3 Down, 9 to Go: Favorite Albums of 2010, Q1
As is my custom, I’m going to wrap up the first three months of the year with a tally of my favorite recordings that I’ve yet heard in the still-young 2010. The take-home message, I think, is that this has been an extraordinarily rich year for new releases thus far– in folk, in pop, in jazz– and I can only hope that the good stuff keeps coming. For now, though, let it be said that any of these albums would make fine additions to my year-end list, and a few of them are pretty much shoo-ins.
One disclaimer: Last time I made a list like this I included a few recordings that I’d heard in advance but were not yet released to the music-buying public; some of you thought I was cheating, so, for this list, I’m only including stuff that released officiall between January 1 and March 31, meaning that a lot of up-and-coming stuff that I really love– music by The Tallest Man on Earth, Josh Ritter, Peter Wolf, Roky Erickson, and others– isn’t eligible here.
01. Anais Mitchell, Hadestown
02. Gorillaz, Plastic Beach
03. Spoon, Transference
04. Gil Scott-Heron, I’m New Here
05. Peter Gabriel, Scratch My Back
06. Mose Allison, The Way of the World
07. Joanna Newsom, Have One on Me
08. Mulatu Astatke, Mulatu Steps Ahead
09. Brad Mehldau, Highway Rider
10. Charlotte Gainsbourg, IRM
Patty Larkin: “25″
My review of the new album from Patty Larkin– simply titled 25– is posted at CT today. This is one I really wish I’d had more room to write about; as the title suggests, this collection gathers 25 songs from Larkin’s 25-year career, and also features– yep– 25 guest performers. Given that Larkin is able to cherry-pick some of her finest material from a prolific career, there are obviously a lot of choice cuts here, and many of the guest artists add something really special to Larkin’s skeletal blueprints (I think the Erin McKeown number is my favorite as far as collaboration goes). All in all, another ambitious and beautiful folk album in a year that’s already been full of ‘em.
Erykah Badu: “New Amerykah: Part 2 Return of the Ankh”
Given her reputation for being cryptic– and perhaps just a wee bit subversive– it’s no big surprise that Erykah Badu’s second New Amerykah album isn’t quite what it claims it is. In fact, what is surprising is just how much the first one lived up to its title: New Amerykah: Part 1 was a way out-there, esoteric space epic that seemed to have crawled out of its auteur’s mind fully formed, a bizarre concoction that mixed personal vision with political nightmare, every bit the strange fusion its title suggested. Number two, on the other hand, doesn’t exactly chart any new frontiers for Badu– and in fact, it barely qualifies as a follow-up to Part 1 at all, sounding more like a sequel to 2000′s relatively straightforward R&B/neo-soul opus Mama’s Gun.
“Straightforward” is a relative term for someone like Badu, of course, whose music has always been too personal and idiosyncratic to fit easily into predefined boxes, and even the most traditional songs on Return of the Ankh sound just the tiniest bit warped. Still, this isn’t the cosmic collision of hip-hop, funk, and soul that she orchestrated on the last album, and its songs are much less prone to fly off the handle into trippy surrealism or grim theatrics. The album opens with the sound of a radio being tuned, and likewise, the listener has to adjust his or her own preconceptions to tune into what Badu is doing here on her self-described “right-brain” follow-up, an album that’s less about illuminating a dark night of the soul than it is being unabashedly soulful, and album that’s less mashed-up manifesto than it is romantic mixtape.
Indeed, it feels just as much an homage to the music Badu loves as Part 1 did, right down to the heavy use of samples and the comparatively direct R&B numbers like “Window Seat,” a typical (and beautiful) Soulquarians groove propelled by James Poysner’s soulful Fender Rhodes and Questlove’s steady timekeeping. Sonically the cut could have been a Mama’s Gun leftover, but its heart is something new for Badu– it’s the most emotionally direct and available song she’s ever cut, a naked expression of insecurity and desire.
The rest of the album follows suit; the politics of its predecessor abandoned completely, this one is all about affairs of the heart, and Badu wears hers on her sleeve. The album opener “20 Feet Tall” is another standout: It’s a relationship song, but it’s also a resilient declaration of self-reliance and strength, a sort of thematic follow-up to earlier songs like “Cleva,” and certainly less abstract than anything on Part 1.
It’s music that feels good, which makes it a welcome breather after the bleakness and intensity of the last Badu record. At the same time, however, it’s a good deal less complex and inventive, its simple pleasures coming from the singing and the easy-going grooves. It’s hard to find fault with that when the songs are as winning as “Window Seat,” or even “Turn Me Away,” a jam that would have sounded frivolous on the last album but, taken on this album’s terms, is a small delight; Badu has never sounded more comfortable and relaxed making music, more sure of herself as a singer. It is, perhaps, ironic that it’s when the album turns toward the avant that it becomes less effective, as on the Dilla-produced “Love,” basically a six-minute sound collage that interrupts the album’s otherwise winning sequence of genial grooves.
The last song, “Out My Mind,” is also its most audacious: It’s a ten-minute, three-part break-up suite that, again, harkens to the conclusion of Mama’s Gun, but also serves here as a rallying point for Badu’s twin inclinations; its sound is vintage but its construction is forward-thinking, and its emotional directness shows that Badu doesn’t have to choose between playing the artiste and the poet– something that’s already a proven fact for those of us who know and love the thrilling danger of New Amerykah: Part 1, but it shown in a completely different way on this lesser but, on its own, perfectly pleasant, and evidence enough that Badu is one of our most prized soul singers, no matter which side of her brain she chooses to employ.
Mulatu Astatke: “Mulatu Steps Ahead”
The title of Mulatu Steps Ahead is something of a paradox: In meaning, it suggests a forward momentum, a creative leap in a new direction, but in form, it’s not forward-thinking so much as it’s deliberately retro-gazing, a throwback reference to classic Columbia and Blue Note jazz titles, specifically Miles Ahead. And so it is with the music: This is Ethiopian jazz legend Astatke following his muse into unexpected new places, even as he combs the past for signposts to guide him. Given that the man essentially created an entire genre of music– Ethio-jazz– the thought of him looking backward might seem initially disappointing– why would a long-time pioneer suddenly be content to take the road more traveled?– but in reality, Mulatu’s doing what he’s always done; his music has always drawn heavily from traditional Ethiopian forms and melodies, even as he twists them to suit his own purposes, which is basically what he does here. The difference– the thing that makes this record a “step ahead”– is that here, the Ethiopian master engages American jazz tropes more directly than he ever has before; it’s no small irony, then, that this happens to rank among his more exotic and otherworldly studio creations.
Astatke hasn’t released an album of new material in some time; instead, he’s been challenging himself with exciting new collaborations (such as his session with the Heliocentrics last year) and storing up thrilling new compositions, many of which appear here, along with a few new workings of older Mulatu tunes. The album opener, “Radcliffe,” introduces the album’s basic conceit: It begins as a cloud of dissonance, coming from Ethiopian flutes and bowed violins, before the warm sound of a trumpet– yes, with striking tonal similarities to Miles Davis– bring focus to the piece. It’s the sound of two worlds colliding, and its slowly-unfurled, dreamlike pace make it sound like some hallucinatory meditation. The other side of the coin comes in the form of “The Way to Nice,” a spry groove that recalls both the composer’s 007-ish riffs from the Broken Flowers soundtrack as well as his album with the Heliocentrics, some of whom appear here.
Everything here feels like the work of a musician who’s simply interested in letting his imagination play– and who’s pioneering work has earned him the right to do so, as well as the understanding to make it more than just an act of artistic self-indulgence. The composer’s touch is light, with differing cultural and musical idioms– be it a distinctly African brand of funk or a particularly American horn line, songs that swing or songs that unfold patiently– caressing each other rather than butt heads. It’s an album of nocturnal grooves, big-band reveries for the midnight hour, a seductive set of songs that’s endlessly inventive and profoundly sympathetic toward its various sources of inspiration. In other words: It’s Mulatu stepping ahead, once again, and this time he’s on firmer footing than ever before.
More Notes on “Hadestown”
The more music you listen to– and write about– the rarer it is that you hear something you can honestly say sounds like nothing you’ve ever heard before. So this announcement comes with a bit of fanfare, and no small degree of surprise: In 2010, I’ve heard an album– Anais Mitchell’s Hadestown, which is a folk record, an opera, a political fable, a revised myth, and an existential love story, all in one– that is, most assuredly, like nothing I’ve ever heard before.
Unfortunately, an album as rich and original as this one is pretty much guaranteed to remain a cult classic at best, virtually unheard at worst. Let me do my part to buck that trend: I’ve already reviewed the album here– not in nearly as much detail as I would have liked, but who would read a track-by-track walkthrough?– and here are some links to a few more required readings on the Hadestown project:
First and foremost, read the story of Hadestown– its history, its themes, its songs– in the aritst’s own words, over at The Basement Rug.
And here’s more from Anais– an interview with NPR.
Here’s the review that turned me on to the album, by my friend Thom Jurek.
And here’s a terrific review from the Burlington Free Press.
Jose James: “Blackmagic”
Jose James has been called a jazz singer for the hip-hop generation, a title that does a so-so job of describing his music, but an excellent job of qualifying just how hip the guy is. And how hip is he? You tell me. On his second full-length, he enlists the indie-approved, Pitchfork-certified, Thom Yorke-collaborating producer Flying Lotus to lay down a few grooves. Elsewhere, he sings over a track by Japanese DJ Mitsu the Beats. And oh, yeah: one of these songs is a jazzed-up version of a track by dubstep master Benga.
It’s a collaboration that spans the globe, and a sound that’s at once retro and unquestionably modern, but that’s not what puts the power in James’ intoxicating Blackmagic. That’s because even when he’s letting his hipster flag fly, the man still sounds like he’s kicking it old-school. Listen to the terrific baby-making ballad “Promise in Love.” The crisp hip-hop loop gives it its kick, but the pleading Al Green vocal and trumpet give it its soul. And soul music is what James is making here, make no mistake; his musical horizons may include opening up the genre to the possibilities afforded by hip-hop, drum and bass, and dubstep, but the heart of the music lies in something far more timeless.
Read the rest at Stereo Subversion.
Mose Allison: “The Way of the World”
Some things never change: Eighty-two years old and a dozen years after his retirement from studio recording, Mose Allison turns out to be every bit as wry, as cantankerous, and as whip-smart as ever, so much so that, on new album The Way of the World, he puts the young musicians working with him through their paces just to try to keep up with him. We have Joe Henry to thank for this one: He met Allison a couple of years ago, immediately realized that the singer and pianist’s story was far from over, and so launched a good old-fashioned letter-writing campaign to prod the man into the studio. The terminally cool Allison sounds like he’s at least partly humoring Henry here, but it hardly matters: He’s fully engaged here, sounding like he put down Henry’s letters, sat down at the keys, and pounded this one out in an hour.
Actually, it was recorded in five days in Henry’s basement studio, with his usual cast of studio hands on board to help, but that hardly matters: What’s important is that this one is a gift to anyone who hears it, a dynamite set that finds Allison in fighting form. Henry was right in thinking that Allison still has stories left to tell, and on The Way of the World, that story is that, well, some things never change– or at least that’s what Allison might have us believe. The album title suggests a kind of old-as-dirt attitude that people today operate in just about the same way they always have; Allison’s seen it all, yet his dry wit enlivens the twisted account of betrayal in “I Know You Didn’t Mean It,” or the knowing kiss-off of “Everybody Thinks You’re an Angel”– songs expressing sentiments that are older than the blues, but given a fresh twist of the knife here.
And all the while, Allison wails on his piano with elastic harmonies and more energy than pianists a quarter his age can muster; listen to him lead the charge through the instrumental “Crush,” a mischievous bop number that explodes with improvisational possibilities. This is a Mose Allison recording in the classic vein– compact and devoid of frills, but packing a lot of bang for the buck with not a single wasted second– yet as much as Allison savors making a record that rests on his incredible legacy, he offers sly hints that he’s equally zealous to expand upon it. Cue Henry and his studio guns, who bring whimsy and invention to everything they do. Greg Leisz adds mandola to a couple of tracks– not what you usually hear on a Mose album, but a subtle touch that adds gypsy flavor to Allison’s jazz workouts. Electric guitar keeps the title track on the bluesy tip, and a saxophone is enough to make “Crush” sound like a delirious Blue Note outtake while bringing a hint of loungey noir to a hysterical cover of Loudon Wainwright‘s “I’m Alright.”
The last song on the album is a duet with Allison’s daughter Amy, on a cover of an old WWII-era parlor tune; I’m not sure, but I think that might be a first for a Mose Allison record, which is perfectly in keeping with the spirit of this fine recording. Joe Henry was sure Allison had something left to say; turns out, it’s an update on a story he’s already told us before, but an update nevertheless– and through the sheer force of energy and invention, of wisdom and wit, Allison etches out another addition to his already great legacy, making The Way of the World a testament to a veteran who’s still in his prime.
Brad Mehldau: “Highway Rider”
I’m not sure how much Brad Mehldau and Miles Davis share in common, but I will say this: With Highway Rider, the pianist has made his Sketches of Spain, an orchestral song cycle that enlivens classical music with the improvisational spirit of jazz, finding its footing in folk music and caressing the edges of pop. It’s an audacious work, and it’s executed gracefully: Mehldau’s vision unfolds slowly and purposefully over two discs, and it’s every bit as conceptual as his Elegiac Cycle but also more song-oriented; it’s a musical travelogue in which recurring themes provide a narrative frame, but individual episodes and scenes make up the record’s most rewarding moments. Mehldau’s Gil Evans figure is producer Jon Brion, collaborating with Mehldau for the second time. Their first effort, Largo, is a highly influential work, but this one’s much better, partly because Mehldau came to the sessions with a more substantial batch of songs, and partly because Brion doesn’t prod the pianist toward forced experimentation so much as he gently coaxes Mehldau into forward-thinking ingenuity and resourcefulness, like when Mehldau switches from his piano to Brion’s pump organ in “Don’t Be Sad,” to strangely stirring effect. Brion also proves adept at getting the most out of talented musicians: I love the nervous, pacing percussion he employs from Jeff Ballard in the opening song, but it’s merely a trifle compared to the outstanding sax work from Joshua Redman, who brings sweet gospel and soul to his solos and lifts this introspective work into something exhilarating and transcendent. All things told, this is a major statement from a composer and musician who has been doing great work for some time now, but has arguably made his most ambitious and successful music here.
Anais Mitchell: “Hadestown”
When’s the last time you heard a pop musician take inspiration from Greek mythology? My mind automatically goes to Nick Cave and his retelling of “The Lyre of Orpheus,” from his brilliant 2004 record of the same name. Cave re-imagines the Orpheus tale as– what else?– a dirty punk rock song, sleazy in all the right ways, and memorably rhyming the protagonist’s name with the word “orifice.” Now if only more mythology textbooks would take the same approach, I imagine it would be a much more popular topic in middle school English.
Anais Mitchell– an inspired young singer/songwriter who you’ve probably never heard of until now– has written an entire album about the Orpheus saga. Actually, it’s not just an album– it’s an entire “folk opera,” which is exactly what it sounds like. The show has been performed and tinkered with for several years now, played with different casts of singers and musicians, but the release of the Hadestown CD makes it definitive. It’s not the original cast recording– or even the original cast– but it, and Mitchell, are original through and through. And there’s also nothing about it that suggests the awesome vulgarity of Cave’s song; Mitchell’s is a poetry that’s much less lowbrow, and her Hadestown story is a human epic about love in the ruins, grace during trying times, holding on to compassion and integrity even when the chips are down.
The original Orpheus myth is about a man who follows his beloved into Hell. Mitchell’s version takes place during a post-apocalyptic American depression, in a city where times are “hard and getting harder all the time.” Underground, there’s a city that prospers, its ruler, Hades, having constructed a wall around the city that keeps wealth in and poverty out. So which one is Hell, exactly? Euridyce, voiced by Mitchell, finds out all too quickly when she abandons her poet lover Orpheus (Bon Iver‘s Justin Vernon) for the posh set-up down in Hadestown. Judge her if you must, but the chorus of Fates– voiced by the Haden triplets– turns the question right back on us: Would we behave any differently, were our bellies and pocketbooks both empty?
Meanwhile, down south, Hades (Greg Brown) indoctrinates his subjects, with a cruel mantra that bears eerie resemblance to a certain Pink Floyd song. Why do they build the wall, he asks? They answer: To keep them free; to protect them from the enemy; the enemy is poverty, etc. They are creating security, at the cost of their own freedom. But behind Hades’ back, his wife Persephone (Ani DiFranco) runs a little speakeasy, a hole-in-the-wall where Hades’ slaves come for a taste of what they’ve left behind– like sunshine, flowers, summer air.
A project like this really has the odds stacked against it: For it not to topple under the weight of pretension, or of being too stagey, it takes a songwriter of graceful touch and generous spirit, which is exactly what we have in Mitchell. Her vision of Hadestown is a labor of love, to be sure, but what makes it work is that she’s humble enough not to do it all on her own. She made the album with arranger Michael Chorney, who ties lofty ambitions to the dirty ground with expressions of American folk music that range from country-blues to ragtime. When DiFranco introduces her speakeasy, Chorney gives her a deliciously raucous, seedy cabaret background. He gives the project what it really needs to succeed– songs. Not just a narrative arc, but songs that stand on their own and make each scene feel like a thing unto itself as much as a part of the greater tapestry of story.
Chorney believes in Mitchell’s vision, in all its audacity, and so do her guest singer. To the character of Hades, Brown brings a mixture of roguish seduction and royal weariness that makes the character at one villainous and empathetic. DiFranco could quit making records and get a career as a Broadway singer right now, so spirited is her performance as Persephone. Justin Vernon’s wounded falsetto turns out to be the perfect instrument for the legendary and heartbroken Orpheus. And Mitchell, in surrounding herself with singers who are all more famous and experienced than her and in going out of her way not to be the star here, somehow stands out as the star nevertheless; perhaps it’s because her generous creative spirit is abundantly clear in every note she sings.
Her generosity and genuine humility inform everything about the way this project takes shape: This being a myth, Mitchell is wise in treating it as an archetype, an album that’s broad enough to be about love and greed and politics, precise enough to invoke acute ethical conundrums and real-world crises of courage and good faith. Some have said that the album is a metaphor for Israel and Palestine, for the U.S. in an age of homeland security and racial profiling, but there’s nothing here that’s ham-fisted, nor is there anything that suggests Mitchell is willing to settle for easy definitions of good and evil. She sounds like she is at play here, following the myth and her carefully fleshed-out characters to their inevitable conclusions and simply allowing the themes to resonate all on their own.
It’s telling that two of the story’s most climactic moments are presented here as instrumental pieces; Mitchell is confident in her poetry– which is clever and profound and never cliched– but also in the gifts of her collaborators, and she trusts that the musicians will tell this story just as evocatively and suggestively as she herself does. The wordless songs aren’t a cheat, but a tease– they spur the listener to imagine his or her own words, and draw unique conclusions. Would that every artist could come to the table with ideas as big and audacious as this one, and still trust listeners to be able to keep pace and follow along. Hadestown affords the listener this very liberty, and in so doing it becomes an album that’s original and unforgettable.
Preservation: An Album to Benefit Preservation Hall
It arrives almost ten years after the fact, and its place of origin is not Nashville but New Orleans, yet even so: You might as well consider Preservation a sort of sequel to the seminal O Brother, Where Art Thou? soundtrack– at least in spirit, if not in style. Like that album, this one gathers an impossibly wide and impressive array of contemporary musicians to interpret songs so integral to the musical roots of this country, they seem almost to transcend genre, and can only really be described as American music, plan and simple. Like that album, this one is a celebration of simplicity, of rugged faith and high hopes in the face of hard times– quintessential Americana themes. And like that album, this one is in service of a true American institution– the Coen Brothers in the case of the former, Preservation Hall in the case of the latter.
And actually, it’s the Hall that proves to be this record’s secret weapon, one that not even O Brother can lay claim to matching: For in that Hall– perhaps as storied and integral to American music history as any other building in the country– dwells the Preservation Jazz Band, arguably the medium’s most legendary and hardest-working band. The lineup of the band has, obviously, changed time and time again since its inception in the early 1960s, but the music they play hasn’t– and in fact, it seems to stretch out to well before the 60s, to a time when jazz was all about filling the dancehalls with high spirits and good humor. The music they play here is old-timey in the best sense of the term, unabashedly fun and swinging with cheerful energy.
It’s the band that anchors this record, and their playing is stellar across the board; but what about the special guests? They come from the worlds of indie rock, of country, and yes, of jazz, and every one of them turns in a stellar performance; indeed, part of the joy of this album is in hearing how naturally the featured guests work their way into the fabric of the Preservation band, locking into the spirit of the music without calling attention to themselves. That New Orleans favorites like Dr. John and Terrence Blanchard turn in fine performances is no big surprise, but what’s really delightful is hearing Andrew Bird swing like he did back in the days of Oh, The Grandeur!, or hearing Tom Waits turn in a deliriously fun scat performance that reveals just how much this music has influenced him. Picking further highlights is tough, but I love the Blind Boys of Alabama bringing a heavy dose of gospel to the proceedings, My Morning Jacket’s Jim James continuing his eclectic career trajectory with a dreamlike “Louisiana Fairytale,” youngster Paolo Nutini continuing his exploration of roots music in a seductively-crooned “Between the Devil & the Deep Blue Sea,” and Ani DiFranco giving what may be the most cheerful and warm vocal performance of her life in a wonderful reading of “Freight Train.”
And that’s the real key to what makes this such a delightful recording: It’s all about shaking off one’s cares and having a good time, with music that swings happily and offers nothing but cheerful simplicity. These are standard songs that most of us know by heart, but no matter: This album demonstrates why their appeal is so enduring, and how much they still have to speak to us today.
