Albums 5 – 1

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5.
The Decemberists: Her Majesty, The Decemberists (Kill Rock Stars)
Stevedores.
Pantaloons. Dungarees. Shanties. A pop song based on a John Schlesinger film.
An homage to a “chimbley sweep.” Civvies. I won’t ever say that
I don’t know exactly why so many people detest this band and, honestly, I
don’t know how long I’ll be able to ignore the many aspects that could be,
if I let them, downright grating. But, for now, with two extremely accomplished
albums under their belt, I can’t fault Colin Meloy’s Decemberists for being
so stubbornly weird; honestly, it’s easier if you don’t think of Meloy
as a geeky intellectual that can’t grasp the absurdity of some of his lyrics,
but perhaps that’s a little naive. The rest of the CMG staff clearly doesn’t
agree with me on this choice so keep that in mind if you’re looking for album
suggestions, but to me this is by far one of the most unique and rewarding
indie/folk/pop records to chose from this year, making up for its less tolerable
moments with high-calibre material like “Red Right Ankle,” “Los
Angeles I’m Yours,” “The Bachelor and the Bride” and the epic
manifesto, “I Was Meant for the Stage.” I’m extremely anxious to
see where this band goes next, if not just because it’s practically impossible
to know –it’s equally likely that they’ll give us a full album as collectively
trying as “Song for Myla Goldberg” as it is that they’ll finally
hit their stride and release a full-length as strong as “Red Right Ankle”
or “Odalisque” and with a concept EP on the way in early 2004, it
won’t be long to see exactly which route they’ll be taking. My fingers are
crossed.

4.
The Shins: Chutes Too Narrow (Sub Pop)
One of
the most widely acclaimed albums of the year, Chutes Too Narrow is
the sophomore effort from the Shins and once again they manage a nearly-perfect
pop record held together by singer/songwriter James Mercer’s infectious songwriting
and distinctive pipes –distinctive not only in timbre, but also in his ability
to take practically any line and ring at least one great hook from
it. Phil Ek’s production suits the band’s stunning progression in much the
same way Oh Inverted World’s lo-fi treble suited its songs, but really,
it might as well been created by an entirely different band. The styles they
explore (especially their take on chamber pop on the centerpiece “Saint
Simon” or the country influences on “Gone for Good” and my
personal favorite, “Pink Bullet”), for instance, add a beneficial
variety that was mostly absent from World. Not that they really need
such variety, of course; as they’ve proven in the past and again with this
album, even when the Shins stick to their indie-pop/rock milieu, the results
casually make nearly every other album in its genre seem downright lazy.
I don’t think Chutes is the band’s apex, either –if they’ve been able
to make anything clear with this album, it’s that this is a band finding its
place, its sound; what they’ll manage when they perfect it is another matter
altogether. 

3.
Songs: Ohia: Magnolia Electric Co. (Secretly Canadian)
By far
the most frustrating album I’ve heard all year. For anyone that has heard
the album, its major downfall becomes quite clear just about half way through:
Lawrence Peters’ vocal contribution to the otherwise excellent “Old Black
Hen” that gives the song a Tim McGraw feel tacked on cheaper than make-up
on a whore. Jennie Benfored’s slightly out-of-tune vocal theatrics on “Peoria
Lunch Box Blues” fare much better, but when compared to Molina’s original
demo, is still a frustrating step down. As if that wasn’t enough, one of the
best cuts from the Magnolia sessions, “The Big Game is Every Night,”
was omitted from the North American release, only to find its way onto the
Japanese copy of the album later this year. Being a sucker for that song,
I’m going to take a needlessly elitist stretch and say that the album’s placement
as #3 here is based on this Japanese release, though even without “The
Big Game” tacked on the end (or “Whip Poor Will,” for that
matter), Magnolia is a brilliant triumph; frustrating as it may be,
there’s really no denying that Molina has made an important leap since Didn’t
It Rain just a year ago, making an album that, while it shares little
with the earlier work that made his reputation, is his best yet.

2.
The Unicorns: Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Gone (Alien8)
In a
year without a My Morning Jacket release, this would’ve waltzed its way into
my number one spot, and with good reason. The album has the inventiveness
of their art-rock peers without forfeiting the ridiculous charm that many
have forgotten in turn for tear-jerking balladry and dramatic epics (wait,
what is my number one, again?). It’s jovial, yet challenging; ridiculous,
yet poignant; nonsensical, yet brilliant. Their range (garage rock, pop, faux-soul
and even a short hip-hop break in “Tuff Luff”) is incredible and
the execution, for the most part, is flawless. It’s like if Enon, The Flaming
Lips and Liars joined teams for a single album and hired two west-coast Canadian
kids to battle it out on vocals (which at times undeniably resemble Tim DeLaughter’s
latter-day work with Tripping Daisy, and this, of course, makes me ecstatic).
Let’s all be grateful that they got it together for at least one album, because
a band this tight that is still clearly dripping from the seams can’t possibly
keep this going forever; longevity probably shouldn’t be the concern of a
band that trashes a stage and walks off if people aren’t paying attention.
They’re the Unicorns. And they’re more than horses.

1.
My Morning Jacket: It Still Moves (ATO)
After
releasing two of my favorite albums of the past five years with Tennessee
Fire and At Dawn (not to mention their EP material which often
rivaled the best on their albums), there was no real way My Morning Jacket
could live up to my expectations with their major label debut. In a way, I
suppose, they didn’t; I’ll admit that this isn’t at all the masterpiece I
was expecting and is quite clearly their “least great” (yeah, that
English degree is really working wonders for me) release to date. But in another
and far more accurate way, My Morning Jacket still managed to create an epic
southern rock gem that has more soul than the rest of their modern brethren
combined, a sense of melody so strong it almost becomes over-bearing and a
songwriter/vocalist (Jim James) that could easily, given an acoustic guitar
and about three minutes, bring grown men to tears. At times it meanders a
little too long and the SNL-ish sax on “Dancefloors” is a little
distracting, but such frivolous complaints couldn’t possibly make me doubt
this as the best album I heard all year, cementing My Morning Jacket as, without
hyperbole, one of the finest acts of our time; one unabashedly willing to
throw all they have at us, letting their musical and cultural influences –both
sitting brightly on their sleeves –create something so refreshing it makes
everything else released this year seem downright inferior.