Favorites of 2011 (So Far)

I generally offer a quick count of my current favorite records after the first quarter of the year passes, a quick recommendation of the stuff that’s really stuck with me thus far, so I’ll follow suit here. These are ten albums that have impressed me during the first three months of 2011, and yes: One, some, all, or none* of them could end up on my year-end list come December. Note that, as is my custom, I’m only counting albums that have officially been released at this point in the year, which means that some favorite April releases– Low, Emmylou Harris, etc.– are going to be “exempt” form this sampling. But I strongly suspect you’ll see them on later lists…

* Well, no, that last part probably isn’t true. The first album on this list is perhaps my favorite new recording in three or four years, so it’s unlikely that it will be knocked off altogether…

01. Over the Rhine
The Long Surrender

02. Sam Phillips
Cameras in the Sky

03. Hayes Carll
KMAG YOYO

04. DeVotchKa
100 Lovers

05. Josh T. Pearson
Last of the Country Gentlemen

06. Buddy Miller
The Majestic Silver Strings

07. PJ Harvey
Let England Shake

08. The Decemberists
The King is Dead

09. Gregg Allman
Low Country Blues

10. R.E.M.
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Radiohead: “The King of Limbs”

Even when their world has seemed to be at its darkest, Radiohead has always sounded like they had just a little bit of fight left in them. “I might be wrong,” Thom Yorke sang, ten years ago now, “but I thought I saw a light coming on.” Even “No Surprises,” their resigned consideration of a carbon monoxide handshake, was followed just two songs later with an admonition to “slow down”—as though maybe, just maybe, there’s still something we can do to escape an apocalypse of our own making.

But I think the fight may finally have left them, or else gone into deep hibernation. They’ve recorded a new eight-song album called The King of Limbs that feels, truthfully, like a slow curl into the fetal position. It’s a journey from clatter to contemplation, from anxiety to serenity. Consider the blare of horns that breaks through the noise of album opener “Bloom”—it’s just barely able to make its presence known amidst all the din. It reprises on the album’s second half, in a song called “Codex,” and here it’s clearer, more heroic even—but also quieter, more resigned.

I’m crazy about the eight-song length; all Radiohead albums seem purposeful, but this one is really stripped to the essentials. The medium is the message. Thom Yorke fights against the anxious rhythms and the furious tumult of the opening songs like he’s kicking against the empty sound and fury of modernity itself—though even here he seems a little tired, perhaps; why else would he begin his lyrics with a “universal sigh”?  By the time the first half comes to a close, with a song called “Feral,” he’s basically lost the ability to form words; the song isn’t quite instrumental, but it does seem to be essentially wordless.

The back section of the record skips the fighting altogether; it’s basically a last round of stretching before the hibernation. “Codex” is a pastoral piano ballad that extends to some nameless lover an invitation to escape—to dive into cool waters where there’s no one around. It’s probably the closest to invoking Astral Weeks mysticism Thom Yorke has ever come. After that: The acoustic quietude and Neil Young harmonics of a song called “Give Up the Ghost,” where Yorke’s voice seems like it’s slowly being blown away until only a whisper remains.

What I hear in these songs, though, isn’t an admission of defeat so much as a plea for some much-needed serenity—some quiet time for the soul. Or to put it another way, the rest sought in these songs isn’t the rest of the terminally bored, but of the weary fighter—and the implication is that it’s a rest that brings renewal. How else does one explain the album’s closing lines, already contentious among Radiohead fans? “If you really think it’s over, you’re wrong,” sings Yorke, not with defiance so much as a real peace about going away for a while. One gets the impression that he’s storing up his strength for a new assault on the darkness—that eventually he’ll be back to save the universe.

But if that’s the spiritual truth of King of Limbs—and I do feel like I’m on solid ground here, but, to once again invoke the band’s own words, I might be wrong—the musical reality is at once parallel and perhaps just a bit less fulfilling. Certainly, this isn’t a working holiday for Radiohead—the level of craft is too great for this to be taken as any kind of dip in quality—but it does represent something of a vacation from the constant push toward innovation that seemed to propel everything this band was doing ten years ago. The Radiohead that’s always looking to the future is nowhere to be found here; instead, they’re either surveying the present realities of British pop music (“Feral” is really just pure dubstep; I expect a James Blake remix any day now) or their own collective past (the Neil Young sound of “Give Up the Ghost,” the vintage Radiohead piano drama of “Codex”).

And all that’s fine with me, really it is, because frankly, I just don’t have as much interest in bands that seem like they’re being willfully difficult, at the cost of true enjoyment of their music. And it seems, at first, like this is the very path Yorke and Co. are going down with the knotty complexities and off-beat rhythms of “Bloom,” but the song’s unfolding is nothing if not logical (and true to its name), and the rest of the album follows suit: It’s intricate but not unmusical, and it carries the listener along rather than pushing the listener away. It’s a true journey in a way that even recent Radiohead albums haven’t always been.

I’m also pleased that the band is continuing to develop a sound that’s warm, romantic, tactile—dare I say sexy? Those qualities continue to make In Rainbows the most-played Radiohead album at my house, and King of Limbs sounds to me like a natural progression. But that doesn’t mean it’s as successful on those terms. Whatever you do, take the promotional video that accompanied the album—of Thom Yorke dancing his awkward white ass off to “Lotus Flower”—as something of a meta-irony; there’s little on this record that possesses that kind of physicality, and it is certainly not Radiohead’s dance album. In fact, some of their attempts at making it so result in their flattest music to date: “Good Morning Mr. Magpie” approximates the guitar tones of African blues and the rhythms of funk, but the mix is so one-dimensional that the song never achieves any kind of real groove, momentum, or seduction.

“Little by Little,” which follows, is much more successful, and honestly is my favorite thing here. The hooks on this one are insidious, but when they kick in they don’t let up; there’s something of a quality of jazz to it, but it comes alive just like a pop song. I like “Codex” well enough, too, though frankly, as watery piano ballads go, there’s little to set it apart from a song like “Videotape,” save for pure personal preference. The closing number, “Separator,” flows like a tranquil river, but it, too, reveals itself to be subtly hook-laden.

Still, Radiohead too often find themselves on the wrong side of the line that divides the intellectual funk of “Mr. Magpie” from the snappy rhythms that collide across “Little by Little”—with even the blustery rhythmic complexity of “Bloom” appealing to the brain even as it fails to convey any sort of physical punch, and the beauty of “Give Up the Ghost” seeming, somehow, intangible. Past Radiohead albums have always balanced music-geek intellectualism atop rock and roll scaffolding; In Rainbows began with the nervous-tic R&B of “15 Step,” still one of my favorites, and even Kid A infused its ethereal moodiness with vestiges of something the listener could hold on to—the apocalyptic dancefloor mayhem of “Idiotheque,” for example.

There is no mayhem on King of Limbs, however, nor is there anything even resembling rock and roll; they’ve never before ditched the idiom quite so fully, and in so doing they’ve made what is essentially a chill-out record of exquisite mood music, the kind that lingers in the mind due to the sheer expressiveness of it, but never really sinks its hooks in on a deeper level. It is a technically flawless record, but one in which the joy of making music is replaced by an almost burdensome sense of craftsmanship, the desire to make something Deep and Important. I truly do applaud them for their continued growth, make no mistake of that—but I must say that I hope they’re telling the truth when they say it isn’t over.

Josh T. Pearson: “Last of the Country Gentlemen”

“Don’t cry for me,” Josh T. Pearson consoles his lover, mere seconds into his new record Last of the Country Gentlemen, “For I’m off to save the world.” Granted, if ever there was a good reason for leaving your honey behind, saving the world would probably be it. The trouble is, it becomes evident pretty quickly that his lover is his world– and Pearson is just too weak and frail to treat her right, too much of an asshole to be “the savior [she] so desperately needs.”

But thank God he realizes it, anyway– and thank God he’s documented the whole painful scenario in an album-length suite of broken hearts and exorcised demons, frail humanity and savage grace. This thing plays like a divorce album for those of us who know we’re too broken on the inside to save anybody– much less the whole world; it’s a break-up album for those whose very souls cry out for redemption. And as such, it’s an absolute ass-kicker– a devastatingly dark marvel, an unfurling of sadness the likes of which I haven’t heard in quite some time. Easy listening it is not, but if you ever begin to doubt the true power of music and art, just put this thing on: It will run your heart through a shredder and return it you you in pieces (with “holes that would let the Light in,” as Sam Phillips might say).

So yes, in a sense, this is a record to put on the shelf with Blood on the Tracks, Shoot Out the Lights, Sea Change, and A Boot and a Shoe, but those comparisons seem somehow to miss the mark. That Dylan album, for example, is perfectly precise in its lyrics and music alike, pop songs that are battered and bruised but pop songs nevertheless. Pearson’s album is more like the sound of something wild and primal unleashed; indeed, it’s fitting that the first song is called “Thou Art Loosed,” as everything that follows seems like an inevitable journey of the soul, over which the singer himself has no control but is instead held in its sway, a ghastly trance of brutal heartbreak.

Actually, it reminds me– rather perversely, perhaps– of something like Astral Weeks, a record that was traditional in its form but completely unhinged in its performances, elevating it into something at one primitive and deeply spiritual. Similarly, Last of the Country Gentlemen plays like feverish gothic country, only it blows the bottom out; song itself cannot contain these demons, and so the songs stretch out, most of them well past ten minutes, and sort of meander between different recognizable structures and phrases; it’s as though the music itself is lost in the wilderness, yet it never seems to ramble without purpose. When the conclusion comes, it seems inevitable– as though these songs couldn’t possibly have lead anywhere else.

So yes, indeed, this thing is almost stodgily old-fashioned: There are seven songs only, but most of them are quite long, and the album demands to be listened to in sequence. There is nothing here to offer a crutch for those with short attention spans; though there is some light accompaniment here and there– most notably some spectral violin from Warren Ellis– it feels like a solo composition through and through, and there is never anything but the song itself to hold listeners in thrall. Let it be said that the material here is completely up to the challenge; those who truly stop and listen– as the music demands you to– will hang on to every word.

Speaking of words, the album title itself sounds to me almost like the kind of phrase Flannery O’Connor might have been drawn to; if the album speaks to anything, though, it’s the terrible insufficiency of being a true “country gentlemen,” how greatly such a distinction would lack were we even capable of achieving it. And the narrator of these songs is surely no gentleman; he’s something closer to a monster, actually, at least if the devastating, monstrously soul-shaking drunkard’s lament “Woman When I’ve Raised Hell” is any indication; meanwhile, “Sweetheart I Ain’t Your Christ” is a hypnotic and frankly stunning song that blurs the line between profanity and piety, somehow revealing the singer to be completely fallen and also deeply sympathetic in his concern for a lover’s soul. The most tragic and wondrous thing on the album, at least to my ears, is “Honeymoon is Great, I Wish You Were Her,” a tale of infidelity and utter anguish.

But there is something strangely beautiful about all this sadness; indeed, this isn’t a record that wallows in misery so much as it confronts human frailty head-on, and demands that the listener do the same. What it amounts to is music that cries out, with every second and every note, for grace and redemption– and if Pearson can’t provide that, so what? At least he’s honest about it– “sweetheart, I ain’t your Christ”– and besides, the cry itself is enough to stir the soul, making Last of the Country Gentlemen a thing of perfectly broken, holy sadness.

Black Joe Lewis and the Honeybears: “Scandalous”

The CD artwork for Black Joe Lewis’ new album with his Honeybears, called Scandalous, is lined with pin-up girls, atomic bombs, handguns, and even a picture of Jesus– seeming, oddly enough, like a pretty good summation of the primal, stripped-to-the-bone grit and humanity of this music. It’s a bawdy thing but an awfully good time, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t getting a fair bit of play time here at Hurst HQ. My full review is up at Stereo Subversion.

Nick Lowe: “Labour of Lust”

As mentioned before, Nick Lowe’s classic second solo album, Labour of Lust got a long-overdue CD re-issue last week; I couldn’t resist getting a copy, of course, and after playing it through a couple of times I found myself strangely compelled by the idea of creating a sort of “Vintage Lowe” playlist on my iPod– kind of an idealized spin on what a Nick Lowe setlist might have looked like in the fall of 1979, perhaps at a hypothetical pub somewhere. The material, of course, is pretty much split between Labour and the album that came before it, Jesus of Cool, with a couple of B-sides from the era and a Rockpile song or two thrown in for good measure. And listening to the Labour of Lust content in that context, I’m struck by a couple of things: One, it’s probably an ever-so-slightly lesser album than either Jesus of Cool or the lone Rockpile album. But two, it seems, oddly, like a sort of blueprint to Lowe’s entire career, an insight into the music that came before and after it.

First thing’s first though: I have to say that, purely in terms of a CD re-issue, this project is merely passable. There is a set of liner notes that provides a basic historical framework, but little else. The artwork is fine, but unremarkable. And there is only one bonus song here, “Basing Street,” which is a B-side that many Lowe fans probably have anyway. That said, the Yep Roc edition also rights the wrongs committed by the split US/UK releases– the former left off the song “Endless Grey Ribbon,” the latter cut “American Squirm,” but both songs are finally together here. And really, the mere fact that this fantastic record– so long out of print– is readily available once more is reason enough to celebrate it.

As for the music itself: Though this album only has Lowe’s name on the cover, it’s worth noting that it is, essentially, a Rockpile album; personnel-wise, there are no differences between this and Seconds of Pleasure. And yet… it feels every bit the Nick Lowe solo vehicle that Jesus of Cool is, and indeed, most of these songs can be easily imagined as tracks on that album. The differences are largely in subject matter– Jesus of Cool was mostly rock about rock, while this one mostly moves on from the inside-jokey meta-pop references– and production: Jesus of Cool was all about bright colors and pure pop invention, things that are much less prevalent on Labour outside of the weird, druggy “Big Kick, Plain Scrap!” Instead, this album is a lean, rough-around-the-edges bar band performance– namely, Rockpile.

And it’s interesting to consider it in that context. This may be a Rockpile album in all but name, but it’s a very different critter than Seconds of Pleasure; since this is Nick’s show, there’s a much greater emphasis on his off-the-cuff rock sensibilities and less of Dave Edmunds’ more precise pop classicism, but there is also material here that Seconds doesn’t really hint at– like the pure country of “Without Love,” for instance. Also on deck here: One of my favorite lean, muscular Rockpile performances, the outsider swagger of “Born Fighter.”

That said, Labours of Lust also hints at the more country- and roots-based idioms Lowe would go on to explore for basically the rest of his career, and yes, even albums as seemingly different from those first two records as The Impossible Bird and At My Age. Indeed, pure pop classics like “Cruel to be Kind” and “American Squirm” aside, there’s plenty of material here that sounds to me like it basically could have fit on any of the four most recent Lowe albums– a slightly slowed-down version of “Without Love” might have been a highlight of any of those albums. The songwriting itself suggests a move away from the goofy weirdness of, say, “Marie Provost” or “Nutted by Reality” in favor of something a little more subtle and wry; certainly, the wordplay of “Dose of You” would have made a fine addition to, say, Dig My Mood, and “Love so Fine” is old-timey fun that would have been perfect on At My Age.

Add to all this the fact that Labour of Lust displays Lowe’s typical knack for picking the absolute perfect cover songs– an area in which he is truly peerless; on this album, it’s his definitive reading of “Switchboard Susan,” done with just the right level of bawdy glee– and you have what is, I think, a pretty essential Nick Lowe album, even if it is somewhat unfortunately stuck between two flat-out classics.

J Mascis: “Several Shades of Why”

I like Dinosaur Jr. a fair bit– their 2007 album Beyond is actually my favorite; that’s sacrilege to those who revere their earlier, college rock staples, I know, but there it is– and so I was prepared to enjoy the long-awaited J Mascis solo album as a sort of Dinosaur-gone-acoustic offering. Imagine my surprise to find that the record is actually much more varied– and much richer– than that. My full review of Several Shades of Why is posted at Stereo Subversion.

Film Break: “Limitless”

I don’t have time to write about film nearly as much as I’d like to, and, truthfully, I don’t make it to the theater quite as much as I used to. I have seen a couple of films recently that really impressed me, however; the animated Rango is as delightful and inventive a movie as I’ve seen in… dare I say years? I’m completely head-over-heels for it. And I had a great time at The Adjustment Bureau, which is just about perfect as both a thriller and a romance, and better than expected as a philosophical endeavor. Not everything about it works, but I was swept away by its ambition, and by the chemistry between the two leads.

Limitless, opening today, is not nearly as good as either of those movies, but it is still a pretty good time, as far as pure escapism goes. It won’t win any awards, and it’s about as dumb as these things get, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it on some level. My CT review is posted here.

Decades of Pleasure: Digging the Moods of Nick Lowe

There is a tall shelf in my library where I keep all the records from my favorite singer/songwriters– the Icons, I call them, at least in my own head. These are, indeed, the true architects of my musical imagination, and each one has a shelf entirely his or her own. Bob Dylan has two, actually, a sign of his sheer longevity as much as anything else; he and Joe Henry are way up at the very top of the shelf, an indication of the esteem in which I hold them both, really. Elvis Costello also has a couple of shelves; he’s surrounded by folks like Tom Waits, Sam Phillips, Nick Cave (complete with the Grinderman records, naturally), and Van Morrison.

On the bottom row, Costello’s old New Wave pal/Stiff producer/”What’s So Funny (About Peace, Love and Understanding)” writer Nick Lowe is enshrined, along with his full discography– and that includes not just the music he made under his own name, but also as a member of the seminal pub rock outfit Brinsley Schwarz and the unsung heroes Rockpile. And in a good many ways, Lowe is a very different kind of character from the others who populate this shelf, and I’m briefly tempted to say that what makes him different is the fact that, well, he just doesn’t take things so seriously.

But that’s not entirely accurate. True enough: Comb through his list of writing credits and you won’t find any socially-aware ballads in the vein of early Dylan (nothing any more specific than “What’s So Funny,” anyway), nothing to match the slippery spirituality and metaphysics of Van the Man, nothing even as musically sophisticated as his buddy Costello’s forays into jazz, orchestral pop, and opera. But to say that Lowe doesn’t take anything seriously is to miss the point entirely: He doesn’t take himself seriously. But when it comes to pop music, he is quite serious indeed.

Lowe has, for basically the duration of his career, made pop music about pop music– jokey and self-referential songs about the industry and about the rock and roll life. He does so with a sort of roguish charm, a subversive sense of humor, and a mean streak that can’t quite mask the big heart and romantic spirit that underpins everything he does. He does so with crackling energy– a proclivity toward working fast and leaving all the rough spots in tact earned him the nickname Basher way back when– and he does so with a loving attention to craft.

Nick Lowe is, indeed, one of the true icons of my musical imagination, and perhaps it is for the very reason that he is, in many ways, so different from the others on that shelf. His music has cultivated in me a deep appreciation for music that is carefully crafted to sound utterly spontaneous and alive– music that is warm and welcoming and designed to simply feel good and provide a fun time. This week marks the long-awaited CD re-release of one of Lowe’s most important albums– Labour of Lust, recorded with his greatest band (Rockpile) and featuring his biggest hit (“Cruel to Be Kind”). To celebrate, here are my picks for the five essential Nick Lowe recordings– a good starting point, I think, but be careful: You’re likely to find his music so addictive that, once you start, you’re going to need a whole shelf to house it all, eventually.

Nervous on the Road (1972; as part of Brinsley Schwarz)

The Brinsleys were, perhaps, the seminal band of the pub rock movement– I suppose some would argue for Dr. Feelgood, and that’s fair enough– and in many ways, this, their finest album, embodies everything that’s great about that music, and indeed, of Lowe’s music in general. At this point he had not quite gotten to the point of rattling off quirky little slices of perfect pure pop, bizarro humor and all, that he would exhibit on his later solo albums, but the seeds of it all are right here in the seven tracks Lowe wrote for Nervous on the Road: His jovial spirits, off-the-cuff spontaneity, good-times warmth, and his love for rock and roll. Indeed, this is very much a rock album about rock, stories from a hard-working band that never made it bit but nevertheless sang and played their hearts out night after night, in one pub after another. The songs are funny and sentimental but never saccharine, and the performances are warm, steady, and easy-going; included are the first great Lowe ballad, “Don’t Lose Your Grip On Love,” which sort of prefigures the loose country/R&B influences he would later wear so well, as well as quintessential working-band anthems “Happy Doing What We’re Doing” and “Surrender to the Rhythm.”

Jesus of Cool (1978)

Nowhere else did Nick Lowe ever create quite this strong of a platform for his impish, slightly deranged humor and preternatural pop savvy; this is the perfect manifestation of the young, mischievous Lowe, and a template for some of the most imaginative pop music of the subsequent years and decades. This is simply the funniest, catchiest, and most inventive his pop-about-pop ever got, and it includes much of his truly classic material: “Music for Money” offers a blunt-ended critique of the music biz riding atop a cheekily dumb rock guitar riff, while “I Love the Sound of Breaking Glass” goes more abstract with one of his most inventive productions. “Tonight”– the lone moment of sincerity here– is as romantic and lovely as any ballad he ever recorded. “So it Goes” and “Shake and Pop” are two of his most insidious rockers, and his perverse sense of humor is manifest everywhere, but especially in the ironically tender “Little Hitler,” the outright weird “Marie Provost,” and in the oddball “Nutted by Reality,” which is all the more hilarious because of how perfectly it apes the sound of Paul McCartney. There’s also a ripping, live version of one of his best-loved songs– the punkish, propulsive “Heart of the City.”

Seconds of Pleasure (1980; as part of Rockpile)

Lowe’s greatest band began their career in true rock-and-roll fashion– by giving a giant middle finger to any and all industry and fan expectations. Before the release of their one and only studio album, Seconds of Pleasure, Rockpile has cultivated a massive reputation for their ferociously hard-rocking shows, so the expectation was that their debut record would be a rock and roll behemoth. Instead, Seconds of Pleasure is a pitch-perfect study in contrasts– specifically, between the quick-and-dirty spontaneity of Lowe and the immaculate pop precision of Dave Edmunds, one of the truly great rock partnerships that would give both men some of the best work of their career (and, admittedly, some of the worst, but only because their relationship eventually soured). But the Rockpile album is just perfect– a funny, sentimental, sometimes weird, traditionally-minded but forward-thinking monument to unpretentious, good-times, pre-Beatles rock. And it contains some of Nick Lowe’s very best songs; the sweet and tender “Heart” is here sung by guitarist Billy Bremner in what is the definitive version of the song (Lowe’s solo version is okay), “When I Write the Book” strikes a perfect balance of cleverness and heart, and “Play That Fast Thing (One More Time)” might be his best-ever rock song about rock songs.

The Impossible Bird (1994)

Though something of a transition for Lowe, this remains one of his most consistent and brilliant records– and arguably his most affecting. While many of his New Wave and pub rock peers continued to bang away like they were still kids in a garage band, Lowe instead chose to model what it means to age gracefully, turning to the fertile ground of American country, soul, and R&B music and playing down his goofball humor just a bit– but never sacrificing the warmth, humor, and pop savvy that has always made his music winsome. This one is, perhaps, a little more rooted in rock and roll than the albums that came after it, and a little more serious than the music that came before it: Actually, it has some of his most introspective material, including the quietly devastating, inward-focused “Beast in Me,” which  Johnny Bash covered, and some truly wrenching lost-love songs like “Withered on the Vine” and “Where’s My Everything?” There’s also the bluesy kiss-off “12 Step Program (To Quit You Babe),” a clear sing that the Basher’s wit is still very much in tact, and “I Live on a Battlefield,” a perfect marriage of his newfound sense of introspection and his insidious hookiness.

At My Age (2007)

Lowe’s three most recent albums are very much of a piece– so much so that Lowe re-released them together just last year as a three-disc box set, affectionately dubbed the Brentford Trilogy. All three albums continue the move toward a more graceful and elegant blend of country and R&B that he began on The Impossible Bird, and though all three have their own subtle variations and are very much their own distinct things, I sometimes to have a tough time picking a favorite. Dig My Mood is the most torchy and melancholy of the bunch, and The Convincer is a late-night, fell-good seduction. At My Age, though, seems to me to be the one that best embodies what Lowe has accomplished with this magnificent three album run; it benefits from the warmest and most empathetic performances of the batch, all thanks to a loose and lived-in feel that’s generous with horns and cocktail pianos but never overdoes it. Most importantly, though, are the songs, which are funny and touching and sentimental in all the best ways: This is the album where you get to hear Lowe perform the song he wrote for Solomon Burke (“The Other Side of the Coin”), and it’s also got the irresistible anthem “People Change” and a pair of songs that are hilarious, but spiked with heartbreak– “The Club” and the mildly menacing “I Trained Her to Love Me,” surely two of his very best songs. The album almost feels like a big comeback– save for the fact that this is one artist who has never really needed one.

Twilight Singers: “Dynamite Steps”

Another new Stereo Subversion review up today, this one of the new Twilight Singers album– which is, I must say, strangely addictive, despite being not really My Thing.

Kurt Vile: “Smoke Ring for My Halo”

My review of the wonderfully addicting new Kurt Vile album, Smoke Ring for My Halo, is posted at Stereo Subversion. Lots to like here, but in particular a song called “Jesus Fever”– which gets my vote for the most intoxicating pop song of the year thus far– and another, “Baby’s Arms,” that’s as haunting, mystical, and moving as something from a Jack Rose album. (And those are just the first two songs!)