Allison Moorer: “Crows”

I first heard Allison Moorer’s Crows in December, and joked at the time that it was immediately my favorite album of 2010. Two months later, it’s still ranking pretty high on the list, and I wouldn’t bet against it still being on the list come next December, either. It’s a beautiful and gutwrenching break-up album that, like the best break-up albums, goes so much deeper than mere sadness, into meditations on pain, grace, hope… the important things. Musically, it’s a classicist album that borrows from the language of classic country, rock, folk, and pop. All things considered, it’s simply a marvelous recording, and my review of it is posted today at CT’s music page.

Gil Scott-Heron: “I’m New Here”

Don’t call it a comeback; Gil Scott-Heron’s cheekily titled I’m New Here is a damn near resurrection, hailing not only his return to recording after fifteen years in the wasteland, but essentially his return to the land of the living, coming as it does on the heels of prison time for drug-related charges and in the midst of his ongoing struggles with HIV. So you can forgive him if the tone of this one isn’t that of triumph so much as mere survival. Scott-Heron isn’t complaining, though; these songs are marked by a contentment that comes from wisdom, years of hard living having filled every whiskey-soaked crack in his voice with empathy and compassion.

This is an album about lessons learned the heard way– and not, interestingly enough, about the signs of the times or the state of the union circa 2010. Those who’ve long followed Scott-Heron would be forgiven for thinking that his return to recording was prompted by the election of Barack Obama– certainly, the artist’s history of lefty polemics is unquestionable– but the heart of this record has less to do with change we can believe in, more to do with all the things that have stayed the same. The album is bookended by a two-part piece called “On Coming from a Broken Home,” and is the closest thing to a social statement on the whole record; and of course, broken homes are nothing new, nor is the home in question truly broken. Rather, it’s an autobiographical piece about Scott-Heron’s upbringing by his grandmother, and he is insistent that there was so much love and support in the household that it was anything but dysfunctional. “I came from what they called a broken home,” he says, “But if they had ever really called at our house, they would have known how wrong they were.”

But the song is not just a tribute to a loving grandmother; it’s a song about the realities of hurt, about the consequences of death, about the real possibility of survival even after something as traumatizing as a parent’s death. And it’s about the common grace of homes that have lost loved ones, but are not lacking in love. The song, then, and the album as well, are not mere autobiographies, but are, rather, expressions of earned wisdom: They are rooted in the artist’s own struggles, but are not in any strict or confining sense “about” him or his life.

Many of these songs of experience are not songs at all, strictly speaking; the album leans fairly heavily on spoken-word pieces, tracing a clear line back to the kind of performance poetry that Scott-Heron built his early career on. But this is neither an album that embraces nor shuns nostalgia, neither romanticizing the past nor fetishizing the present, and that’s reflected in the album’s production. Richard Russell, the head of XL records and the man who approached Scott-Heron in prison about making this recording, is a shrewd guy who wisely avoids both playing up Scott-Heron’s “godfather of rap” cred with nods to modern hip-hop and taking the Rick Rubin approach of simply sticking his man in an empty room with an acoustic guitar and pressing “record.” Instead, he gives the songs just the treatment that they need: There are some hip-hop beats, yes, but also moody string arrangements and spooky, claustrophobic atmospherics that are borrowed from dubstep.

And that’s the ideal sound for a record like this– a record that is content and that exudes wisdom, yes, but also a record that is, quite literally, haunted. Scott-Heron imagines death circling like a vulture, waiting to collect our souls. He imagines addiction as an insatiable monster that must always be fed. Temptation is a very real thing, particularly when the Devil shows up at his door and makes him an offer he can’t refuse.

That last one, by the way, is from Robert Johnson’s “Me and the Devil,” and its presence here illustrates just how specific a tale Scott-Heron and Russell are trying to tell, and just how little excess they’re willing to allow on this slim, 28-minute recording: Even when they aren’t actually Scott-Heron’s songs, they’re telling his story. In addition to “Me and the Devil,” he borrows spare parts from an old John Lee Hooker blues for “New York is Killing Me,” a tough song about the vices of modern living, and the title song is a number by indie rocker Bill Callahan, of all people; Scott-Heron understands it ironies but mostly plays it straight, turning it into an unlikely but profound song of redemption.

And there is redemption here, even in the sheer existence of this album, everything about which– its leanness, its honesty, its shrewd production– suggests that, as an artist, Gil Scott-Heron isn’t finished, nor could be be if he wanted to. This album feels like it was made because it’s a story that simply has to be told. In Richard Russell, Scott-Heron has found the perfect collaborator, and in this album, he’s given his story its perfect telling, one in which not a single note is wasted on flash or sentimentality, on easy nostalgia or empty style; the sum and total of this record is dedicated to hard truth-telling, and if that doesn’t make it an easy album, it does make it an invaluable one.

Galactic: “Ya-Ka-May”

The last several years have seen a resurgence of music made in and about the city of New Orleans—a testament to just how deep within the city’s marrow music really is, and to the town’s own resilience—but my two favorite records both come with Allen Toussaint’s name emblazoned on the cover. And isn’t it fitting? Not only is Toussaint one of the Crescent City’s brightest musical treasures (and seemingly one of its best-kept secrets), but his two albums show just how deep and wide these post-Katrina feelings run. The first, The River in Reverse, was a collaboration with Elvis Costello and producer Joe Henry, and it was a celebration of the city’s legacy, tempered by political outrage and deep sadness. Then, he ditched Costello but kept Henry for the jazz outing The Bright Mississippi, which was and is a flat-out joy.

Toussaint appears on a single track on Ya-Ka-May, a record named for a New Orleans delicacy and spearheaded by a New Orleans funk outfit called Galactic, and—perhaps unsurprisingly at this point—this one’s still another new stripe of New Orleans record. There’s no politics here, no sadness, and though there are some iconic musicians present here, no nostalgic looks to the city’s past. This is music for the here and now; it’s a parade of bright and dizzying colors, a party album where the funk doesn’t ever let up, and it’s as boisterous and bawdy as anything coming down Bourbon Street.

But back to Toussaint: I mention him because his contribution, “Bacchus,” strikes at the heart of what this album’s really about; the song is a clever and (naturally) soulful ode to inspiration, improvisation, and intuition—a celebration of all the right kinds of in-the-moment decadence. And so is the record itself: Splitting the difference between simple elegance and randy nonsense, Ya-Ka-May is all about the virtues of simply enjoying oneself.

The Galactic crew makes sure we don’t overthink it: The album literally never stops moving. The closest thing to a ballad or a torch song here is a spirited, clap-along anthem by Irma Thomas called “Heart of Steel,” a survivor’s tale that rings true of the city that inspired this music. But most of this music simply revels in the sensual energy of where the city is now, at least musically: the Rebirth Brass Band brings some New Orleans swing but Galactic anchors it to the present-day with dirty hip-hop beats, while an array of impressive New Orleans MCs—you’ve probably never heard of them before—show off a local style called “bounce,” basically an aggressively funky, good-times brand of rap.

It might sound odd on paper, the thought of songs like these brushing up against numbers by Toussaint and Thomas, or by John Boutte’s slightly moodier, cello-accented “Dark Water,” but that’s the record’s appeal: It’s a bright and shimmering collage of sounds and songs, perspectives old and new but always seeming fresh, that are quite literally on parade. It’s not an homage to New Orleans any more than it’s a monument to the endless joys of communal music-making, which, in its own way, makes this a relentlessly fun tribute to a city where the music never dies.

Charlotte Gainsbourg: “IRM”

IRM is not Charlotte Gainsbourg’s first recording– in fact, it follows 5:55 by less than four years, not really all that long for a singing/acting multi-tasker– but I’m almost tempted to call it her first singer-songwriter album. I say almost because, of course, Gainsbourg didn’t actually write any of these songs. And yet, the difference between this album and 5:55 is all the difference. The first one, produced by Air, was all about mood and atmosphere, a hazy fever dream about sex and intimacy; this new one, produced by Beck, is all about the songs. Period.

That doesn’t mean it isn’t also, on some level, about the singer, and IRM comes with its own backstory; every critic who has reviewed this record has been sure to point out that its title– the French equivalent of MRI– is a reference to a traumatizing near-dear experience the singer had a few years back. They also tend to evoke the album’s timing, coming, as it does, on the heels of her soul-baring, cathartic performance in Lars von Trier’s Antichrist. In other words, IRM was borne out of an emotionally demanding period of Gainsbourg’s life, and it’s a deeply personal work– as it should be.

Thankfully– and somewhat remarkably– that doesn’t mean it’s a particularly confessional work, nor an indulgent one. If the singer’s personal experiences have cultivated in her a certain passion for musical expression, they’ve also served as a sort of creative catalyst for her partner: Gainsbourg’s story focuses Beck like he hasn’t been focused in a long time, yielding not just his best set of songs since Sea Change, but also a record that juggles his own oddball quirks and obsessions better than almost any album he’s made on his own. It is, in other words, a deeply beneficial coupling: Beck anchors Gainsbourg’s feelings and passions to a set of songs brimming with confidence and craft, while she serves as a sort of muse for him, her story keeping his more ethereal tendencies tied to the ground.

The first two songs reveal the precarious, slightly odd place Gainsbourg is in– or at least was in– when she and Beck started forming these songs. “Master’s Hand” takes on the relationship between the human and the Divine using the familiar analogy of the puppeteer, but the singer’s attitude wavers between defiance and submission. The title cut is a monotone rap from inside the scanner itself, the words boldly and darkly funny, philosophical in a way that’s just the slightest bit hard to swallow. That Gainsbourg didn’t actually write these songs doesn’t matter, as it never feels as though she is merely being used as Beck’s instrument; if anything, it seems to be the other way around.

That said, those same two songs go a long way toward explaining why this is Beck’s finest work in a good while, and it has a lot to do with having a compelling story and a confident singer to center his fascinations around. “Master’s Hand” showcases his sensualist’s delight in odd sounds– clattering junkyard percussion, oddly-tuned guitars– but it’s all in service of folksy, vaguely retro pop. The song ends with some buzzing dissonance that leads into “IRM,” Beck using the studio as an instrument to simulate the scanner’s mechanized hum. These are tricks Beck has employed before, but rarely do his albums work so well simply on the level of the songs, something that the rest of the album shows in spades: The set is nothing if not diverse, courting everything from European-flavored folk to noisey, Tom Waits-styled blues.

But the album’s genius, though rooted in the songs themselves, ultimately rises into something just a bit greater than the sum of its parts; it’s great neither for the singer nor the songs, but for the way the two come together, the way that even when Gainsbourg turns to a slightly sleepy French folk number in “Le Chat du Cafe Des Artistes,” Beck saves it from dullness with his magnificently spooky swell of strings, recalling nothing if not his own haunting Sea Change. It’s also the way that Gainsbourg’s direction keeps Beck from becoming too obtuse or clever with his lyrics, and he anchors Gainsbourg’s sometimes harrowing ideas in humor and humanity. More than anything, though, it’s the way that the album seems to come from a single, shared perspective: Beck doesn’t force his own stamp on these songs, and Gainsbourg delivers them like they’re hers. The end product is a superb work of inspired collaboration, and it’s sure to remain one of the more unexpected and beguiling pop albums released this year.

Film Break: “Edge of Darkness”

My review of Edge of Darkness– the latest film from Casino Royale director Martin Campbell, and the, er, “comeback” of Mel Gibson– is posted now at CT Movies.

Souljazz Orchestra: “Rising Sun”

Can wordless music ever be spiritual– not just in some vague, subjective sense, but actually, substantively conveying something of the transcendent or the sublime? It’s a hard question, I know, but not because the answer is elusive– anyone who’s heard A Love Supreme knows it to be a resounding yes, just as anyone who’s heard Handel’s Messiah knows that the music is just as important as the words in conveying the piece’s profound beauty– but rather because, well, tying wordless music to a set of words is fundamentally vexing. I don’t offer any new insight, and neither does the Souljazz Orchestra, but their new work Rising Sun is a thunderous affirmation– a work that stirs the soul, reaches to the heavens, and offers spirited celebration of the enduring power of beauty in the human experience.

I’m not sure if the Souljazz crew wrote this as their own personal offering to God, as Coltrane did his work, but it is nevertheless in that same lineage– though admittedly by way of wife Alice  and a panglobal survey of music made to move both body and soul. No, there is no verbage– not even in the song titles– to suggest that these songs are dedicated to a particular deity, or meant to encapsulate a certain religious tradition, yet the way this music engages the sacred– or perhaps, the innate human thirst for the sacred– and conjures eternal things is unmistakable. This is music for prayer; this is music for rejoicing.

And indeed, it does unfold, quite organically, as a sort of spiritual journey, beginning, appropriately enough, with “Awakening,” a wistful prelude that doesn’t jolt the listener to alertness so much as it offers permission for serenity, solitude, contemplation. That said, Rising Sun isn’t a quiet record to be played in the background, and the second song, “Agbara,” begins, quite literally, with a shout; it kicks into a joyful, drum-circle beat borrowed from South African folk music, but it’s adorned with horns that are pure funk. There’s a primitive abandon to the song that suggests a total lack of propriety or self-awarness; the musicians are joined by wordless chanting that’s zealous for an encounter with the sublime. If this song is a prayer, it’s a fervent, perhaps even demanding one.

The Souljazz Orchestra understands that a capacity for curiosity, and a love of beauty, are prerequisites for making music as spiritually seeking as this. “Negus Negast” is a playful, and once again totally funky song that tips its hat to the Ethio-jazz of Mulatu Astatke and friends, right down to a magical use of vibes; there are also killer solos on piano and trumpet, but the beat is simply relentless, clearly made for the dancefloor. This is the place where sacred music turns to pure rejoicing, where the seeker can’t help but be swept away in the joy of the search. The song is also a key lesson in understanding what gives this music so much heart: Not only are the compositions informed by all manner of dance music from around the world, but, despite whatever formality the word “orchestra” might suggest, everything here is loose and vibrant; the funk-minded numbers swing hard, and the more reflective pieces are open and airy, not stuffy.

Indeed, as the album’s journey into the soul continues, the fervor of the opening sequence slowly fades into more contemplative pieces, though that hardly makes them dull by comparison. “Lotus Flower” is a gorgeous, mid-tempo piece marked by a trumpet melody that Miles Davis might have played. “Serenity” is the album’s most naked arrangement, but is nevertheless a thrilling song, marrying spiritual jazz to African rhythm and featuring superbly understated work from flute and clarinet; “Consecration,” meanwhile, moves deep into the realm of mystery, an impossibly seductive and suggestive modal jazz piece, part Kind of Blue and part Indian folk music.

The record closes with an initially calm, but ultimately vigorous cover of Pharaoh Sanders’ “Rejoice,” a wild and unkempt jazz classic whose very title is a perfect summary of what Rising Sun is all about; this is music made for dancing, for singing (even though there aren’t any words), for calling out to the Divine, and for remembering to see the world as a dark marvel, a thing of strange and– every once and again– beguiling beauty, something this fine recording has in spades. It’s sophisticated in every way– the arrangements are complex without sacrificing their funkiness, and the influences drawn upon show an open-minded but nevertheless discerning appreciation for world culture and musical traditions– but what makes it such a deliriously celebratory affair is its spirit, which soars even in quiet moments and is never content to waste a moment even though it’s clearly made with eternal things in mind. Rising Sun is a triumph for the Souljazz Orchestra, for the wonderful Strut label, and for music in general, for it proves just how exciting– and meaningful– this art form can be.

Patty Griffin: “Downtown Church”

For at least a few years now, Patty Griffin has enjoyed a critical reputation as a “secular gospel” singer, a term that suggests her involvement with the genre has more to do with aesthetic than it does with any particular creed. But what to say now that Griffin has recorded her first actual gospel album, Downtown Church– an album that draws in large part from traditional black gospel songs, that was in fact recorded in a church and is marked in part by a deep sense of reverence? Shall we chalk this one up to a formal exercise that derives its authenticity from its storied source material, or a sincerely soul-searching effort that derives its authenticity from the singer’s own marriage of her faith to her art?

Griffin herself grew up Catholic but seems less interested in applying a particular religious descriptor to herself these days, so any autobiographical readings will only go so far. The music itself, though, offers evidence in favor of both readings, and suggests that maybe Downtown Church is both the next step in Griffin’s artistic journey as well as her faith journey. Certainly, the album is a natural continuation from the increasingly gospel-influenced sounds of Impossible Dream and Children Running Through, and on one level the record works superbly as an exploration of traditional black gospel– so much so that the inclusion of Big Mamma Thorton’s “I Smell a Rat,” a snarling kiss-off to an unfaithful lover, feels less like a sore thumb than a curious but not unrelated diversion, being as it is a rambunctious, bluesy number that was likely inspired by– and an inspiration to– some of the other music included here.

It’s also evidence of Griffin’s interest in pursuing the roots of this music no matter how deep and wide they’re spread, something reflected in her choice of material: Not only are there familiar black gospel numbers like “Wade in the Water,” but also a nod to Hispanic religious traditions in “Virgen de Guadelupe,” and the inclusion of a song like “Waiting for My Child” suggests gospel in its social awareness and its musical structure more than in its explicit mentions of faith per se. But for all of this, Downtown Church smartly avoids being simply Patty Griffin Plays Gospel, feeling as much like an exploration of the religious themes contained within these songs as the musical heritage they carry with them. I’m not sure how else to explain the inclusion of the traditional hymn “All Creatures of Our God and King,” which is not a gospel song nor is it performed as one here; it’s a benediction that ends the album on a note of humility and prayerful reflection.

And then there’s the matter of the way these songs were recorded and produced by Buddy Miller. A friend has suggested that this is black gospel music as recorded for white people, and I suppose that’s fair enough, if you want to assume that black folks don’t much care for country-folk, which is essentially how these songs are presented here. No, this is not Patty Griffin throwing a hoedown or havin’ some church, but Patty Griffin assimilating these songs into her own sound, making them sound, well, like Patty Griffin songs. Which is not to say that the album is placid: Buddy knows how to capture the sparkling energy of a popping upright bass and rattling percussion, as on “Move Up,” and his swampy production turns “Wade in the Water” into a delightfully spooky sing-along. And that last part’s important, by the way: Griffin and Miller both know that these songs are meant to be sung by a community, and as such most of them are recorded with prominent back-up singers, giving the record the feel of a spirited sing-along even in its many quiet moments.

But if Miller understands that this is music made for singing, he also knows that gospel music offers serenity and reflection, which is how a lot of this material is recorded, be it the somber reading of Hank Williams’ “House of Gold” that opens the album, the warm glow of the pedal steel in “Little Fire,” or the tasteful strings and overlapping harmonies in “Coming Home to Me.” (Those last two, by the way, are the album’s lone originals, and they’re both exquisite.) This is beautifully meditative music that underscores one of the most unlikely characteristics of the chosen material– its reverence. Not reverence for the material so much as what it’s about: Griffin seems honestly interested in letting these songs of faith resonate in the listener’s mind and heart, and one assumes that they have some personal meaning for the singer, as well.

What Downtown Church is, in the end, is a rather accomplished piece of work, an album that works both as a gospel collection ans as a proper Patty Griffin release– one that feels like a natural extension of her last two records, not a diversion from them. It’s an album that celebrates traditional music and the unique stamp that a talented interpreter can put on it, an album that reflects religious faith in a way that’s direct but not didactic. That all makes it a very special recording, better even than the sum of its parts, and another knockout from one of our finest (not-so-)secular gospel singers.

Josh’s Favorite Albums of the 00s

And there you have it: The countdown is over, my thirty favorite albums of the last decade have been revealed, and, starting next week, I’ll be back to writing regular reviews of new music. I do want to take one last moment, though, to pull this all together. So first, let me point out that the decade list has replaced my old “desert island” list at the top of the page; the point of the desert island list, after all, is to show what my personal tastes are, how they were formed, and what makes music moving to me, and I feel that I accomplished that task with much greater depth in the “Why I Love What I Love” posts than in a mere list of some favorite recordings.

And second, just in case anyone is uninterested in wading through all the commentary that accompanies the full countdown, I’ll list the full thirty here– the albums that meant the most to me, 2000-2009.

1.    Joe Henry, Tiny Voices
2.    Bob Dylan, Love & Theft
3.    Over the Rhine, Ohio
4.    Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus
5.    Sam Phillips, A Boot and a Shoe
6.    Andrew Bird, The Mysterious Production of Eggs
7.    Joe Henry, Blood from Stars
8.    Radiohead, Kid A
9.    Tom Waits, Orphans
10.    The Hold Steady, Separation Sunday
11.    Joe Henry, Civilians
12.    Tom Waits, Real Gone
13.    The Hold Steady, Boys and Girls in America
14.    Richard Hawley, Truelove’s Gutter
15.    Josh Ritter, The Historical Conquests of…
16.    Arcade Fire, Funeral
17.    Buddy Miller, Universal United House of Prayer
18.    Sam Phillips, Fan Dance
19.    Outkast, Stankonia
20.    Barry Adamson, Back to the Cat
21.    I’m Not There original soundtrack
22.    Joe Henry, Scar
23.    Spoon, Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga
24.    Radiohead, In Rainbows
25.    Solomon Burke, Don’t Give Up on Me
26.    Bruce Springsteen, We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions
27.    Buddy and Julie Miller, Buddy and Julie Miller
28.    Over the Rhine, Films for Radio
29.    Bettye LaVette, The Scene of the Crime
30.    Gillian Welch, Time (The Revelator)

Why I Love What I Love: 30 Favorite Recordings, 2000-2009 (Part V)

06. Andrew Bird
The Mysterious Production of Eggs

I used to think “pop” was a dirty word. Then came Andrew Bird and his magnificent sleight of hand; here he uses every trick up his sleeve to create a pop album that’s marinated in the creative juices so long, it’s mutated into a monstrous masterpiece of imagination and unbridled joy. For all his virtuosity as a musician, Bird’s greatest gifts are here revealed to be his melodic gift, his love of words, and his refusal to play by the rules. The result? A record that feels more in line with Lewis Carroll than with any precedent within popular music. Bird’s tunes peel off into all kinds of strange directions, taking weird detours and never landing where you think they’re going to, but what makes the album truly astonishing is that, as daring and downright odd as it is, it’s nothing if not accessible, a supremely enjoyable, tuneful album that qualifies as pop of the highest caliber. And how fitting that the decade’s most fearless pop album is itself a sweet valentine to creativity itself; Bird wrestles with his muse here in a way that’s quite literal (though never straightforward), tugging at the nature of inspiration, the power of art, the fickle nature of imagination, and the corrosive effect of those dark forces that seek to enslave us with uniformity and cliche. It’s a dizzying delight, and it still surprises and entrances me today.

05. Sam Phillips
A Boot and a Shoe (2004)

I’ll come right out and say it: I think this is the greatest divorce album of all time, a breakup souvenir that does Blood on the Tracks and Sea Change one better. What makes it a richer, deeper recording is that Phillips isn’t content to play the sadsack melancholy, or to deliver tabloid-ready, tit-for-tat details of a nasty separation. Instead, she uses a season of grief as a starting point for a theological exploration that’s beyond profound– it’s downright revelatory. This is an album about sadness and loneliness, yes, but also about the mysterious providence of God, about the topsy-turvy timetable of the Kingdom of Heaven, about the subversively strengthening effect of weakness. Phillips packs her songs with riddles and jokes, and on the basis of the lyrics alone the album is a gem, but what makes it all stick is that the words are married to impossibly rich melodies– and that drummer Jay Bellerose turns in one of the decade’s standout performances, his punchy percussion sounding almost like a second character in dialogue with the singer, giving the album a texture and a spirit that is unique among singer-songwriter albums.

04. Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
Abattoir Blues/ The Lyre of Orpheus (2004)

The 00s were a confusing time– morally, politically, culturally. These modern times didn’t offer any convincing cures for this new-millennium malaise, so Nick Cave led his Bad Seeds through the backpages of all manner of myth, both Christian and pagan, and found the moral bearing he needed to make what is, in many ways, the time capsule of the last ten years. These terrifying twin peaks of molten guitar rock, proto-gospel raves, and pastoral balladry find Cave playing the revival preacher, the gallows prophet, and the jaded romantic; you could almost call this a defining political record, but that’s far too simple, for the album isn’t really about politics so much as the far-deeper, far-graver spiritual condition of the times in which we live. Cave doesn’t give up: He appeals to the transforming power of beauty, the transcendence of art, and the redeeming love of the Divine for his beloved; and in so doing, he makes a spiritual rock manifesto for the ages.

03. Over the Rhine
Ohio (2003)

Think back to some of the great double albums in music history, and you might be inclined to say– rightly, I think– that many are great because of their sprawl, their epic reach, their beautiful mess. Not so with Ohio: The two-disc, 90-minute opus from Linford Detweiler and Karin Bergquist is nothing if not consistent in its vision. Which is not to say that it doesn’t reach far and wide: It’s an album of love songs and divorce songs, protest hymns and wartime prayers. It’s an album about America’s heartland, about marital intimacy, the artist’s life, a nation in decay. And it stands tall– and together– as a masterwork that’s personal and universal at the same time; a song like “Remind Us” is a lament for crises of the heart and of a country at war, and “Show Me” is about a love so white-hot it provides shelter and warmth from storms of all magnitudes. The roots of the album run both deep and wide, into everything from folk and country to gospel and rock, even glimmers of jazz and bubblegum pop, but it’s not a studious survey of America’s musical lineage so much as a personal valentine to the sounds that nurtured the duo. And what to say of the album’s big climax, “Changes Come?” It’s a prayer of beautiful, humbling desperation– a holy revelation that, as an earlier song says, only God can save us now– and its expression of need goes beyond the politics of romance or the War on Terror. It’s a naked confession of human need, and a beautiful affirmation of incomprehensible grace– much like Ohio itself.

02. Bob Dylan
“Love & Theft” (2001)

Turns out he’s not so different, Bob Dylan. In the last decade, he faced mostly the same kinds of problems we all did: Troublesome women. Socioeconomic meltdown. The end of the world. But it’s how he faced those problems that makes Love & Theft masterful: He plays some blues. He cracks some knock-knock jokes, even makes a few puns. He finds solace in folk music. He bids us look up, face our Maker. Those all sound like pretty good ways to handle things, which of course made Love & Theft an indispensable traveling companion, a fiercely funny and soul-shaking cure for modern times. The album warrants a wealth of superlatives– it’s the most vigorous, energetic Dylan album ever, his most complicated lyrics set to his most visceral music; it’s the most mercurial and effortless treasure of American roots music released all decade; it’s the most ass-whuppinest comeback album in history– but what keeps it in perpetual rotation is its cheerfully romantic spirit: Dylan tackles grave matters but takes them in stride, and even the goofiest jokes are heartfelt.

01. Joe Henry
Tiny Voices (2003)

I remember a conversation I had—oh, it must have been a few years ago now—with my friend Hannah. She was going through a difficult season in her life, which eventually turned out late-night soul-baring to the topic of theology. Her final comment of the evening, spoken only halfway sarcastically, was this: “Josh, don’t ever pray to God asking Him to make you a better person. Because He’ll hear you. And He’ll do it. And it will suck.”

I believe that in that brief rejoinder lies the elusive heart of Tiny Voices—my favorite album, no qualifiers necessary. To simplify matters dramatically, it’s a record about a God who is very real, always active, completely dangerous, and prone to helping us in ways we’d rather Him not. And it’s about people who live in a world where the sublime echoes all around them and real love is a potent, redemptive force, all too often exchanged for something easier to deal with. Something that leaves fewer scars.

Tiny Voices helps me see the world for what it is: A dark marvel, a glorious and horrifying place animated by what Henry calls “God’s awful grace.” It helps me to see myself as falling short of the wonder that’s all around me, and to fall to my knees begging to see the world anew—knowing full well that it might cost me dearly.

It is, in short, a dangerous album, and not only in its words. Alas, the indie rock blogs never even gave it a chance, but if they had, how could they not acknowledge that, technically, it’s as edgy and adventurous as anything released in the last ten years. Henry surrounds himself with a cast of renegade musicians from the worlds of rock and jazz, and with them makes music that lives, breathes, and seems to recreate itself every time you play the album. Tiny Voices has become my canon, and it just isn’t fair, because no other album can match up; no other album is quite like it, spontaneous and full of fire.

As ever, Henry commits himself fully to his vision, so much so that it’s just too simple to reduce his influences to mere musicians; his art is just as much informed by the Richard Pryor who inspired his earlier Scar as by the Charlie Parker who would haunt the later Civilians. Here Henry is Dylan and O’Connor; he is Leonard Cohen and Raymond Carver; he is Miles Davis and John the Baptist.

Two of those references are especially dear to me. I’m a long-time devotee of Flannery O’Connor, and have, since the release of Tiny Voices, heard Henry speak of the influence she has had on him. At the time, though, I simply knew that Henry’s appreciation of mystery is distinctly O’Connor-esque; witness his “Flesh and Blood,” a meditation on mystical unions inherent to marriage and the Lord’s Supper that turns dogma on its head in favor of something unnervingly visceral. I knew also that Henry held to O’Connor’s view of grace as something that appears where we least expect it—often in the darkest or bloodiest place imaginable.

And Miles Davis: I swear Henry is trying to do what Davis spent most of his career trying to do, and in many ways Tiny Voices has no clearer precedent than A Tribute to Jack Johnson. This is music that moves to the sounds of the present while having its eyes always cast backward. Henry taps into a well of songcraft that is too deep to be brand new, too alive to be mere revivalism. This is American popular song, gone electric, all wild and wooly.

The songwriting achievements here are too numerous to name, but I’ll note just a few: “Sold” borrows soundtrack cues to astonishing evocative effect, perhaps the most convincing noir of the decade; “Tiny Voices” has its finger on the pulse of myths both true and fictional, and the decade’s richest and most surprising Bible references; “Animal Skin” is a perfectly broken love song, less a song about romance than the cracked façade of the human condition; but if it’s romance you want, there’s always “Lighthouse,” a love song so elegant and pure it took me ages to realize just how simple and profound it really is.

This remains an album that I am drawn to but never fully comfortable with: It shifts constantly so as to evade easy classification or interpretation. But it’s become a part of my life like no other record. Not an easy or a safe record, Tiny Voices is an album that continues to leave a mark on me, at least in part for how bravely it wrestles with all the big ideas that have shaped the decade for me– grace and beauty, love and danger, trouble and peace. It’s a summary, and a beginning, and it will probably always be my favorite record.

Why I Love What I Love: 30 Favorite Recordings, 2000-2009 (Part IV)

12. Tom Waits
Real Gone (2004)

I’m still not sure that time has quite caught up with this one to give it the reputation is deserves; while all the young whippersnappers tripped over one another, trying to outdo themselves in terms of recording innovation and musical ingenuity, an old pro named Tom Waits rasped and cackled his way through this, arguably the strangest and most out-there album of the decade, made by who else but rock’s strangest, most out-there personality. If it’s something fresh and experimental you’re after, forget the indie kids; this thing crackles with awesome weirdness, Waits’ hippest and edgiest recording, taking an ongoing fascination with human beatboxing to a surreal and totally kick-ass extreme. But for all his inspired madness, what makes Waits a treasure is that it always comes back to the songs, and for every raspy, blood-spattered rave-up here, there’s an equally mesmerizing exercise in acoustic, front-parlor folk.

Real Gone is also Waits’ Americana album, strange though that may sound; all the spectres of the blues and gothic folk that have long haunted his music are finally released as actual ghosts from American history. His warning not to go into the barn is a metaphysical incantation; the barn could be the backpages of our own history, soiled in the kinds of unsightly mistakes we’d just as soon forget. That the past isn’t done with us yet– that it’s never really gone– is the philosophy that informs the album, making it as much a politcal album of uncommon depth and sophistication as it is a prayer for deliverance. Waits’ character in “Sins of the Father” vows to break the cycle of sin and misery, and you hope– for your own sake, for the sake of all of us– that he’s able to do it.

11. Joe Henry
Civilians (2007)

Joe Henry creates and sustains a metaphor throughout this entire album, and it’s one of the most astonishing and sophisticated feats of songwriting you’ll ever hear: There are songs about troubled lovers and songs about a wayward nation, and at times it’s hard to tell which is which. This is masterful songwriting, a richly layered sequence in which Willie Mays emerges as the perfect symbol for a tarnished American dream, in which songs about romance are really songs about politics, but they’re all really song about moral decay and the awful grace of God. Indeed, few recordings wrestle with the Divine with the same theological rigor as this one, and even fewer so elegantly springboard from politics to Providence. Musically, it’s an elegant and deceptively simply hall of mirrors in which the arrangements reflect the songs, and the songs all reflect each other.

10. The Hold Steady
Separation Sunday (2005)

The a capella prologue that announces Separation Sunday as a high-caliber concept album is a joke about drugs– until you get to the record’s conclusion, and you realize that it’s really about Jesus, and that it’s dead serious. That’s all it takes to tip you off that this is the most kick-ass Christian rock album ever, and I’m only slightly kidding about the “Christian rock” part. Yes, The Hold Steady are indie darlings that curse and drink and write about drugs and hookers, but here, as ever, they’re playing with holy fire: Separation Sunday is a concept album about Easter, about prodigal sons and daughters, about the wages of sin and the glory of rising from the dead. Call is resurrection rock, if you will. It’s also a less polished, less song-oriented album than their later works, but no less complex: The record plays less like a set of singles than it does a maze of intersecting rythms and riffs, storylines and character arcs, jokes and Bible references and slurred barstool wisdom. It’s totally awesome and addicting, and in the end profoundly inspiring, which is why it’s this album that wins top rock and roll honors from me in the 00s.

09. Tom Waits
Orphans: Brawlers, Bawlers and Basterds (2006)

This one’s got it all: The gravelly, Howlin’ Wolf blues. The sentimental piano weepers. The beatboxing, the inverted country and gospel, the junkyard mayhem. The stand-up comedy. This is the only record that has it all– everything that makes Tom Waits an icon, a legend, a treasure. In terms of vision and creative sprawl, nothing else from the last ten years can match its generosity. In terms of standards, no other three-disc set is nearly so flawless and essential. I can’t imagine ever sitting down to write a serious review of this set, because there’s just too much to talk about– the humor, the heartache, the politics, the mythmaking, the blues. It’s a study in total mastery, in the kind of mad brilliance that comes from this level of devotion not only to performance, but to songwriting craft, which makes it not just the desert island Tom Waits collection, but a truly landmark recording.

08. Radiohead
Kid A (2000)

Look, I know that, at this point, I’m not going to win any indie cred, much less impress anyone with my originality, for including this among my favorites-of-the-decade picks; by now, to say that Kid A is the defining statement of the aughts is a horrid cliche, but for good reason– for sheer groundbreaking, epoch-defining invention and artistic import, Stankonia is the only thing that even comes close. But I don’t just love this record for what it means to the music biz; I love it for what it means to me. When the album arrived, it was without context, and it didn’t play by any of the rules we thought rock records were supposed to play by. It was a willfully difficult puzzle, an album that required not just active listening, but flat-out hard work to really unravel. And I worked at it. This was perhaps my earliest experience with really pouring myself into a recording in an effort to truly understand it, and that hard work has yielded an undying appreciation for the craft and complexity on display.

And it’s also led me to this conclusion: That for all the talk of technology, alienation, and dehumanization that accompanies this album, what has perhaps been neglected is that, at its heart, it’s an exquisitely soulful record– music that is, for all its bluster, distinctly human. It’s not just a critique of the ways in which the human spirit is commodified and repressed. It’s about how it makes us feel. It’s about how we respond to it. It’s about how it affects our souls. It’s an angry and sad record borne from empathy and compassion. That’s why Kid A isn’t just a record for indie rock snobs, or for people who think computers are slowly trying to kill us. Simply put: It’s a record for human beings.

07. Joe Henry
Blood from Stars (2009)

The word “Americana” has already come up a few times on this list, and indeed, a lot of my musical wrestling has been over the culture that I’ve inherited– the tangled web of contradictions both great and wretched that have been passed down to me. Joe Henry’s Blood from Stars is one of the best maps I’ve found for unraveling the mess of politics and religion, song and story, triumph and tragedy that has always found a natural home in the blues. That’s where Henry looks here for his inspiration, to a language unvarnished and true, and what he finds is familiar and shocking at once: Blood from Stars is an album about light being squeezed forth from darkness, about an America that’s less visible now but haunts us still, about the hand of God in all its terror and might. And Henry? As ever, he’s the wonderfully wry romantic, the song-and-dance man whose optimism is rooted in love both earthly and divine. He sounds more resolved than ever, recalling the spectacular affirmation he made on Civilians two years prior: “The worst of this might still, somehow, make me a better man.”