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.    Erykah Badu, New Amerykah: Fourth World War
17.    Arcade Fire, Funeral
18.    Buddy Miller, Universal United House of Prayer
19.    Sam Phillips, Fan Dance
20.    Outkast, Stankonia
21.    Barry Adamson, Back to the Cat
22.    I’m Not There original soundtrack
23.    Joe Henry, Scar
24.    Spoon, Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga
25.    Radiohead, In Rainbows
26.    Solomon Burke, Don’t Give Up on Me
27.    Bruce Springsteen, We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions
28.    Buddy and Julie Miller, Buddy and Julie Miller
29.    Over the Rhine, Films for Radio
30.    Bettye LaVette, The Scene of the Crime

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.”

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

18. Sam Phillips
Fan Dance (2001)

Fan Dance stands apart from every other album I own as a sort of dark marvel, a series of riddles that build upon one another into a grand puzzle that absorbs me even as it remains slightly elusive. Certainly, Phillips lives up to her album title: A fan dance is a strip tease, and so is the record, a performance of gradual revelation and a winking smile, an album that does indeed tease the listener with enigmatic poetry about art, truth, and grace– ideas formed and cultivated by Phillips’ own experience of being artistically and spiritually stunted within the confines of Christian pop, and her subsequent exodus into true, expressive freedom. This is something of a belated sequel to The Turning, a diary of an artist’s life wherein questions come easier than answers and the journey carries more weight than the destination. It’s also the seed of everything I love about singer-songwriter records; everything from the unvarnished production, the deep resonance of the creaky acoustic instruments, to the lyrics’ sly, knowing humor, has been formative for me, and the album still dazzles.

17. Buddy Miller
Universal United House of Prayer (2004)

I grew up listening mostly to Christian rock, a habit I long ago abandoned, but this record reminds me of how far a little holy fire goes toward making religious music really burn. Buddy’s gospel is more about creed and conviction than a particular aesthetic or style, as he surveys everything from fiery gospel-rock to hillbilly sing-alongs, country balladry to soaring spiritual anthems. It testifies to the astonishing depth and variety of American religious music, but what to make of the album’s centerpiece, a somber, epic take on Dylan’s “With God on Our Side?” It’s a spiritual of a different variety, a prayer for peace and a plea for compassion, an acknowledgment both of political realities (remember, this is a year into the Iraq War) and of the transcending power of the Divine. Falling where it does, it transforms the album into a powerful witness to the very real hand of God in affairs both personal and political, and House of Prayer into a timely and timeless ode to unity, tradition, and heavenly-mindedness.

16. Arcade Fire
Funeral (2004)

I have something of a love-hate relationship with the indie music scene; I am dazzled by the innovation and eclecticism on display, but frustrated by the genre’s tendency toward exclusivity, and artists who seem to pour all their effort into emphasizing the line between those who “get it” and those who don’t. Not so with Arcade Fire, a band that transcends both their scene and their peers with open arms, big hearts, and anthems designed to reach all the way to the rafters and coax everyone into singing along. This is raw catharsis, music of intense feeling and a conviction that rock and roll can actually make a difference in lives, which might make Arcade Fire the closest thing this generation has to a new U2, and Funeral is their Boy and their Joshua Tree rolled into one: An album of suburban malaise and yearning for spiritual release, music that soars because it’s rooted in something personal, but aims to say something universal.

15. Josh Ritter
The Historical Conquests of Josh Ritter (2007)

An album that I will always defend, Ritter’s reinvention from a mannered folkie into a frisky, rambunctious pop troubadour recalls nothing if not Nick Lowe’s funny, layered records of the late 1970s, cartwheeling as it does from one style to the next with giddy energy and a pop craftsman’s ear for melody. Ritter’s album is deeper and richer, though, as he hijacks American myth and music and refashions it in his own image. Here Ritter is the gunslinger, the grizzled cowboy, the consummate lover; he is the American Adam, the new Dylan, the randy soul man and the soulful rocker. The album is built from a vocabulary we know– the language of pop songs– but from it Ritter fashions something that’s funny, original, and meaningful. The album is full of frayed ends, loose electricity, and odd left-turns, but its heart is true– love shines as the ultimate temptation and the only true redemption. This is Josh Ritter’s Americana, and it is mine as well– and I will love this album forever.

14. Richard Hawley
Truelove’s Gutter (2009)

I guess Richard Hawley just wasn’t made for these times. These songs are rich with images of modernity, of cling and clatter, noise and complication, drugs and addiction and love that hasn’t faded so much as atrophied, killed by the din. But the music rebukes all these modern demons through its sheer beauty, its elegance, its clarity. This is an album of rich, enveloping sadness, a kind of melancholy that feels warm and comforting, not dispiriting but awe-inspiring, and it becomes not just a prayer for serenity and a monument to enduring romance, but a note of permission to feel again; the last song is called “Don’t Cry,” but actually the singer tells us we can cry, that perhaps a little release is much-needed in this age of numbness and overload. Certainly, that’s what Truelove’s Gutter has become for me– a gateway to catharsis, my go-to sadsack album for when I need music to simply wash over me.

13. The Hold Steady
Boys and Girls in America (2006)

In 2006, Craig Finn and his Hold Steady weren’t simply heralded as the new ‘it’ band; they were greeted as saviors, which was on one level quite literally true– they may not have saved rock and roll, but, for many of us, they saved our faith in just what rock and roll could do. Certainly, that’s what this record will always be for me: A clear bolt of rock’s youthfulness and romance, its brash energy and cock-eyed sense of wonder. This is rock that knows no boundaries, lacking any kind of self-awareness or pretense; it may weave together threads picked up from Bruce Springsteen, Thin Lizzy, and The Clash, but it does so without making a big to-do about its influences or the way the band blends them into a voice all their own. It’s simply the sound of men who love power chords and beer-swilling anthems, creating a glorious ruckus.

That The Hold Steady is on some level a lyrics band has been said time and time again, and it somehow seems to state the obvious while missing the point altogether; yes, Craig Finn writes sharp and visceral stories about down-and-out losers, barstool romantics and gutter poets, but these have always been the heroes of rock and roll, just as integral in making this vital, crackling rock and roll as the E-Street piano and devilish guitar riffs. It’s what Finn does with these characters, though, that makes The Hold Steady a band of uncompromising heart and integrity; he leads them through back alleys of addiction and raw desire, and allows them to at least see the light of redemption shine through. I’ve never been a drug addict, but his references to Judas and Jesus in “Citrus” ring true; I don’t always like to admit it, but the story Finn’s telling is my story, too.

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

24. Radiohead
In Rainbows (2007)

When I get the Radiohead itch, this is, more often than not, the first album I reach for. Describing the music has me reaching for all the words you’d never think to use with regard to these chilly, mopey experimentalists: In Rainbows is warm, sexy, inviting– dare I say romantic? If it’s a stretch, it’s not much of one, because this album is swoon-worthy, a richly seductive palette that finds Radiohead comfortable in their own skin and sounding like they’re truly in love with making music, perhaps for the first time ever. It’s the closest thing there is to a fun Radiohead record, but, as ever, there’s something ominous just below the surface. It would be a mistake to say that this is Thom Yorke turning inward– wasn’t Amnesiac in large part an album about divorce?– but it is his most introspective set of songs since The Bends, an album of twisted love songs, littered with lust and sin and consequences. The lyrics are, as ever, intricate, and deserving of time and effort– but given how enveloping and addictive the album is, it hardly feels like work.

23. Spoon
Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga (2007)

An album that defies logic, Spoon’s sixth is a masterpiece of minimalism and of maximalism. (It’s miximal! It’s… manimal?) After making a name for themselves by adopting a seriously less-is-more approach to R&B-fueled indie rock, Spoon threw a whole mess of ideas against the wall for Gimme Fiction. Here, they streamline things again: The album is over and done in half an hour, and there’s not a single note of excess. Yet, they’re still playing with all the toys they got out of the classic rock and soul toybox; there are horns, samples, clipped studio chatter, even Jon Brion. But their greatest tools remain economy and precision. They’re grand studio charlatans who can take an embarrassment of ideas and somehow make it sound like a small, modest affair. I’m still not sure exactly how they pulled it off; all I know is that this seemingly little album seems to offer new riches every time I play it, and at times it feels like the world’s smallest– but most complete– playbook on how to make a thrilling, vibrant pop record.

22. Joe Henry
Scar (2001)

A higher profile– an an increased sure-footedness– for Joe Henry have somewhat obscured this central fact about Scar: That it’s a bewilderingly strange record, a twisted vision of Americana in which a funeral dirge bleeds into a cantankerous mambo, in which Richard Pryor is our disembodied narrator and ventriloquist Edgar Bergen the most unlikely of icons, in which the love songs are really about addiction, the torch songs secretly pining for redemption. Henry’s first major statement is an inverted take on our cultural history– a secret history that unfolds in love songs, the Holy Ghost haunting every frame. The first song encapsulates everything that’s transcendent in Henry’s fractured iconography: In a harrowing tale of self-destruction, he doesn’t so much make a saint out of Pryor as he does make him human. In many ways this is his wildest and most ambitious record, and its best moments point forward to everything he would do in the subsequent decade.

21. Original soundtrack
I’m Not There (2007)

Contained herein there is an entire thesis on the fluid nature of identity in the 21st century, both in art and more broadly; a master’s class on the nuances inherent to song interpretation; and a towering homage to a man who, more than anyone else, lays claim to the title of the greatest, most innovative songwriter in all of rock. And yet, these only hint at what makes I’m Not There a tremendous achievement, and the gold standard for various artist compilations, for more than any of these more formal, philosophical trajectories, the album is defined by its seemingly endless, unbroken string of immense pleasures. There are thirty-nine tracks here, and they are (more or less) all gems. Separately, they are united by nothing more than the byline; they are acoustic and electric, reverent and loose, paying homage to Bob Dylan and refashioning his work in the performer’s own image. Together, they tell an alternate history of an immeasurably fascinating man, and create a vibrant, living mosaic that’s far more than just a tribute album: It’s art in motion, and it’s a joy.

20. Barry Adamson
Back to the Cat (2008)

I would almost call Barry Adamson’s cast of characters– a rogue’s gallery of drunkards and deadbeats, junkies and jilted lovers– larger than life. But then again, I know these people– from cinema, from literature, from the dankest corners of jazz and rock and funk music. If I’m honest with myself, I’ve even been some of these characters, and I’m grateful to Adamson for the compassion he has for them. But if a command of our shared histories and cultural mythologies is his enduring obsession, then bringing these stories to life with all the right musical cues is his true gift. This is remarkably sophisticated music that employs everything from seedy lounge singing to gutter funk, not just for the sake of empty variety, but for all its suggestive power and implicatin: The music means as much as the words, making this a soundtrack that needs no film to accompany it.

19. Outkast
Stankonia (2000)

Is contradiction the same thing as complexity? It is on Stankonia, a defining hip-hop album for me because it’s the product of real human beings, two grown men who can make sweeping but sophisticated political statements one minute and shift to macho posturing the next, men who laud the merits of virtue and good manners and also proclaim their love of hot prostitutes, without any of it sounding contrived or conflicted. It’s ace hip-hop too, of course– Big Boi and Andre trade rhymes with a kind of telepathic interplay that recalls prime Tribe– but really, it’s as much a rock and funk and soul album as it is rap, not just musically but spiritually: Outkast finds a stripe of humor and on-the-button cultural criticism that places them in the tradition not just of Sly Stone, but also, say, Richard Pryor. This is the seminal hip-hop album of the 00s, and the record largely responsible for getting my hooked on the stuff– which is both fitting and odd, given that it embodies everything that makes the genre vibrant even as it stands as virtually a genre unto itself.

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

30. Gillian Welch
Time (The Revelator) (2001)

Proof– as much as any other album released in the last ten years– of the power of simple things, Time is an album of stark modesty, and, paradoxically, of bewildering complexity. It’s a primitive recording of a sophisticated set of songs: There’s nothing here but Welch singing and playing acoustic guitar, her partner Dave Rawlings plucking alongside her, no embellishments or studio tricks to be found– but using that most basic of palettes, Welch creates a remarkable masterpiece of little, interlocking parts. The songs weave history, both cultural and personal, around reflections on passion, work for the sake of work, the beauty of creation– a monument to the triumph of artmaking, of hard work on its own terms. And the album proves its own point: Few recorded moments send a chill down my spine like the moment when the audience bursts into applause during the disc’s lone live recording, a rousing affirmation of the ability of these simple gifts to dazzle us still.

29. Bettye LaVette
The Scene of the Crime (2007)

You could almost accuse her of plagiarism. You see, Bettye LaVette only wrote one of the ten songs here– the rest, pilfered from the likes of Willie Nelson and Elton John– but make no mistake: These are her songs, and they tell her story. The Scene of the Crime is an exemplary soul album in the grand tradition of interpretive singing, LaVette inhabiting these songs like a fine actor and digging deep into their hearts until she finds the truth of her own story within them. And it’s a good story, too, one of artistic and commercial frustration and a survivor’s spirit, told here in scenes of heartbreak and humor, jealousy and choices and, in the end, triumph. That’s the Bettye LaVette story, and this just might be its climax. Add to all that the fact that, in one of the decade’s greatest casting coups, she hijacked the Drive-by Truckers as the tricked-out engine for her ferociously unhinged performances; and, that she pulls her material not only from the proper soul tradition, but from pop and rock and country as well, proving that “soul” is just a matter of heart and inflection. All things considered, I’d say that adds up to one of the decade’s most inspired acts of theft.

28. Over the Rhine
Films for Radio (2001)

Sellouts! What could have been one of the gaudiest cash-ins of the decade is instead one of its bravest experiments and most assured triumphs. Armed, for the first time, with a semi-major record deal and an expanded budget to match, Linford Detweiler and Karin Bergquist– musicians known for their folksy intimacy and their acoustic slow-burners– dressed up their sound in a dazzling array of studio hues. A typical Over the Rhine song is built around a piano, an acoustic guitar, perhaps a drum kit and an upright bass; this one has loops. It has electronic effects and full-band arrangements that at times sound like the work of a small orchestra. And it works. Rather than corrupt the duo’s trademark intimacy, these studio effects enhance it. These are prayers, confessions, and interior monologues, dressed up like the big radio singles they really deserve to be. It’s a dynamite pop album, and it’s a lesson learned: Linford and Karin know what they’re doing.

27. Buddy and Julie Miller
Buddy and Julie Miller (2001)

An album that was, along with Emmylou Harris’ mid-90s classic Wrecking Ball, a sort of gateway drug for me, Buddy and Julie Miller is an album that makes country converts out of folks who swore they’d never go for the twangy stuff. Resistance is futile: The Millers’ first official collaborative album is jubilant, energetic, and, by turns, sorrowful and seductive. It’s clear that these two were made for each other; Buddy’s rough-hewn country grit and Julie’s gospel-laced pop work in perfect harmony, creating an album made up of the very best kind of sentimentality, one that speaks to both the heartache and the giddy joy of romantic love, alternating between teary-eyed ballads and strutting, flirtatious rock and roll. All the important things in life are here– passion for one’s spouse, for music, for Jesus– and it’s little wonder that this spirited, home-made labor of love has only made its way into my stereo more and more since I tied the knot myself.

26. Bruce Springsteen
We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions (2006)

The more devout E-Street fans may not care to admit it, but it’s this album– not the more studied Magic, not the more solemn The Rising– that marked Bruce’s true new-milenium return to the loose spontaneity and ramshackle glory of his early days. Simply put, this album rocks harder and with more abandon than any other Springsteenr recorded this decade, but that’s only half of its appeal. The Seeger Sessions– an all-covers album culled from tracks that are decades, in some cases centuries old– is a rousing celebration of the resiliance of folk music. The songs may be dusty relics, but here Springsteen transforms them; this set, all at once, a killer party album; one of the most timely and elegant political protests of the Bush years; and a stirring affirmation of genuine Christian hope. Not bad for an album that should have been little more than a museum piece. I can think of no closer kindred spirit than the rowdy majesty of The Basement Tapes; of course, that album made up its own myths while this one toys with the old ones, but if that makes it less iconic, it doesn’t make it any less impressive.

25. Solomon Burke
Don’t Give Up on Me (2002)

In 2002, Solomon Burke– once crowned the king of rock and soul, in what seemed like another lifetime– was in need of a comeback. And in the hands of a lesser collaborator, that might have meant gaudy production, unseemly and illogical celebrity cameos from younger performers, songs guaranteed to draw crowds but failing to surprise. Thankfully, his collaborator was Joe Henry, a mostly-untested producer who earned his stripes and laid the foundation for his esteemed reputation here, simply by realizing that the key to a great comeback– the key to a great record– is great songs, a great singer, and production that gives them plenty of room to cast their spell. And that’s what this is: An almost minimalist backing leaves the spotlight on Burke, who chews on his words like a great thespian and belts it like a man a quarter his age, performing original material contributed by little-known songwriters like Bob Dylan, Elvis Costello, and Tom Waits. It’s a timeless formula for winning music, and to this day it stands as a potent lesson in just what exactly makes music soulful.

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

You can bank on the fact that a music critic will look for any opportunity he or she can find to compile a list, and the tale end of 2009 brought a couple; not only were there the usual Best Albums of the Year lists, but also the Best of the Decade. That’s twice the listmaking delight!

Honestly, though, I’m not sure that I’m qualified, or even interested, in compiling such a list. And it’s not because the music of the last decade doesn’t mean much to me. On the contrary, it means a great deal: My first music review was published in the spring of 2000, and my first music review blog started shortly after that, so I’ve been listening to more and more music, with greater depth and focus, ever since. I learned about pop music during this decade. My tastes were formed. My values– musically speaking– were established.

So while I could make an attempt to tell the story of the trends and the breakthroughs, the landmark recordings and the important artists, circa 2000-2009, I’m more interested in telling the story of those records that spoke to me in some way: Those that I found to be illuminating, inspiring, revelatory, comforting, challenging. Albums that taught me how to listen to music, albums that taught me how to live my life.

I’ll be counting down my thirty favorite recordings from 2000-2009 over the course of five days next week. These are the records that explain– as my title indicates– why I love what I love. The final list is, I think, a pretty good blueprint, an explanation of what I find to be moving in a given recording. I offer only one further disclaimer, which is to say that I wanted this to be a list of recordings that stand on their own merit, not token recordings from artists whose work I enjoy in a more general sense. In other words, there are many bands whose body of work I find to be consistently engaging, but no one album quite rose to the ranks of the top 30, so their presence is– painfully– lacking here. And on that note, let me offer an apology to two men in particular: Bono and Jack White, I hope we can still be friends.