Trying to justify my top 10:
One: Band of Horses—Cease to Begin
Frankly, I can’t turn this record off. It’s one to listen to every day and do to your soul like orange juice and yoga. Perhaps it’s the general darkness of the times that adds to the seductive denial of this disc’s sunny disposition. Born-again southerner Ben Bridwell brings the happy noise—a heart-swell of sing-a-long indy lushness, something to soothe the people pining for the next My Morning Jacket record.
Two: The Arcade Fire—Neon Bible
All the ink spilled and inspiration testified regarding this record: it’s all true and then some. When Neon Bible snuck into my ears in late winter, it wrecked me. The prophetic surge of this sonic collective caressed my brain’s brawn and belligerence. Beyond protest poems, these piercing hymns of hypnotic hopelessness are too believable and beautiful to deny. When I saw this group live in early May, it was one of those moments for permanent memory and bragging rights. Months later, the mystery and magic hold.
Three: Kings of Leon—Because of the Times
In this crunchy, country barbecue of bass lines and drum fills, we find a relentless local recipe of guitar riff and lyrical myth. Lithe and lethal, my Kings of Lebanon have littered rock’s reputation with their own reckless revision of the rags to riches myth. Basically, these are some young men with a serious yearning and willingness to bypass the brutal trenches that makes permanent bar-bands of too many of their potential peers.
Four: Radiohead—In Rainbows
Thom Yorke’s yummy yawp gives years to the moment, extending the instant of the download-heard-round-the-world into an eternity. The gritty weightless gravity of Greenwood’s guitar can crush the buzz about the band’s anti-business decision to basically give the album away. There’s too much good about this band and this gesture to package into a “best of” summary—this is the business of isness: something historical, something special, and something transcendental.
Five: Yeasayer—All Hours Cymbals
Let the choir sing! Too gospel to be either pop or punk, this band is gooey and gritty enough to be both. Yeasayer’s yumminess pushes the boundaries of indy-everything into tribal effervescence. We can hear echoes of TV on the Radio and Talking Heads and town square sing-a-longs. Tapping the spiritual advantages of a mixed-up and magical musical messiness, this Brooklyn brew begs new definitions of brilliance. A harrowing urban hoedown of hope and secular holiness. A band my spirit has been waiting for!!
Six: The Cave Singers—Invitation Songs
We all know that folk is punk in too many ways, yet here we go again: not another ensemble of ex-rockers turned motherfolkers! But the labels and litanies don’t really matter when the mojo gets you in the guts of darker regions. From the depths of your heart’s imaginings, this collection of hypnotic campfire hymns could conjure hope or hate or any other idea or emotion—bringing beautiful songs like water from the well, like heaven from hell, like honey nectar from the root of nothingness.
Seven: Bright Eyes—Cassadega
Many might learn about the backlash before they dig the devout musical and lyrical brilliance in Bright Eyes. Sure, it’s sometimes hard to stomach a prolific prodigy, but make that pretender the person of Conor Oberst, dubbed the “frog prince of emo,” recently blamed by one blogger for this year’s Omaha shootings, and we have the makings of a critical mess. Listeners would best leave behind internet inferences and fleeting reputations. Instead, just cue-up Cassadega, a convincing folk-rock epic that’s even more emotionally relevant when divorced from the “emo” tag and all its baggage. Look, let’s just check the band’s references: the likes of lush-alt-country goddess Gillian Welch is willing to open for Bright Eyes at the Ryman, and from this, we might accept that all the comparisons to the freewheeling young Dylan are more than so-much hype for a post-hippy prophet in his own right.
Eight: The White Stripes—Ikky Thump
Nothing complicated about the bullshit-skewering white-boy blues brought by Jack White as it rips back the meat to suck on the bones. Dueling doubt, this duo disses the dressed up music of every other genre, offering straight shots of Tennessee moonshine and pure injections of Motor City mojo. Friends like to tease me about how much I love this band for its red-and-black, Tennessee-to-Detroit shit-kicking axis of anti-evolution, and I don’t mind. I love to listen to the girls that love Jack and the boys that love Meg and all the old-school primary colors of genius generated by the many stripes of our fandom.
Nine: Iron and Wine—The Shepherd's Dog
Years ago, friends tried to turn my head to Iron and Wine, but my attention wavered and went elsewhere. With this new record reckoned “a significant departure,” I’m joining the club of faithful without reservation. Sweetly soothing songs from Sam Beam could carouse with the dead. Just the delivery could turn anyone on to all night séances with everything—but then there’re the lyrics. With this collection, surrealist verses stir the heart muscles of adept students listening to their lessons from a stoned William Faulkner-meets-Shel Silverstein shaman.
Ten: Ryan Adams—Easy Tiger
For the last few years, I’ve finally taken the time to gently gravitate into the albums of artists whose reputations more than preceded them. Among many other new loves, this is the year I finally embraced the indy-twang of the incomparable Ryan Adams. Since my ears for music always need to keep pace with my eyes for good music criticism, I rarely arrive at an artist without expectations. With Adams, let’s just say the road I had to walk was steeper than with others. But after seeing an unforgettable live set on a rainy October night, my appetite for the albums increased infinitely. And I’m still unschooled enough to really dig Easy Tiger without comparing it to previous works.