10. The Constantines The Constantines (Three Gut; 2001 / re: Sub Pop; 2004)

Yeah, so it was technically released a few years back, but it�s too overlooked to miss my year-end list in its re-release (the cover of which is a scan of their original super-indie packaging. The Constantines are a righteous brigade of hellfire rock horsemen, maintaining a remarkable degree of melodic subtlety in the cathartic crash of their guitar-rock; when the release of �Young Offenders� smashes into its thunderous repeated chords at song�s-end, you�ll find your teeth on the other side of the bar. Oh, the rock vengeance hurts so good.

9. Franz Ferdinand: Franz Ferdinand (Domino)

Let�s look past the fashionista element of Franz Ferdinand � their debut is an expertly-handled bit of Brit-rock, with plenty of post-punk tossed in. It seethes with sexuality, smart guitar lines, able bass work, and Alex Kapranos�s wry, often biting lyrics. It overflows with hooks, reeks of cool, and makes you want to start your own band. With nary a dud in sight, excepting perhaps �Michael,� it�s got to be the best thing to come across the pond in some time. UK rock is back! Oh, they�re Scots? My bad—it�s okay, UK, you�ve still got… Tony Blair.

8. Les Savy Fav: Inches (Frenchkiss)

Perhaps the most fun band to be obsessed with mortality, Les Savy Fav haven�t released a weak record yet, but this is their best; which is kind of cheating, since the songs here have been recorded elsewhere, but in impossibly rare singles and releases. So we�ll give Les Savy Fav the benefit of the doubt, and count Inches as part of this year�s output. You won�t have difficulty forgiving them; I dare you not to air-guitar when the reverbed dual guitar attack of �The Sweat Descends� pummels the shit out of your punk ass. The brilliance of �Hold on to Your Genre,� the best aping/mocking of Joy Division ever, is paralleled throughout by consistently well-written, maniacally executed rock punk. Inches is miles ahead of its punk competition, and only points to better things for the weirdest-named band on the list.

7. Ghost: Hypnotic Underworld (Drag City)

When I reviewed this album earlier this year, I wrote my review in the form of the most absurdly difficult, overly poetic narrative of a samurai journey that has ever been written. So to put it more concisely: Hypnotic Underworld is a psych-rock album bursting with technical and compositional skill; from the 13 minute live free jazz opening of the album to its end, you get to experience some of the most astounding instrumentation and melodic strength around. Like my review of it, it�s a trying experience, but a supremely satisfying one (perhaps unlike my review). The drumming alone on �Piper� is so obscenely complicated in its fills and cymbal work that it�d be, by itself, worth buying the album; what a treat then, that the rest of the album is equally impressive.

6. The Junior Boys: Last Exit (KIN)

It�s hard to imagine a synth-pop group even trying to follow Last Exit. Hell, it�s hard to imagine The Junior Boys following up Last Exit. This is easily the debut of the year, a bafflingly honed album, all skittering beats, subtle hooks, and sex, sex, sex. Some time from now you�ll be able to use Last Exit as a pick-up line; one listen, and you and the honey you�re pining for will be fucking like rabbits. Jeremy Greenspan�s seductive vocals alone could do the trick, but then he goes and tosses on all this fantastic melody on songs like �Teach Me How to Fight,� �Under the Sun,� and…well, nearly all of the album. And then he puts it through sick production. Listening to it, man, you feel like the coolest hot shit there is. Gisele Bundchen wants you. Catherine Zeta-Jones is dying to have a go. Well, alright, buddy, not really, but so long as you keep dreaming, Last Exit will be the best soundtrack for it.

5. The Arcade Fire: Funeral (Merge)

Funeral is one of those albums that grows and devastates through little things: the inimitable timbre of Win Butler, which quavers so deeply that it sounds as though it�s been run through with more anguish than you or I can imagine; the chunky production of the opening guitar of the transcendent �Wake Up�; bits of straight-forward lyrical brilliance in �Neighborhood 3 (Power Out)� like �I went out into the night / I went out to pick a fight / with anyone; and fine, fine melody. Okay, so that last one is a big thing. But therein lies the winning power of Funeral: impossibly simple and beautiful melodies surrounded by consistently perfect small touches. It doesn�t immediately strike one as the most technically proficient of efforts (few chords, lots of ornamentation), but its emotional heft is unparalleled. When Butler�s voice nearly unravels on �Crown of Love,� as he sings, �If you still want me / Please forgive meeeeEEEEE,� you might suddenly find tears in your eyes, and a flood of endorphins paralyzing your brain. That so much of Funeral achieves similar effect through its rousing push only testifies further to its urgency and strength.

4. Wilco: A Ghost is Born (Rhino/Nonesuch)

There�s so much talk about how A Ghost is Born is �difficult.� OK, so Tweedy chooses to include a whole lot of grating noise following �Less Than You Think,� and �Spiders (Kidsmoke)� is a sonic Autobahn of kraut-rock rhythm. But that�s all of 14 minutes or so of �difficulty,� and it�s concentrated in two songs. It�d be a tough sell to claim that it outweighs the improbable amount of melody, number of hooks, or sets of crushing lyrics that dominate the greater part of A Ghost is Born. �Company in my Back,� with its gently destructive chorus, or �Muzzle of Bees,� home to one of the best melodies of this year or any other, exceed the highest points of 95% of the albums out there by themselves. Toss in another half-dozen patiently constructed tunes, the best solos this side of Neil Young, and the deeply human pain of love and loss, and talking about the album in terms of its few abrasive (and appropriate, anyhow) moments becomes downright silly. There is no presence in alt-country-rock-whatever so magnificent as Wilco, and A Ghost is Born is the latest proof.

3. Fennesz: Venice (Touch)

I�ve given up on hoping that Christian Fennesz might reward many others for their attention as he�s rewarded me. A few people I know have listened to him, and most of those simply can�t deal with him. Blame a high-speed world, blame short attention spans, but Fennesz is one of those artists that simply doesn�t fit with a Futureheads culture. He�s not going to give you five hooks in four minutes, he�s not going to make it easy. And that�s what makes him so brilliant. Listening to Fennesz is an exercise in de-familiarizing pop (yes, it�s pop, in its way) intensifying your aural perception, in expanding it into all the modulating feedback-textures and open spaces of his compositions. It requires time, patience, attention, and little-to-no distraction � this noise is made with diligence, and demands it. So I�ve accepted that Fennesz will thus be inaccessible to most people. But I�m fine with that; it certainly doesn�t take away from the rippling, interwoven feedback-beauty of �Rivers of Sand,� or the tear-inducing heartbreak of �Chateau Rouge,� or the heart-swallowing power of �Circassian.� Perhaps it�s the personal experience of Venice that keeps it so hauntingly gorgeous; when David Sylvian croons about �goodbyes to Europe,� it�s just you and him in an altered reality of sound, and you couldn�t be happier for it.

2. Sonic Youth: Sonic Nurse (Geffen)

It�s funny; for all the worship that Daydream Nation gets in retrospect, almost half a dozen of its songs don�t measure up to the hooks, melody, or craft of Sonic Nurse. Listening to it side by side with Sonic Nurse might seem unfair, but it reveals the latter to be the product of masters, whereas the former was one of eager, ambitious youth. Perhaps we ought to quit our endless pining for our younger days � it seems that half of rock criticism is an exercise in wishing for one�s youth, and unconsciously associating that desire with the records one listened to back in the day. But any new listener would scoff at �Teenage Riot� when they heard the fucking unbelievable triple-guitar battle of �Unmade Bed.� A teen hoping to start a band might hear �Golden Blue,� and pack up out of sheer intimidation; he or she could never write (much less perform) songs so textured, with such delicate melodies, with such gossamer hooks. Whether Moore, Reynaldo, or Gordon is at the song-writing fore, Sonic Nurse is consistently rock-solid, rarely overextended, and shows that the members of Sonic Youth are obscenely in-synch with each other. Pack up, kiddo, the old guys are bringing the rock, and 20 years later it still sounds like God.

1. Interpol: Antics (Matador)

It�s been some time since I�ve waged war for an album. My favorites of last year more or less were agreed upon by a number of critics. But this album, the best album of the year, was doomed to be relegated (let�s say momentarily, considering the delayed general reaction to Turn on the Bright Lights) to �oh, the sophomore release� status. I have read a whole fucking lot of reviews of Antics to find that about 50% of the publications that reviewed it sounded suspiciously like they didn�t actually hear the album, and I called them out on it. A couple of times, I got published for it, but that hardly mattered to me, because I was arguing out of sheer love. I got into the biggest, most. . . earnest debate over music I�ve ever had with fellow writer Sean Ford about it. Against the rushed horde of premature, lazy opinions on it (�Oh, shit, we need to review this quick. It�s anticipated�), I fought like a desperate man. In short, Antics is one of the few albums I own that has made me earnestly, actively passionate.

As I�ve tried to hammer home over and over again in various places and opinions over the course of this year, however, that passion ought to be justified in some way. Well, let�s start with the fact that Antics is compositionally stronger than much of Turn on the Bright Lights (which will show up on our top albums of the millennium so far), which relied more on devastating atmosphere to land its flattening impact. Or how about the fact that it represents a marked evolution from their debut, both in terms of songwriting and scope, moving away from heavy-lidded disenchantment to active, romantic burn. When Daniel Kessler pile-drives into the guitar line of �Evil,� when Sam Fogarino obliterates his cymbals at the start of the epically beautiful �Not Even Jail,� when Carlos D beats the living hell out of his bass line at the end of �Slow Hands,� the band�s forward-looking intent hits like a wrecking ball. At the same time, Interpol balance that passion with enough listless hurt to bring you to your knees; take the mournful, wailing hook of �Take You on a Cruise,� or Paul Banks�s precariously delicate croon of, �Oh how I love you / Oh in the evening / When we are sleeping� in �C�mere.� One of the best and endlessly promising bands of the new millennium manage, in their deft musicianship, to at once meld nearly obsessive song-writing skill with profound emotional resonance, and Antics is flooring for it. If you�re needling at them for that by-now-famous lyric �Time is like a broken watch / I make money like Fred Astaire,� then you�ve missed the point entirely. Frank Black sang �I am un chien andalusia,� in one of the greatest song of all time, and no one blinked. Years from now, we�ll be completely wide-eyed at this sophomore achievement.