Fantastic may be the understatement of the year– Wes Anderson’s new film is flat-out stupendous, and in an already-historic year for Hollywood adaptations of childhood classics, ranging from Spike Jonze’s triumph of interpretation in Where the Wild Things Are to the zany inspiration of Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, Anderson’s Fox is the stone-cold champ, a knockout movie and a masterstroke of collaboration.

Yes, collaboration– for this is nothing if not a joint effort with author Roald Dahl, whose spirit is not so much reverently preserved here as it is given room to breathe life into this wonderfully witty and creative movie. It’s also a collaboration between Anderson and a whole cadre of animators; clealy enamored with the stop-motion effects he used in his Life Aquatic, he brings to this one a homespun, kids’ craft project vibe, rendering the story as a masterpiece in corduroy and fur.

But what makes it masterful is that it’s as quintessentially Wes Anderson as any movie he’s made: He makes his love of the story apparent by injecting it with his own wit– which has never been funnier or less cloying– and an aesthetic that’s charmingly rustic, both visually and even sonically, as Anderson recorded his actors all together on a farm, preserving not just the spontaneity but the naturalism of the session. He brings out his own typically Andersonian themes in the film– there are daddy issues, self-esteem issues, grappling with failure– but never feels as though he’s twisting Dahl’s work.

And it is also, by the way, a terrific Thanksgiving movie: At one point Mr. Fox himself expresses gratitude and, as he puts it, “awareness” not just for basic survival, but for the blessings of family and community. It’s a particularly warm moment in an entirely loveable and endlessly enjoyable movie– one that I’m particularly thankful.

My friends at Stereo Subversion asked if I might write a few words about the state of jazz in 2009, and I was more than happy to oblige. You can read my essay on the subject here.

Loudon Wainwright’s High Wide & Handsome is billed as The Charlie Poole Project — not, you will notice, The Charlie Poole Album. And that’s fitting. Weighing in at two discs and containing a thick booklet complete with historical notes and biographical date, even an essay by Americana guru Greil Marcus, the album is something much more than a typical tribute album. But its sheer girth and lavish extras aren’t what set it apart: What truly amazes is that this isn’t just a set that cherry-picks the best or more famous songs associated with Poole, but it actually makes a respectable effort at representing the artist in his full, multi-faceted entirety.

That means something different when we’re talking about Charlie Poole than it would, say, Wainwright himself, or any other singer/songwriter from the past sixty years. Poole’s era was a different one indeed: A string-band minstrel who rose to prominence in the 1920s, Poole was a working musician at a time when being a working musician didn’t mean selling albums or packing stadiums. Instead, it meant traveling from one regional dancehall or honky tonk to the next and giving the people what they want. A musician like Poole may have been gifted at writing songs in a country-blues or folk vein, but if he wanted to eat he had to be all things to all people, which meant making music people could dance to — and making sure everyone in town was going to like what he played.

Read the rest at Stereo Subversion.

Punch-drunk Love is Paul Thomas Anderson’s smallest film– it isn’t an epic, or a mosaic, it is a romantic-comedy, a miniature masterpiece that barely tops an hour and a half. It is also, arguably, his most sophisticated film: It’s a love story, but also a parable for a particularly modern malaise, a film in which love is posited as the answer to loneliness, anger, and disconnectedness.

It’s also unwaveringly weird– the film involves not just a romance, but a mysterious harmonium and an airline scam involving Healthy Choice pudding. There’s Jon Brion’s score, of course– as odd and beguiling as any heard this decade, and as much a character as the ones played by Adam Sandler and Emily Watson– and, yes, there is Sandler himself, in a role that isn’t just dramatic, but dramatically different from any other he’s taken, before or sense, channeling his SNL mania and comedically short fuse into a troubling performance marked by severe alienation and obsession.

But it all has a purpose, and the film isn’t symbolic so much as richly suggestive. My favorite scene is when Sandler’s Barry Egan calls a phone sex operator, not for arousal, but simply as a final, last-ditch effort at establishing human connection. It’s devastatingly sad, profoundly off, and ultimately, oddly affirming. And then there are the several allusions to Robert Altman’s Popeye– clever homage, but also thematically enriching to the story being told.

But as acute as the alienation is felt here, Punch-drunk Love is ultimately an optimistic film. It’s the only romantic comedy I know of that portrays love in very concrete terms, not as purely a matter of feeling but as something that has real power, and real consequences. It’s a a heartbreaking, funny, and ultimately joyful little movie that is blissfully unlike any other that I’ve seen.

#7. Lost in Translation (Coppola, 2003)

One of the most joyful, fully alive and inspiring albums I’ve heard in 2009 was actually recorded, in bits and pieces, over the past several years– in fact, its earliest recording dates back to 1944. The album is Fire in My Bones, an outstanding three-disc, four-hour collection of soul-stirring black gospel music. I reviewed the album for the IMAGE Journal’s Good Letters blog.

I fell in love with this movie right around the same time I fell in love with poetry, a connection that I can’t imagine being a coincidence. Compared to the typical multiplex fare, this is a different kind of movie altogether, and it must be watched in a different way altogether if you want to see it for what it is. It was also a gateway film for me, and since seeing it, the way I watch movies has never been the same.

I know a lot of people who love this film, for a variety of reasons: It’s a Valentine to friendship, to meaningful human connection; to the city of Tokyo; to the beauty of color and light, and to the singular way in which a skilled filmmaker like Sofia Coppola can capture it. And I know those who hate it, because it is slow, or because, supposedly, “nothing happens.”

But there is plenty that happens; it just happens at a different speed than what many moviegoers are used to. I love that Coppola begins this movie with a series of seemingly-random images,an aesthetic trick she returns to several times, as if to alert us to the fact that this is a film we must see in a different way, a story that is told as much through the poetry of images and light, of small gestures and what is never said aloud. It requires us to adjust our eyes, our minds, and our expectations.

And what we find when we do that is a story of rich meaning and deep feeling. This is far from a cold or emotionally distant film; it is a hot-blooded, utterly available film about feelings of loss and lack of connection, about human intimacy and compassion, about little gestures of grace that have lasting, resounding impact. The story is written across Bill Murray’s face, and his remains one of my very favorite performances of the decade– though it is a symbiotic one that wouldn’t have worked were it not for the fine, richly layered work by Scarlett Johansson.

What it isn’t is a film about how to have a healthy marriage. The characters do not always make wise decisions. But it isn’t meant to be a moral treatise. It’s a film that simply observes, and invites us to look on with it, to see things for what they are and to make our own judgments about them.

Let it also be said that, whether one loves or hates this movie, few will call into question how flawlessly and evocatively it captures the sensation of jet lag and disorientation– a sign that this is nothing if not an accomplished film from a consummate filmmaker, one in which sophistication and artistry contain within them something deeply and wonderfully human.

#6. Punch-drunk Love (Anderson, 2002)
#8. Gosford Park (Altman, 2002)

I’m not going to give 2008 the full play-by-play treatment I’ve been giving the other years of the aughties, simply because, well, it’s still pretty recent– and besides that, my list of fifteen favorites is still available here. I do want to make just a few comments, though, and shine the light on a few terrific recordings that are still very much deserving of praise.

But first, a confession. I have “officially” had two favorite albums of 2008: First, TV on the Radio’s Dear Science, and then, when I heard it in early 2009, Erykah Badu’s New Amerykah part 1: Fourth World War. And both are, to be sure, tremendous recordings, fully deserving of landmark status; indeed, both albums are quintessential snapshots of 2008, albums that perfectly summarize the spirit of the age in which they were made, either with uncommon hope (TVotR) or unfettered indignation (Badu). But I will admit now that, when it comes to the album I actually listened to the most and derived the most joy from in 2008– and on into 2009– the honor for my personal most cherished recording is Barry Adamson’s wonderfully soulful and deliciously seedy soundtrack-in-search-of-a-film, Back to the Cat.

That out of the way, I offer a few more reasons why 2008 was a year to remember:

• Two of the decade’s most accomplished and sophisticated singer/songwriters albums, by a pair of women who only seem to get better and better: Jenny Lewis‘ laid-back, classicist but idiosyncratic country-rock album Acid Tongue and Jolie Holland’s knotty jazz-and-rock knockout, The Living and the Dead.
• The decade’s most convincing claim to the “New Dylan” tag, The Tallest Man on Earth’s Shallow Grave.
• A dynamite continuation of Nick Cave’s latter-day winning streak, the frantically funny Dig, Lazarus! Dig!
• One of my favorite instrumental jazz albums of the decade, and perhaps my very favorite that’s made up of all-original songs– Brian Blade and the Fellowship Band’s Season of Changes.
• An album that didn’t make my original Top 15 list but probably should’ve: Sam Phillips’s electric and eclectic set Don’t Do Anything.
• An absolutely essential collection from Steinski, and a historic collection of Bob Dylan outtakes.
• And, the decade’s most pleasant surprise: A Coldplay album that was actually deserving of the hype.

That was 2008 for me; what were your landmark recordings?

See also: 2000; 2001; 2002; 2003; 2004; 2005; 2006; and 2007.

My review of the terrific new rock and roll movie Pirate Radio is posted at Christianity Today.

Most instrumental guitar music tends to be about the guitar first, the music second; the demographic is like-minded practitioners, technicians who can readily appreciate the technical finesse and dexterous complexity on display, but not necessarily for the lay person who simply wants a melody, a beat, or a groove. Not so with Rodrigo y Gabriela; though there’s technical finesse aplenty here, and it takes multiple listens to unravel the many layers of what’s going on in the arrangements, this isn’t your typical guitar record. Your first clue: The presence of producer Colin Richardson, whose credits include Slipknot and Trivium. And your second: The eleven songs here are each dedicated to a particular musician who has influenced the duo, and not all of them are flamenco musicians– in fact, not all of them are even guitarists.

What the duo have concocted here is– and there’s no other way to put this– hardcore flamenco rock. How else do you explain the heavy metal dynamics, the proggy sense of scope, the presence of a wah-wah pedal on an acoustic guitar (!!!), and the mad, lickety-split momentum of the whole thing, which ranges wildly in mood and style but rarely drops its blazing tempo? What Rodrigo y Gabriela have created here is not another indulgent album of guitar noodling, but a vibrant, lively record that dazzles not just for its technical sophistication– which is, believe me, monumentally impressive– but its heart, its energy, and it’s bright colors. It’s never dull, it’s generally danceable, and it’s thrilling from top to bottom– an acoustic guitar album for everyone, from a couple of dynamite, real-life guitar heroes.

What, exactly, are we supposed to expect from a supergroup– especially one that includes not just one but two genuinely iconic rockstars in John Paul Jones and Dave Grohl, as well as an equally twisted genius in Josh Homme? I ask the question at the outset because I think it is bound to color the way we look at Them Crooked Vultures, but also because I think it’s a question we tend to answer incorrectly; whenever there’s a meeting of the minds on this level, it seems out first inclination is that the musicians in question should be using their collective talents for something grand, or at least something unique. Historically, though, most supergroups tend to feel more like busman’s holidays– a chance for the musicians to cut loose and simply enjoy playing in each others’ company, even if the result is something decidedly similar to what they do in their day jobs.

Of course, things are a mite trickier with Them Crooked Vultures. This is a case of history turning in on itself: Not only do we have a member of Led Zeppelin, but also two musicians who have been as active as anyone else in keeping the Zeppelin spirit alive, particularly in their collaborative Queens of the Stone Age album, Songs for the Deaf. So that Them Crooked Vultures should sound an awful lot like Zeppelin is no surprise– but does it really sound like Zeppelin, or like Zeppelin as channeled through QOTSA? One could call this album one big Zeppelin tribute, or one could call it a decidedly Josh Homme-centered album, and in either case it would be mostly, but not entirely, correct. This is a record on which it’s hard to tell the line between history and homage, the sound of three like-minded musicians making the kind of record that makes sense to them and ending up with a sort of funhouse of influence and inspiration, where any given riff or idea could have quite reasonably come from any of the three of them.

That’s what makes Them Crooked Vultures a fascinating project on a purely intellectual level; what makes it work on the level of music is that it’s simply a smashingly good, thundering rock and roll record, vulgar and unadorned in all the right ways and packing just the right kind of firepower, but also running deep with its weird detours and quirky little flourishes. It’s an absolutely killer rock record that doesn’t skimp in terms of monster riffs and pummeling drums, but it also has personality; and if it’s the exact kind of record that one would expect from this particular ensemble, it’s also a record that no other group of musicians could have executed quite so brilliantly.

The undeniable centerpiece is “Elephants,” a stomping epic that suggests the behemoth spirit of Led Zeppelin with its very title even as it compresses an entire Zepplin album’s worth of riffs into its twisting, serpentine structure. But listen closer and you’ll hear what makes it more than an knockoff: The lyrics, almost surely written by Homme, are devoid of any of Robert Plant’s fascination with myth and the occult, instead preferring scumbag love lyrics and self-deprecation, non-sequiters instead of literary allusions; meanwhile, the guitar sound is swampy, scrappy, a dead giveaway that this is a Homme production. But the important thing, the thing that lingers long after these technical distinctions, is simply that the song kicks ass.

Similarly, the rest of the album finds the trio bending their individual obsessions and shared ideals at will, cramming a lot of ideas into what is ultimately a very simple-sounding rock and roll record; its sheer momentum and gleeful energy make it feel streamlined even as the band takes weird detours into psychedelic jams and carnival-esque instrumental passages, playing it fast and loose in one song and bending time and structure with labyrinthine riffage in the next. What makes the album addictive is that the band treats all of this like business-as-usual rock and roll, whether they’re playing hard-hitting and straight-to-the-point rockers or cramming riff after riff into a proggy epic, treating little wrinkles like Grohl’s harmony vocal in “Mind Eraser, No Chaser” or the weirder, druggier moments simply as part of the gig.

And so Them Crooked Vultures ends up pulling off a neat little trick: It’s exactly the kind of album you’d think these guys would make, yet it manages to be powerful and even unpredictable just the same. There’s simply too much twisted rock and roll genius here for the album not to revel in weirdness from time to time, and yet, it is, most assuredly, a busman’s holiday, and no matter how out-there the songs get, the immediate joy here is simply hearing these guys play together, banging around and stirring up a helluva ruckus. It’s a mighty racket, and that’s what elevates the music from merely interesting to utterly thrilling.