best non-Dominos composition. I’ve never worshipped Clapton’s playing, which always struck me as technically flawless but rigid and soulless, but he sounds nice and loose here. The scratchy violin solo on “Sea of Joy” is epic.

Richard Buckner,  “Our Blood”–Buckner has evolved from bittersweet altcountry  (ala Son Volt or Lucinda Williams) to an insular, original sort of electrofolk, which fuses his warm, grainy baritone (think an Americanized Joe Cocker) to  simple guitar figures, vintage keyboards and poetic, emotionally raw lyrics about loss and longing. His sonic palette is somewhat narrow–he favors elegaic, downcast melodies –but he’s really mastered this sound, and  this very well-recorded set is as good an introduction as any. 

Liquor Giants, “Every Other Day at a Time”–unfussy 60’s-inspired guitar pop from ex-Gun Club guitarist Ward Dotson, whose harder-edged prior band, the Pontiac Brothers, is also worth checking out. A genuinely great songwriter with an innate knack for clever lyrical and melodic hooks, he effortlessly invokes the Beach Boys, the Byrds and the Move (whose “Fire Escape” is covered here), though he throws in enough skewed Buzzcocks-like guitar and ragged harmonies to keep this from mere rehash or parody. I would kill to knock off a song as good as “Raining Butterflies” or “I Know I’m Wrong.”

Cat Power, “Moon Pix”—I’ve vacillated between thinking she’s a dreary self-absorbed mess or a gifted torch singer before settling, at least on this set, for the latter. Austerely arranged and deliberately paced, though less somber than her usual, she enlists Aussie jazzbos Dirty Three to give this some kick in spots. Much of this has the earthy fervor of an old Delta blues record, and her voice does stick with you.

Prince, “Plectorumelectrum”—he didn’t exactly lose his muse, but most of his post-1990 output was so eclectic/unfiltered as to be almost unlistenable—he’s one guy who definitely needed an editor. This oddball power-trio set, though, is surprisingly coherent, mainly because he stops screwing around and just cranks up his guitar. Leaving most of the vox to a couple of ladies, he mixes slow, Ohio Players-style R&B with heavy almost-metal which borrows as much from Black Sabbath as from Eddie Hazel or Hendrix. Jammin.

Duster, “Capsule Losing Contact”—three disc collection from obscure 90s depressives whose broody, atomospheric output seems to have garnered a lot of recent critical interest. Most of these songs feature glacial tempos, distorted guitars, subdued synths and offhand vocals—tuneful slowcore bands like Low are an obvious influence, though I also hear a lot of emo and Velvet-influenced dreampoppers like Galaxie 500 and Mazzy Star. Very, very pretty stuff, if somewhat lugubrious and monochromatic, this is definitely not suitable for your Zumba class, though it works very well for winding down with a couple of gin-and Valiums.

Anteloper, “Kudu”—psychedelicized, improvisational update of “Bitches Brew” era jazz-funk, featuring a wild, arrhtymic drummer and a fantastic lady trumpeter whose cool but powerful blowing approaches Miles. Exploratory and unpredictable, these tunes nonetheless are surprisingly cohesive, with powerful grooves, ambient electronic washes and real melodies peeking out amidst the sudden dynamic shifts and free-form explorations. A real find.

Fleetwood Mac, “Kiln House”—recorded after Peter Green’s departure and pre-chick singers, this album marks their transistion from blues band to their eventual AOR commercial zenith. Deftly mixing Jeremy Spencer’s sleazy rockabilly (“This is The Rock”, “Hi-ho Silver”) with the melodic, understated genius of Danny Kirwan (“Jewel Eyed Judy”, “Tell Me”), this is song-for-song the best album in their catalog, alternately funny, tender and heavy.

Fig Dish, “That’s What Love Songs Often Do”– maddeningly catchy, Replacements-like rawk from Chicago quartet that got swept up (and subsequently ignored) in the wake of Smashing Pumpkins. Unruly and anarchistic live, their two major-label records actually show a tight, crafty studio band, with massive hooks, subtle harmonies and a giant, crunchy guitar sound ala Meat Puppets or “Monster” era REM. More tuneful than most grunge, and louder than most power pop, though they can dial it down a bit when they choose (“Lemonader,” “Quiet Storm King”); like Nirvana they have a particularly good feel for loud-soft dynamics.  The furious waltz-tempo opener, “Bury Me” is a real stomper, while the edgy “Seeds,” with its terse haiku chorus,  is a shoulda-been classic. I sorta understand why bands like this don’t make it—they lack anything like a marketable image—but if you care more about the adrenaline than the optics, this delivers.Nik Bartsch, “Awase”— hypnotic, minimalist trance from Swiss quartet. Seemingly informed by neo-classical composers like Phillip Glass or LaMonte Young, this also has elements of fusion and funk, albeit without all the wankery. The long songs generally follow a pattern–the rhythm section lays down a propulsive almost techno beat, leader Bartsch plays repetitive, fragmentary piano figures and the horn player adds fluid, melodic lines which gradually intensify and/or approach disorder. Much more accessible than you’d think and a great late-night listen, this is avant-garde for people who thought they don’t like avant-garde

Lorelle Meets the Obsolete, “De Facto”— off-kilter neopsychdelia/triphop from Mexico City. Most of these tunes begin with a druggy, hypnotic feel, with soothing (Spanish language) female vox crooning over pulsing, repetitive basslines and gentle synth washes; however they inevitably add fuzzed-out, noisy guitar, driving percussion and distortion to the mix to give an unsettling quality to the proceedings. Trance-y minimalists like Spacemen 3 (whose Sonic Boom had some interaction with the band) are an obvious influence, though I also hear elements of Krauts like Tangerine Dream and Neu as well as avant guitarists like Glenn Branca and Sonic Youth. Addictive stuff.

Free, “Fire and Water”–granted, Bad Company was kinda stupid, but there’s no denying that Paul Rogers was a great singer–soulful without sounding cloying–and every one of these tunes connect some 50 years later. I like how spartan the arrangements are (no overdubs, no harmonies); impeccably restrained guitarist Paul Kosoff in particular must set a record for playing the fewest notes per full-length album. The real killer here, though, is bassist Andy Fraser who simultaneously plays trebly rhythm and lead and gives this a swing which peers like Cream and Humble Pie never grasped. Their big hits “All Right Now” and “Fire or Water” (later crushedby Wilson Pickett) are here, but my favorites are the stately, somber “Don’t Say You Love Me” and “Heavy Load.” 

Vijay Iyer Sextet “Far From Over”—a cerebral, technically brilliant pianist whose wild genre-hopping experimentation sometimes ventures into inaccessibility, Iyer plays it comparatively straight here, with a horncentric, hard-bop set that brings to mind “Ascension”-era Coltrane or funkier, later-day Miles Davis. Much of this is uptempo and electric (he plays a lot of Fender Rhodes), with swelling crescendos and  big dynamic shifts, tho he varies the mood nicely with quiet piano meditations (“For Amiri Baraka,”) and more modal /Eastern passages. Impressive.

Afghan Whigs. “Gentlemen”—their noisier early records and overpolished faux-R&B later stuff never fully connected with me, but this is one of the best, most harrowing rock records of the 90s. A concept album of sorts—singer/auteur Greg Dulli self-flagellates about his moral failings and dysfunctional relationships while the super locked-in band howls and purrs behind him. Alternately loud/funky (“Debonair”) or slow and somber (“Be Sweet”), these are great, smart songs, esp. the cathartic, piano-driven “What Jail is Like,” which more-or-less sums up his view of romance. The orchestral coda at the end seems tacked-on and incongruous at first, but soon becomes a needed respite from all that psychic fury. Great production, with notable stereo separation and a huge, crisp drum sound. 

Jason Isbell, “The Nashville Sound”—Isbell does a certain kind of sad, pretty tune as well as anyone and this incredibly depressing mediation on the inevitability of death is his saddest and prettiest. (“If we were vampires and death was a joke/We’d stand out on and the sidewalk and smoke/And laugh at all the lovers and their plans/And then I wouldn’t need to hold your hand”). Goddamn if this one doesn’t make me feel old.

DM3, “Hourglass”–pubrockers played an exuberant, garagey  pop not too far removed from Nick Lowe or (fellow Ozzies) Hoodoo Gurus, with hypercatchy tunes and a big ringing guitar sound.  This 21 song best-of has their genre classics like “One Time Two Times” and a great cover of Creation’s “Making Time.” “Take It All” is as purty an old-fashioned power ballad as you’ll hear.

Eyelids, “OR”—ex-Decemberists/Guided by Voices sidemen don’t necessarily do anything different than the legions of other Big-Star worshipping powerpoppers (Velvet Crush, Matthew Sweet, etc.), but like the similarly-bent Posies have a real feel for the form, with a bevy of hooky, melancholic tunes and particularly noteworthy singing and guitar playing (“Slow It Goes”). Unfashionable, uncomplicated and all the better for it. 

Adam Franklin, “All Happening Now”—re-recorded, dialed-down versions of songs from his former bands, the overdriven shoegazers Swervedriver and the spacier, ambient Toshack Highway. Shorn of most of the whammy bars, feedback and overdriven rhythms, this sounds closer to Britpop like Oasis or Suede, either of whom would be thrilled to have so deep a catalog. Franklin’s a very good guitarist and expressive enough of a non-singer to deliver these taut melodic tunes; one wonders why he wasn’t anointed a major artist. Also worthwhile: Swervedriver’s 2019 fuzzed-out reunion disc, “Future Ruins,” which sounds like they haven’t lost a step since the early 90s.

Arab Strap, “The Red Thread”—intense, tough-to-categorize sort of postrock/slowcore features one Aidan Moffat sing-speaking twisted tales of  jealous lovers and perfidious women in a heavy Scottish brogue over rich, flowing guitar-and-drum machine washes, sometimes enlivened with piano and strings.  Perhaps best analogized to a fugged-up Tindersticks or the National, you respond to this melodically even if you can’t speak Scottish—this is intense, often hilarious and definitely original.  

The Bevis Frond, “We’re Your Friends, Man”—DIY psychedelic guitar hero Nick Salomon has been cranking out records of remarkable consistency since 1987 and is the rare rocker who actually improves with age. This latest (his “20-something swinging disc”) is as well-written as anything you’ll hear this year, with nary a duff track among its 20 tunes. Veering capably from tightly-constructed stompers (“Enjoy”; “Old Wives Tales”) to pretty Britfolk ballads (“We’re Your Friends, “Mad Love”) to his typical acid-jammy workouts (“You’re on Your Own”), he variously invokes Richard Thompson, Byrds and Crazy Horse without sounding particularly derivative. Granted, his homely-but-appealing voice (never a particularly supple instrument) sounds noticeably strained, but riffs and lyrics are sharp, his band is tight and he can still shred like a mofo. My pick for album of the year, which shows where I’m coming from.

Pete Townsend/Ronnie Lane, “Rough Mix”—this mostly-low key folksy 1977 set with ex-Small Face Lane tones down the psychodrama and is one of the more listenable records in Townsend’s canon, perhaps because (except for the over-arranged “Street in the City”) it doesn’t aim to make a Grand Statement. Townsend’s rough-and-ready pubrocker “My Baby Gives It Away” and the poignant “Keep Me Turning” (which for some reason always brings a tear to my eye) are among his best songs, but the real gems are Lane’s subtle, acoustic “Annie” and “Nowhere to Run,” which have timeless, classic feel. 

Watter, “History of the Future”–brooding, atmospheric landscapes from Louisville, of all places The shortish tunes are not mere ambient wankery, but have real structure and textural variety, with spacy electronic and pastoral folky parts melding with progrock dynamics and even classical passages; despite the disparate elements the record is quite coherent overall. Experimental and instro bands like Trans Am, Godspeed You Black Emperor or Caspian are fair reference points, but this shows more sonic range and ambition. Great headphone music.

The Stroppies, “Whoosh” –Ozzie primitivists uncannily recreate classic 80s Flying Nun (NZ) bands like the Bats, Tall Dwarfs and the Chills. Deploying boy/girl harmonies, rudimentary Casio organ and jagged loudish guitar lines, these guys have a knack for creating rhythmically insistent, stripped-down tunes which are both shambolic and surprisingly hooky (“Pen Name,” “Entropy”). Pastoral yet punchy, with an innate sense of dynamics, this record will have appeal to admirers of insular indy rockers like Feelies or Pavement and really hearkens back to a better era where good songs and angst-free attitude trumped studio polish. Similar and also recommended, The Stevens, “Good”.

Jenny Lewis, “On the Line”— a charismatic critic’s pet and former child actor who (like the similarly-situated Neko Case and Kelly Musgraves) I’ve never fully embraced, Ms. Lewis enlists a bunch of studio pros (Beck, Ringo, Benmont Tench) to create a big-sounding, glossy countrypolitain production which is unquestionably accomplished but ultimately leaves me unmoved. Dealing largely with loss, death and decadence, the songs are lyrically ambitious although the somewhat monochromatic melodies drag (like Fiona Apple, she tends to default to the same slow, percussive piano tempo). She has a crystal clear, dramatic voice, but sounds curiously detached and soulless here, like she’s playing a role, rather than genuinely inhabiting the downtrodden personas she’s singing about. Mostly, though, there’s an offputting hyper-showy quality to this thing—everything from the overbusy mix to her overarticulated vocals to the boob shot on the album cover screams “look at me.” Pass.

Michael Head and the Strands, “The Magical World of the Strands”—although vaguely aware of Head’s prior bands, Pale Fountains and Shack, this 1998 folkrock masterwork wholly escaped my purview until now. Strongly reminiscent of Fairport Convention or a ballsier Nick Drake, these songs are instantly memorable, with gorgeous melancholic melodies and hallucinatory, introspective lyrics. Like Drake (or Love’s “Forever Changes”), he sweetens some of his arrangements with strings and flute and there’s a subtle chamber-pop feel to some of these tunes, although there’s little that’s twee about it—the band plays with rock dynamics, the drumming is propulsive and the electric/acoustic guitar interplay is sinewy and sometimes freak-folky and exploratory. Head is an excellent, understated singer whose warm tremulous tenor reminds me of Gene Clark or Pete Ham, and there’s a natural organic feel to these proceedings. Optimal late-night listening and a real find. 

Hookworms, Live Vol. III—much rawer than their synth-heavy studio work, this set fuses the Stooges, “Sister Ray”-era Velvets and droning Krautrock into a punkish-but-tuneful organ-fueled clamor which hits you like a bottle of cough syrup.   Heavy but hooky, with a sort of psychedelic feel, the singer howls cathartically over thumping, almost-danceable drums and thick, driving guitar lines; there’s an undeniable emotional power to these tunes even if you have no idea what they’re caterwauling about. More accessible than you might think, this would appeal to fans of early Pink Floyd as well as postpunk bands like Public Image Ltd. Good workout music.