Top 25 of the 2000's, revisited.

So I first did one of these about a year and a half ago, and I do think I was on to something. Not that the choices were perfect—though, all things considered, this revised list is relatively close to what I had before. But the idea at all. You’ll notice that the URL on the link to the previous post calls it an “indulgence,” which, in hindsight, is a hyper self-conscious statement that is only true if writing about what you love is an indulgence. Fact is, from my early childhood discovery of Behind the Music, music-fandom in every form just makes me happy.

Accordingly, this list is meant to be an update on how my own, constantly-evolving preferences have developed in the last year and a half, but also as a way to kick off the new direction I hope this blog will take. I will be updating more frequently, reviewing, documenting and reflecting on the music that moves me every day, hopefully helping create a forum for folks to do the same.

And one last note on the list: it’s interesting to observe that, while my cross-genre literacy is always growing, the top album on this list is one I fell in love with at 14, for the glaringly obvious reason that it was rock music with a lot of heart. It operated within the familiarity of a genre, but earnestly and passionately tugged at that genre’s boundaries in a thousand small directions.

My love for some of these albums lies in their ability to crystallize the perfections of a given style, while others are more rooted in the awe of their innovations. But I’m not sure that either of these qualities are as crucial as the ability to make someone hear a form differently. To make it mean something new and beautiful when you talk about country rock, or punk, post-rock, whatever it may be. And that’s kind of a nice way to think about this list: for whatever else they might be, these are 25 different ways to hear.

25. Animal Collective- Strawberry Jam (2007)

24. Beck- Sea Change (2002)

23. The Clientele- Strange Geometry (2005)

22. The Flaming Lips- Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots (2002)

21. …And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead- Source Tags and Codes (2002)

20. The Wrens- The Meadowlands (2003)

19. Ghostface Killah- Fishscale (2006)

18. The Antlers- Hospice (2009)

17. The Mountain Goats- Tallahassee (2002)

16. Clinic- Internal Wrangler (2001)

15. Radiohead- Hail to the Thief (2003)

14. Panda Bear- Person Pitch (2007)

13. Modest Mouse- The Moon and Antarctica (2000)

12. Grizzly Bear- Veckatimest (2009)

11. Clipse- Hell Hath No Fury (2006)

10. The Microphones- The Glow, pt 2 (2001).

Part of what I understand the imperative of the “lo-fi” label to mean is to enhance a record through the use of fuzz or negative space, creating a sensation of depth. And to my knowledge, noone has fulfilled this mission more fully than Phil Elvrum. When you turn off The Glow, pt. 2, it feels like a symphony just stopped, breaths still being held. In some cases the instrumentation is extensive (“Map”), while some are actually quite minimal (“I’ll Not Contain You”); either way, it causes a bewildering awareness of how engulfing Elvrum’s use of tape fuzz actually is. Variations of this technique may have been imitated to a crutch throughout the decade (see: chillwave), but Elvrum breaks new ground by embedding his style within songs with imaginative storytelling and imagery. It’s innovative now, but imagine how it sounded in 2001. Indeed, the album listens like an epic, impeccably timed novel, with a lyrical, intricate beginning, and a series of short, beautiful ballads interspersed to build interest to a blisteringly powerful climax (“Samuri Sword”). With the possible exception of Kanye West, Phil Elvrum has constructed the most expansive and musically diverse statement-of-self-through-stories of any artist this decade.

9. The Hold Steady- Separation Sunday (2005).

For an album that draws much of its appeal in the unironic fun of straightforward hard rock, there’s actually a lot going on here, irony included. The Hold Steady have managed to create an album of intersecting stories, complete with a trope of Catholic guilt that is treated just seriously enough to be laughed about. References to Baptisms and resurrections shift from profound statements about the anxiety of experimenting with drugs and alcohol, to fleeting, witty wordplay. It’s at once a record of vignettes, a record of themes (guilt, trust, hedonism) and a record to drunkenly sing along with. Its stories are propelled by perfect characters, too—Craig Finn’s lyrics lay out anecdotal skeletons for them, but the guitarwork fills in their flesh. And who can resist a song that makes use of the line “you’ll be high as hell and born again” with so much power and triumph that you’ll believe its happened already?

8. The Mountain Goats- The Sunset Tree (2005)

The Mountain Goats have released four good records since The Sunset Tree, but I get the impression that, even on the best songs on these, there has been a little too much discussion about how long to hold that note, or how quiet to get at the song’s end. Darnielle has an impeccable grasp on the little things that package the song’s emotional inspiration into something neat and definitive. However, this has never sounded so effortless as on The Sunset Tree. The album is rawer than subsequent releases, and in some ways, I think rawer than many of its early 2000s predecessors. However, this quality is deeper than just the use of 4 track recorders—it lies in the lyrical and thematic cohesiveness of the record. It’s Darnielle’s first concept album about his abusive childhood, and the songs are loosely tied together, seemingly without the need for an overarching narrative. This benefits the album, as small stories and confessions weave in and out of Darnielle’s engaging storytelling. The result leaves you feeling at times confused, even violated, but more than anything hungry. It demands more listens. It screams for closure, yet its strength is in its resistance to that closure. It’s that rare jarring experience that’s positively addictive.

7. The National- Boxer (2007)

Most of my attempts to describe The National are somewhat oxymoronic. Unless I submit to an inability to characterize them—opting instead for impressive but relatively meaningless statements like “just listen to them; they’ll make you a better person,”—I tend to get stuck using competing superlatives that really just communicate the magnitude of my feeling. Magnitude of exactly what I’m feeling isn’t always clear, which is somewhat ironic for a band whose music seems extraordinarily well thought-out. Boxer is the culmination of this thought, which is somehow so powerful that it elevates the tendencies of Matt Berninger’s voice to be both soothing and exciting, of lyrics that are mysterious and instantly familiar, and instruments (Berninger’s voice included) that manage to simultaneously compete for prominence and submit to a sparkling, ghostly sound that is more of a whole than any combination of musicians I can think of. The National might not make you a better person, but I sincerely believe they’ll make you a better listener; their songs do the little things that construct a world within the album, one that is both universally and individually accessible. Which is, again, somewhat contradictory, but that’s okay. They do it all, and so well that every vying component deserves proper recognition.

6. Kanye West- Late Registration (2005)

This album made me love hip-hop. Which at first made me question its merits, slightly: yeah it was good, but great art should be challenging. And a hip-hop record that can move a 16 year old kid from Ames, Iowa into gawking adoration can’t be that challenging, right? Except, hip-hop that is this introspective (“Heard ‘Em Say”), triumphant (“We Major”), or fucking-get-down-on-your-knees, soulful (“Hey Mama”) has never been so seamless. There’s a difference between accessibility—an ease of consumption that comes with strict adherence to the formula of genre—and ‘Ye’s ability to extract something deeper from his songs. Somewhere in this album lies a Holy Grail of pop music: the strings, horns, cut-and-paste clips of pop choruses, the drumbeat from “Crack Music”—it’s all so intentional, I swear to god there’s a hidden Pop Essence the dude’s hiding from the rest of us. Late Registration may not contain the most innovative or diverse use of genre-crossing samples (see: Paul’s Boutique, Mr. Hood). But it does something those albums don’t: while the Beasties or KMD sometimes felt like tour guides, with the content of their samples pointing to thousands of exciting musical directions, Late Registration is unmistakably Kanye’s vision: a baroque manifesto of hip-hop’s ability to express anything, to anyone.

5. The National- Alligator (2005)

Imagine an Alligator’s skin: ultimately slick, but with rough spots that add character, and an underlying toughness that demands to be taken seriously. While Boxer sounds like a long walk home defined by complex acceptance, Alligator is anxious and volatile—it stumbles, stops to think, and repeatedly stands up with more tense resolve than it began with. The songs build, seemingly to avoid combustion, into climaxes that make the negative space somehow more subtle and comforting. Matt Berniger’s voice sounds a little more hoarse here than in Boxer, and it works for the way the songs ebb and flow. Though many of the songs seem to manifest a sort of mature tension, that tension functions within a structure of the band’s comfort with each other, ultimately serving as a testament to the group’s enormous potential.

(If you look closely at this one, you can spot yours truly in the bottom left 'round 4:11)

4. Ghostface Killah- Supreme Clientele (2000)

Consider: out of the four songs on Supreme Clientele under two minutes (excluding intro and conclusion), Ghostface manages to 1). Alley-oop a spectacular freestyle about Karl Malone to the RZA (“Stroke of Death”) 2). Oversee Inspectah Deck’s finest moment as a producer (“Stay True”) 3). Croon soulful about Wu’s connection to Iron Man (“Iron’s Theme”) 4). Record “Saturday Nite,” a track containing so much explosive energy I don’t think it could exist in a less concentrated format. And these are supposed to be the fucking interludes. Maybe Supreme Clientele’s biggest strength is the overarching contrast between Ghost’s relentless delivery and the RZA-influenced (if not produced) liquid beats. He is an exhausting lyricist, both in both delivery and content: his verses are like crashing tidal waves, gaining intensity by the second. And trying to make sense of the way that his surreal, non sequitur imagery somehow constructs a druggy, superhero-filled universe may be an impossible exercise. Yet still, carrying the record through all the way are the soulful beats—listen closely to the 1^st 5 seconds of “Nutmeg.” The crescendo first builds trust, then ebbs downward like a deep breath of satisfaction, and the strings at :04 add a little cinematic garnish. It’s emblematic of the album: an impossibly smooth piece of work that is so full and rewarding it can support any direction the emcee decides to take it. Let’s be thankful that, with Supreme Clientele, Ghostface decided to go everywhere.

3. Radiohead- In Rainbows (2007)

This might be the best Radiohead album there is. There’s nothing it doesn’t do right. “All I Need” fulfills Kid A’s promise to combine electronic worlds with vocals that couldn’t be more human. “Bodysnatchers” combines a heavier rhythm section reminiscent of Ok Computer’s hard rock tracks and flips it into a more mature paranoia. “15 Step” makes you want to dance and scream. “House of Cards” and “Reckoner” make you want to lay down after dancing and screaming and somehow never lose a grasp on the songs themselves. The whole album is knowable, begging for possession. And, despite the mastery of all the dissimilar and fantastic things that Radiohead does, the album has a singular identity. There is nothing this album cannot do.

2. LCD Soundsystem- Sound of silver (2007)

There is something ineffably impressive about someone’s ability to carve out a singular niche within a genre already colonized with niches. It’s even more impressive when that niche, wrought out of one’s own stylistic mastery, evolves back out of its place into something self-defining. I don’t know how James Murphy managed to do this with LCD Soundsystem, in two albums, but he has managed create an album that will forever be embedded in how I conceive of dance music. Or dancepunk, or—really—my idea of what a good songwriter can accomplish with a vision of how instruments are supposed to sound. In Sound of Silver he is a snarky poet, an overflowing repository of nervous energy, a passive conductor of electronica, and, in “Someone Great,” a singer-songwriter who has blessed us with the opportunity to share some time with him. He’s the difference between hearing something and thinking “nothing else sounds like that” and “nobody else could make something that sounds like that.”

1. Wilco- Yankee Hotel Foxtrot (2002)-

When Jeff Tweedy delivers the album’s first lines, they are slow and deliberately pronounced. On beat, but there is a weird sensation that the rhythm section slows down, ensuring that the man says what he needs to say. Except it’s bigger than the rhythm section: it’s the feedback, the piano, the entire eclectic world that the song’s grab-bag instrumentation creates. All this for a line—I am an American aquarium drinker, I assassin down the avenue—that doesn’t really make sense. It’s a telling moment, indicative of what made Yankee Hotel Foxtrot the decade’s most thrilling, diverse, and ultimately rewarding album. There’s a confidence throughout that demands the listener’s respect, and makes every bell, drumbeat, or slice of negative space feel monumental. Each genre change feels like a small confession, told with prematurely channeled cathartic energy; a new part of a whole that permutates before our ears. Even the relatively simple pop songs—“Kamera,” “Heavy Metal Drummer,”—they’re embedded in this moving whole, feeling like small, cast-off crystallizations of how pop music can move us: nostalgia, acceptance, optimism. Toward the end of “I am Trying to Break Your Heart,” Tweedy repeats the assassin down the avenue line, voice fighting with fuzz, bells, and something that sounds like either distorted cymbals or bombs. It’s the only way the song could really end: if his voice had managed to maintain control, had the band managed to keep the inventive confidence that flows within Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, there is no way of knowing what could have happened.