2006, year of the hand-claps, or, the annual obligatory music review best of post, part one

Music: Meat Beat Manifesto: Satyricon (1992)

Since the RoseChron debuted over four years ago, I've been sharing my spinning habits for the year, although I suppose I should be sharing my "digi-habits" or something, as I only listen to disks in the car these days. As an aside: I don't know if my range of my enjoyment has expanded, or if there's simply a lot more good stuff out there (I have a top 20 this year instead of top 10). Because it's the holiday season I won't think too hard on it, but there is an argument to be made here about the Digital Revolution and musical distribution: in a time when Myspace publicity can introduce your sound to hundreds of thousands, it seems cheaper to circulate and manufacture musical output these days. Now that the major labels have bought out many of the indies---or at least bankroll half of them (SubPop, for example, is 49% Warner Brothers)---there's a lot of invisible muscle-push-power for the alternative and unusual stuff---so much so that folks like Chan Marshall are ending up on end-caps at Target and into grandmum's stocking. Worse (oh horror of horrors), since I've started downloading tracks to sample stuff, I find myself giving more mainstream acts a chance . . . I must admit I really do like the latest My Chemical Romance like 15 year olds everywhere. Since I've been reading Virilio again, let's call my recently recognized mainstream tastes the consequence of "The Distribution Bomb." Is the music industry's answer to pirating and ease of distribution the expansion of distribution? It seems like it (or if not that, at least Ben Folds behaves like it is).

Well, before I start waxing media eco-nomy/ology I better get on with it. So, with just a little further ado, I give you DJ Joshie Juice's top twenty albums of the year. The criteria for top-ness were (a) "hmm. What do I find myself listening to . . . a lot?" and (b) "what's a very good album despite the fact I may not have listened to it a ton?" Heck, this is just a reflection of habit, so probably there was only one criterion: frequency of indulgence. Here goes, in no particular order---except that my favorite album of 2006 is The Delay's You See Colours, and my runner-up is the Marconi Union's [Distance]:

AFI: Decemberunderground: The follow up to Sing the Sorrow is no where near as goth-friendly (nor as good), but this dark-clad punk pop still knows where to go in the chorus (and besides, my copy had the Davey portrait on the inside—hawt!). The experiments with electronica work pretty well, and the riffs are tasty. The worst aspect of the album is the grumbly-Norweigan-black-metalhead-voice Davey goes into in fits of faux-demonic possession (GWWAARRRRR!)---it just sounds silly. Even so, this is a fun and angsty album with lots of sing-a-long, comic-book goth-love lyrics.

The Black Keys: Chulahoma: Smokehouse Brown (a.k.a. Rogie Rog) gifted me a copy of this six song homage to my favorite blues artist, Junior Kimbrough, and I've been listening to it non-stop. One week is usually not long enough for me to make a judgment, but, I predict this is one the the year's top-twenty for me: wow, it's like Junior "all cleaned up." The technical proficiency is really noticeable, and although the music haunts (like Junior is with them), it's still very different. For one, all the songs average around four minutes, when Kimbrough's "real" tunes (that is, the one's he did for Fat Possum) often veered into seven minute, "Stairway to Heaven" territory. For another, you can understand the lyrics; what I always liked about Kimbrough's voice is that you had no clue what he was griping about (well, unless the title was "Keep Your Hands Off Her"). This is the Blue Mississippi Hypnotic, no shit. Amazing. I don't think I would have put that self-congratulatory answering machine message from "Junior's Widow" on there as the concluding track, though; guys, it's good--you don't need the dead man's woman to tell us.

Lindsey Buckingham: Under the Skin: That I like this album is an admission that I adore Fleetwood Mack (Tusk is just one of the most brilliant pop albums ever). Depending on how you like him, this is either Buckingham's best solo album or his worst (they're all good, though). Most songs on Under are understated for Buckingham, who can rock out if he wants to, and he usually does. But these songs are mostly lulabyes, ballads, and choral pieces. All feature his melodic, rapid-fire multi-string playing (some 12 string stuff at times), but the guitars are acoustic, and there is a lot of multi-track vocal play. This is a sweet and dream-like album (except the first track, "Not Too Late," which is kind of a bummer), and the singing reminds me of the way Alan Parsons treats up his vocals for his radio friendly tunes. Nothing on this album is really radio friendly, mind you, since Buckingham's lyrics are just too melancholy or mystical. The song "Castaway Dreams" is awful, but the rest of the album is nice for late nights, studying, or dinner with a friend.

Cat Power: The Greatest: Definitely (in my opinion) Marshall's greatest, and damn, this album is so goodly soulful. Apparently she traveled to Memphis and hooked up with a bunch of Al Green's session mates (and maybe the soul of Steve Cropper), and every song, consequently, has this gliding rumble at the bottom, the analog phatness buoying her piteous voice and plaintive piano. The lyrics are always choice--sad, angry, hopeful---but this album, more than others, is upbeat. Sentiments from songs like "Hate" aside---"do you believe she said that?"---Marshall's in a happy place (and she's not hiding). The only thing this album needs, perhaps, is percussive handclaps on a few tracks.

The Delays: You See Colours This second dose of choir-boy cock-less pop begins with Greg Gilbert's high pitched, plaintive "to the bitter end, I have fought-ten love/now this cavalry is coming hoooooooommmmeeeeeee," which is followed by a repetitive sweep of synth until the drums hammer in and, BANG: it's full-blow pop-till-you-puke for over an hour. This is my favorite album of 2006, a pomo Frankie Valley and his Four Seasons (one of whom is Gilbert's brother) that is also one part The La's and one part Cocteau Twins. "This Town's Religion," for example, is a brilliant track with rumbling goth baselines, postpunk guitar work, a synth fill every now and again, a dance beat, and lyrics that reflect my current attitude about Snellville, Georgia having just returned ("I don't get it, I just don't get it"). There are also some delicious pop love songs without a hint of cynicism ("Hideaway"), but the darker side of love does close the whole set: "I warn you honey, I love you." This album is soooooo good. The best of the bunch.

The Dresden Dolls: Yes, Virginia: Brilliantly written, pro-queer, pro-feminist, anti-Bush "songs that tell a story" about botched sex change operations and forlorn amputees from these Bostonian Cabaret Queens. It's Tim Burton's best idea in sound, but with a hot chick who has tattooed eyebrows. Each song features Amanda's plodding piano-playing (dramatic, oh, oh, so hammered) and the jazzy drums of her mate . Most songs are upbeat and feature Palmer's expressive singing with Brian Viglione's aggressive drumming and occasional harmonies. The stand-out track here is "Backstabber," apparently about a not-so- nice person, because the chorus is so soaring and arrives after a frustrating build: "backstabber! hope grabber! greedy little fit haver!/god, I feel for you, fool…/shit lover! off brusher!/jaded bitter joy crusher!/ failure has made you so cruel!" Fun! I've met some folks like that.

Brian Eno: Another Day on Earth: Eno is a genius, and consequently, a lot of folks love to love and love to hate his music, but I'm a born again Enoian, so I guess I love him. I came to him via Roxy Music and Bowie's Low, then on various ambient compilations, but only within the last four years have I been educating myself on his past studio-album catalog. This recent offering is so creative, alternately strange and familiar, with those melodic flights that give you goose bumps and a punctuation with the glitch-percussive that has become so standard in pop electronica these days. The vocoder treatment on "And Then So Clear" is fucking brilliant (my favorite track), and the album is a nice balance of the more slow and relaxing ambient we love this guy for and more upbeat, good-with-the-world William Orbit movie soundtrack-style tracks.

Gnarls Barkley: St. Elsewhere: There is no need to tell you what this album is like (or to post its image), because it's already a mass media darling and has been promoted to death. It's massively good, despite the hype, especially if you like your soul un-crunked. "Crazy" has been played too much, but I must admit it is for good reason: Cee-Lo has found his steady platform. One only wishes this was a double album.

Gregor Samsa: 55:12: The Kafka-inspired, low-build dirgeness of this gently floating, hour-long album brings to mind the work of Sigur Ros and Spiritualized in a "chopped and screwed" mood. Male and female vocals accompany guitar/piano/fiddle washes of intensifying drone, but thankfully, without coming to the now clichéd, slab-o-sound Mogwai moneyshots that your garden variety instrumentalists are so fond of (with apologies to Austin's Explosions in the Sky). Hushed and reserved, Gregor Samsa's latest ambles along without ever jarring the listener into some sort recognition of their grandness or talent---and that's a good thing! There is a kind of humble modesty to this low key music, even when they must make a break (as the un-jarring but noticeable change-up in the second track, "Even Numbers"). Fans of Mogwai, Godspeed, et al. will prolly enjoy this, as would folks who are fond of the more contemplative music of 4AD. Like the later work of Talk Talk and Mark Hollis' solo album, silence is an instrument here, so earphones/pods are better for catching all the subtleties.

Hot Chip: The Warning: The title track of this album is reason enough for owning it: "This is a warning, I'll spell it out for you . . . Hot Chip will break your legs/snap off your head . . . ." The lyrics are sung low-key, in a hushed chorus of whiney male voices, seriously and without a whiff of cynicism, to a series of bleeps and a glitch-percussive rhythm. This is delightful, low-key, smart electronica album without dance-floor aspirations--or at least most of the tracks don't seem hellbent to get there. Every song features unexpected turns, breaks, and neatly mashed-up samples at first listen. The first time I heard the album I was like, oh, that's cool. But after the second listen it digs into your brain and, before you know it, you're cutting vegetables and singing to yourself, "excuse me sir . . . Hot Chip will break your legs . . . ."

A'ight, that's all for now. You can find reviews of the remaining ten here!