The New Classics #32: Sea Change, Beck

Title: Sea Change
Artist: Beck
Year: 2002
Label: Geffen

Every decade needs a handful of great breakup albums. It's an old and cruel cliche, but heartache can certainly lead to some spectacular music. In the finest tradition of Blood On The Tracks, Shoot Out The Lights and The Boatman's Call (just to name a few), 2002's Sea Change is certainly the class of breakup music from the 2000s. However, the fact that it came from Beck Hansen, the musical maverick behind the anthemic "Loser" and classic Odelay album is somewhat surprising. Up until 2002, Beck was seen as the hippest of hip artists, with his ironic lyrics, playful sense of musical genres and forward-thinking experimentation with hip-hop. A heavily orchestrated, emotionally devastated album of lonely love songs was the last thing anything expected. Yet, that's just what Sea Change ended up being.

The album's supposed inspiration is quite straightforward. After ending a decade-long relationship with the designer Leigh Limon, Beck wrote most of the songs that would become Sea Change in the week following the split. Like many, many songwriters before him, Beck channeled his pain and emotions into songs. Unlike most of those others, however, the resulting songs are staggering in their simplicity, clarity and raw power. Especially coming from a man who once turned "I'm a loser, baby, so why don't you kill me" into a generation-defining mantra, the solemn beauty of "Guess I'm Doin' Fine" is quite shocking. Working with longtime Radiohead producer Nigel Godrich, Beck turned Sea Change into something far removed from his eclectic back catalog. Reminiscent of Neil Young's Harvest and Nick Drake's Pink Moon, it's an album not afraid to wear its vulnerable heart on its sleeve.

It's easy to hear Sea Change as self-indulgent. On "Lonesome Tears," with its sawing string section and chorus of "how could this love, never turning, never turn its eye on me," Beck certainly isn't subtle or stoic about his anguish. However, the earnestness in his expression, from his hushed voice to the straightforward lyrics, becomes endearing and moving quite quickly. Exploring his latent country sensibilities more than ever before, "The Golden Age" and "End Of The Day" sound like the belong in Nashville, being played by a teary-eyed balladeer from Alabama. Like Neil Young before him, Beck uses the lonely sound of the slide guitar to express emotional pain. Similarly, "Lost Cause" and "It's All In Your Mind" are fantastic tunes in the tradition of acoustic indie rock. That gentle, sighing guitar is at the heart of all of Sea Change's tracks, given just enough support with strings, minimal drums and the occasional touch of piano.

Beck approaches his heartbreak from all angles. "Paper Tiger" sounds distant and removed, while the bleak "Round The Bend" is probably the most raw, with its cavernous echo effects and fatalistic lyric tone, referencing the "bullet from an empty gun" and people "making their daggers sharper." In this sense, Sea Change does fit within the established Beck musical style, skipping about from one thing to another to create a diverse and varied whole. However, the sheer honesty within the album is unprecedented from Beck. Since this album's release, he's gone on to reveal even more facets to his personality, but he's still never recorded something this harrowing or straightforward. Beck has established himself as a great artist, but its fascinating to see what happens when he focuses his powers on the breakup song, that old standby of lovelorn teenage guitarists and populist balladeers. By avoiding the most obvious traps, Sea Change eclipses so many of its breakup album peers, creating a lasting work of honest expression. After so many albums of artistic role-playing, Beck finally revealed his most compelling character: himself.

Next up on The New Classics: Silent Shout, The Knife

The New Classics #33: The Moon & Antarctica, Modest Mouse

Title: The Moon & Antarctica
Artist: Modest Mouse
Year: 2000
Label: Epic

The year was 2004. It was spring. And there was a weird song on the radio. This is how I remember my first introduction to Modest Mouse, as that year's unexpected hit "Float On" drifted through the air. It was a cheerful and optimistic slice of guitar-pop, perfectly suited to the very beginning of the sunny months and vacations. However, like most people at the time, I was completely unaware of Modest Mouse's history. I didn't know that this cute song was the result of a decade-long career, forged by frenetic guitars and acerbic lyrics. I didn't know that beyond the inescapable bison band shirts was an intense, occasionally vicious band from nearby Issaquah, WA. I didn't know anything about The Moon & Antarctica, their third album and already one of the most celebrated releases of the time.

The Moon & Antarctica was actually Modest Mouse's first major label release, but you wouldn't know that by listening to it. Sure, four years later, their sound would be drowned in sugar for "Float On," but The Moon & Antarctica matches its angular, independent-label predecessors blow for blow. For every gentle, plucked tune (see: "3rd Planet"), there's something like "A Different City," with its frantic, distorted guitars and frontman Issac Brock's yelping vocals. The classic Modest Mouse sound can be hard to describe, combining elements of treble-heavy indie rock with country twang and some genuine, psychedelic mindfuckery. The Moon & Antarctica features its fair share of backward guitars, disembodied voices and conflicting overdubs. Songs will change tone without warning, or will give way to strange, half-baked sing-a-longs when they've run their course. Violins pop up on six songs. This is definitely not a stable album.

Brock's lyrics reflect that instability, particularly during the trio of songs at the album's center, "The Cold Part," "Alone Down There" and "The Stars Are Projectors." These songs are fraught with existential dread, asking those big questions about why we're here, where we go when we die and why everything sucks so much. Yet, rather than wallowing in indulgent misery, Brock's phrasing tackles these issues in unexpected and often frighteningly creative ways. "The Cold Part" conjures up a vision of the world as "bone bleached" and "salt soaked," before Brock declares "I've stepped down as the president of Antarctica, can't blame me." This bleak view returns in "The Stars Are Projectors," as Brock's voice, multitracked and layered to the point of psychosis, says "in the last second of life, they'll show you how, how they run this show." Water is a recurring image, especially in relation to blood (from "3rd Planet:" "another has been found, another ocean on the planet, given that our blood is just like the Atlantic"). Humanity in The Moon & Antarctica is weak and fragile, "made of nothing but water and shit," dissatisfied with their lives no matter how good things get.

Amazingly, despite all these desperate and hopeless themes, the album is remarkably beautiful. When the guitars aren't being kicked into schizophrenic overdrive, they're actually quite pretty, such as on the chiming "Dark Center Of The Universe." The funky "Tiny Cities Made Of Ashes" is addictive, while the short "Wild Pack Of Family Dogs" crams more weighted symbolism (and accordion!) into one-and-a-half minutes than anyone thought possible. A song like "Paper Thin Walls" may feature deeply paranoid lyrics, but it still features a compelling guitar hook and hummable melody. Every time The Moon & Antarctica threatens to complete freeze in the darkness, one of these brighter tunes comes along to thaw things out. In these songs, you can finally begin to see the same band that would go on to record "Float On." No one could have predicted that a band this difficult and angular would warp into one of indie-rock's first major crossover artists of the 2000s, yet it still happened. The Moon & Antarctica is a fascinating listen for anyone reeled into Modest Mouse's orbit by their unexpected popularity, but its also a powerful benchmark in the evolution of indie rock. Ambitious, dense and often quite serious, The Moon & Antarctica ranks as some of the finest art-rock on this decade or any other.

Next up on The New Classics: Sea Change, Beck

The New Classics #34: Third, Portishead

Title: Third
Artist: Portishead
Year: 2008
Label: Island

[Note: I apologize for the slight delay in updates this week. Life got in the way of blogging for a few days. Portishead's Third is worth the wait, though. It took ten years to get released, so perhaps the delay was appropriate.]

There are few scarier words to a music fan than "extended hiatus." As soon as a band's members start talking about a need for "time apart," to "work on solo projects" or anything like that, you know your favorite band is toast. "Hiatus" is almost always code for personality conflicts, jostling egos and, more often than not, the inevitable dissolution of the band. If the group does eventually get back together to record new music, the results are virtually always sub-par and disappointing. This is the curse of the "reunion tour," as bands discover that any magic that was there to begin with has been skittered away by time and distance. So, what do we make of the Bristol-based trio Portishead? After releasing their masterful debut, Dummy, in 1994, they only managed a tepid second album before, sure enough, going on hiatus for the next ten years. Written off and all but forgotten by everyone, they defied all the odds in 2008 by returning with Third, a dark, tumultuous record that threatened to usurp Dummy as Portishead's best release.

Fans of Portishead's work from the 1990s were rather shocked when they first heard Third. Instead of the lush, romantic, smokey Dummy, which defined the trip-hop scene, this new album was twisted and sick, dominated by doubt, confusion and dread. The first single, "Machine Gun," is still eye-opening, with its unrelenting, rough electronics and icy reverb. The total effect of "Machine Gun" is similar to being hit in the head with something heavy, over and over again. Beth Gibbons' voice is a far cry from the mystery and swagger of 1990s Portishead, giving way to a piercing, clear wail that sounds lost amid the claustrophobic musical backdrop. The album's centerpiece, "We Carry On," is just as merciless. Cavernous drums and a seasick keyboard line combine to create a hypnotic, uneasy groove, owing much to krautrock bands like Neu! and Kraftwerk. However, rather than creating something mechanical and distant, "We Carry On" is frighteningly pained and human, with Gibbons pleading "the pace of time, I can't survive, it's grinding down the view."

So much of Third simply sounds nauseous. From the eerie electronic squiggles at the beginning of "Nylon Smile" to the woozy tempos of "Plastic," the album never sounds at peace. It writhes and churns, occasionally shifting dramatically in tone and mood, even within the same song. Adrian Utley's guitar work, previously limited to spidery spy themes, is given much more to do on Third, adding both texture and sporadic bursts of violent, jarring noise. Multi-instrumentalist and krautrock fanatic Geoff Barrow crafts rolling waves of drums to accentuate the pervasive keyboards. This uneasy musical backdrop underlines Gibbons' unstable lyrics. The album's opening verse speaks of being "wounded and afraid inside my head," while "Magic Doors" continues to look inward, saying "I have tried to find the words to describe this sense absurd, try to resist my thoughts, but I can't lie." Third's lyrics are absolutely overrun with self-doubt and sadness, perhaps most affectingly during "Nylon Smile," featuring a chorus of "I don't know what I've done to deserve you and I don't know what I'd do without you." There's an undercurrent of relationship tension throughout the album, but reading too much into this element seems dangerous. As Gibbons says on "Machine Gun," "now I realize I'm only for me."

Amid all this torment lies "Deep Water," a short, ukulele-driven tune and the gorgeous "The Rip," the two eyes of the hurricane that is Third. These are the only points during the album that offer any form of calm or comfort. Yet, for all its fragile beauty, "The Rip" is just as mentally ill as the rest, with Gibbons' flat, emotionless statement that "through the glory of life, I will scatter on the floor." The album ends with "Threads," which actually resurrects the shattered guitar of Dummy before blowing everything away with massive, electronic bellowing, which continues to echo over the last minute of the song, long after the rest of the music is silent. For a band that hadn't released an album in eleven years, these blasts of noise still sound like a staggering statement of intent. Portishead returned in the last years of the 2000s, reborn as avant-garde art-rockers, blowing away their past as trip-hop standard bearers. There wasn't anything that sounded remotely like Third when it came out. With its rhythmic complexities, harrowing emotions and powerfully feminine voice, Third has no precedents and no discernible descendants. We'll just have to see what Portishead does next and hope it doesn't take another decade before we find out.

Next up on The New Classics: The Moon & Antarctica, Modest Mouse

The New Classics #35: Boxer, The National

Title: Boxer
Artist: The National
Year: 2007
Label: Beggars Banquet

The 2000s were the decade of indie rock. Everywhere you turned, it seemed "indie" music and culture were starring you in the face. The vast majority of the albums covered during this project were called "indie rock" at one point in time. So, that begs a very important question: just what exactly is "indie rock?" How so many diverse sounds and styles is a mystery that might never be fully answered, but the term has stubbornly haunted a huge percentage of the artists on this list. However, the National are most certainly a true indie-rock band, in all senses of the words. They're signed to one of the most celebrated independent labels in music history (Beggars Banquet) and play intimate, emotional guitar music far removed from the grit and noise of commercial rock and roll. They are representative of so many similar bands that have toiled away, with differing levels of success, over the past ten years. Yet, somehow, this quintet from Ohio (of all places) have vaulted over their peers and become one of the essential indie bands of our era. The main reason behind their rise to power is 2008's Boxer.

The National do have a major leg up on their competition and his name is Matt Berninger. One of the tragically few baritone lead singers in rock bands, Berninger's deep, droning croon gives the band a unique and instantly identifiable sound. It's also perfectly suited to the subject matter of a typical National song, best summed up on Boxer's lead single "Mistaken For Strangers" as the "uninnocent, elegant fall into the unmagnificent lives of adults." Boxer is dominated by two major recurring themes: adulthood and alcohol. "Apartment Story," "Fake Empire" and "Guest Room" are fueled by denial, trying to stave off mature responsibilities and stability, yearning for the days of "being ruffians, going wild and bright." Meanwhile, "Brainy" and "Start A War" deal with volatile and possibly unhealthy relationships, as the songs' narrators realize that what worked with women five years ago is beginning to fail. Throughout, Berninger sings of "standing at the punchbowl, swallowing punch" or putting "a little something in our lemonade," while his slurring, monotonous vocal style underlines the state of drunken despondency his characters have worked themselves into. Boxer isn't about the type of drunkenness where everyone gets kisses and bear hugs. These songs take place in the moments after that, full of confusion, introspection and loneliness.

With themes like that, it's a wonder that every song on Boxer isn't a straight-up dirge. Yet, musically, the National possess that distinct, melancholy elegance touched upon in "Mistaken For Strangers." The band's two guitarists (brothers Aaron and Bryce Dessner) don't really play lead, instead churning up atmospheric sheets of subtle noise or memorable, acoustic arpeggios. The real lead instrument is Bryan Devendorf's cavernous drums, played with far more flourish and complexity than in your average indie rock band. If anything, his drum patterns are the real hooks that get stuck in your head after the songs are over (see: "Squalor Victoria"). Over this traditional guitars-and-drums foundation are strong piano chords, moody string arrangements and even a deceivingly subtle organ. All these non-rock instrumental touches accentuate the minor-key nature of Boxer's songs, giving them a majestic and, indeed, elegant sadness.

The National's ascension from obscure up-and-comers to one of the leading lights into indie rock was signaled a few years earlier, when their 2005 album Alligator quietly shocked critics into rapturous hyperbole. No one really heard Alligator at the time, though, so it was Boxer that built upon that snowballing success and finally become the band's much-deserved crossover into the mainstream. The album's sophisticated brand of urbane misery was immediately picked up by every indie-minded television show, leading to "Fake Empire," "Start A War" and "Racing Like A Pro" cropping up everywhere, from Gossip Girl to Chuck to One Tree Hill. Just last month, the band released High Violet, which debuted at #3 on the Billboard charts. They've officially joined bands like Spoon, Arcade Fire and Modest Mouse as indie rock groups that have tasted real success, instead of languishing away in the land of "critical-acclaim-and-nothing else." However, unlike some of their fellow indie flag-bearers, the National achieved that success with one of their strongest works. Boxer is a beautiful and rich album, without any weak moments or lags. It's a coherent, complete work by a band that has already entered the new decade on a immensely high note, building further upon their success in the past one.

Next up on The New Classics: Third, Portishead

The New Classics #36: Vampire Weekend, Vampire Weekend

Title: Vampire Weekend
Artist: Vampire Weekend
Year: 2008
Label: XL Recordings

Discussing Vampire Weekend within the context of the 2000s is tough, given the speed with which they've burst onto the scene and dominated these past few years. Vampire Weekend isn't the most recent debut album on this list, but it's certainly the most unique, given that its sound doesn't fit neatly into other established musical genres. Now, in case you've been kept in solitary confinement for the past three years, here's the party line on Vampire Weekend: four preppy Columbia University grads decided to mix elements of African pop music with thin, trebly guitar pop, reinvigorating alternative rock in the process and all but drowning in the sheer amount of critical acclaim drooled all over their debut album. That's supposedly the whole story on the band, but digging into this album reveals some more intriguing questions. In the short span since it has been released, Vampire Weekend has begun to reveal itself as a recording that lives up to some of the hype surrounding it, while falling short elsewhere.

A lot has been written about the atmosphere of wealth and entitlement that hangs over everything Vampire Weekend have recorded. Certainly, the band's lyrics, instrumentation and overall presentation does reveal their upstanding, college-educated roots. The references to Cape Cod and the band's penchant for polo shirts help, too. Yet, the songs don't deal with class politics in any meaningful way, rendering much of the hand-wringing about wealth somewhat moot. The high-brow references scattered throughout the lyrics don't feel pretentious, although they can feel quite random at times. This ties into Vampire Weekend's biggest weakness: their desire to be witty. The snarky name-dropping of Lil John ("Oxford Comma") and Peter Gabriel ("Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa") do virtually nothing for these songs beyond evoking a few giggles among the star-struck hipsters. Verses tend too far towards non sequiturs, eventually sounding like a bunch of words the band thought sounded cool rather than a coherent whole. In fact, as infectious as the singles off this album are ("A-Punk" was the ringtone of choice at my college for a while there), they don't really seem to be about anything whatsoever.

Which is where the album's second half comes in. Relatively neglected in the critical ink-slinging upon the album's original release, songs like "I Stand Corrected" and "Bryn" blow the assorted singles out of water from a lyrical perspective. Dealing in real, human emotions instead of winking irony, these later songs utilize the band's minimal, clean sound to create lean, well-crafted nuggets of relatable guitar pop. Producer/multi-instrumentalist Rostam Batmanglij seems to have an innate ability to keep things perfectly restrained, allowing squiggles of keyboard or quick snare hits to add flavor without taking up much space. The scattered cello throughout the album is unexpected and often quite pleasing. Not sure I can say the same about the harpsichord on "M79," but even that doesn't dominate too badly. "One (Blake's Got A New Face)" even works in the fantastic lyrical barb "oh, your collegiate grief has left you dowdy in sweatshirts, absolute horror!" It's this moments that reveal what Vampire Weekend is truly capable of as a band. They just happen to also be the moments that aren't as popular.

Vampire Weekend have proven themselves to be deeply polarizing. The manic flood of acclaim thrown at their debut album elicited an equal (if not greater) backlash, which I myself was part of at one point in time. The band's sophomore album, Contra, released just this January, ended up silencing some of those haters, but not through even more ironic hipster-baiting. Contra has succeeded because it's ratio of honesty-to-snark was much higher than Vampire Weekend's. Of course, there are still plenty of fans out there who want more songs that sarcastically reference crunk hits, but you'll notice that they aren't complaining about Contra either. At the end of the day, it's important to remember that Vampire Weekend are a very young band. They play music appropriate for youth and summer and fun, reflecting their own experience as people who enjoy all three of those things. Vampire Weekend isn't the mature, indie-rock masterpiece critics tried to will it into being once upon a time, but that doesn't mean it's beyond merit.

Next up on The New Classics: Boxer, The National

The New Classics #37: Arular, M.I.A.

Title: Arular
Artist: M.I.A.
Year: 2005
Label: XL Recordings

I already touched upon the serious music vs. dance music dynamic in my post about LCD Soundsystem's first album, but it deserves some revisiting within the context of the London-born Maya Arulpragasam (a.k.a. M.I.A.) and her astonishing debut, Arular. The basic argument against overly danceable music is that it's simply entertainment, pandering to the lowest common denominator: people's desire to shake their asses and just get down. Make no mistake: Arular is addictively danceable. I challenge you to listen to it end to end without at least getting some good, ol' fashioned chair dancing going. But is this also music of substance? Abso-fuckin'-lutely. Arular is simultaneously one of the best party-starting albums of the decade and one of the most politically controversial. Drawing upon her own Sri Lankan revolutionary background and a deeply leftist view of contemporary issues, Arular is as challenging as any protest record.

Musically, there's a bit of virtually everything getting mixed into M.I.A.'s gritty, minimal beats. British hip-hop is balanced out by touches of electro, dancehall and reggae, along with more than a bit of punky ferocity. It's a very international sound, owing little to American music. "Bucky Done Gun" calls out London, New York, Kingston and Brazil, before an infectious horn sample sets everything in motion. For a song ostensibly about paranoia ("they're coming through the window, they're coming through the door"), it certainly sounds like a lot of fun. Yet, M.I.A.'s no-nonsense vocal delivery and pared down beats give the music a certain dangerous edge, particularly on the show-stopping singles "Sunshowers" and "Galang." Urgent, excited and energetic, Arular never lets up. There are no slow songs or ballads for hand-holding and cuddling.

The subject matter and lyrics are what catapult Arular to a whole other level, though. Through M.I.A.'s eyes, we see a world of desperation and violence, inspired and informed by her father, who has been associated with Sri Lankan revolutionary group/terrorists the Tamil Tigers. It's that grey area separating freedom fighters from outlaws that seems to fascinate M.I.A., as she presents an ambiguous-to-downright-sympathetic portrait of individuals that much of world sees as criminals. Themes of violence ("Fire Fire"), captivity ("Amazon") and poverty ("Pull Up The People") pop up all over the album. However, unlike other music that deals with similar issues, M.I.A.'s perspective doesn't paint herself as a pure, saint-like figure. There's an intense streak of sexuality in these songs, which often dovetails with themes of violence. "Hombre" matches an ominous and compelling beat with a narrative about seducing another woman's man. Prostitution is also touched upon in "10 Dollar" and the hidden track "M.I.A." hiding at the end of "Galang." Arular can be very sexy at times, but like everything else on the album, that sexiness is very immediate and dangerous.

The world has seen very little political dance music, which is what makes M.I.A.'s Arular so special. Yet, M.I.A. makes the combination seem so natural it's a wonder that no one beat her to the punch. The two major subjects of her songs (violence and sex) are so perfectly suited to high-energy, beat-driven sounds. If you dance to Arular, it's both a celebration and an escape, a fast, frenetic release of energy in the face of the brutal world M.I.A. describes. Perhaps the most fascinating element to her story, though, is the astonishing success she's currently enjoying. Her follow-up album, Kala, dominated 2007. Her work on the music to Slumdog Millionaire won her an Oscar and, in a month or so, her much-anticipated third album will be released. She's been declared one of the most influential and important individual artists of the 2000s, an honor I'd say she rightly deserves. Although Arular isn't currently her most acclaimed work, it's her most focused and effective. It could very well rise through the ranks to become one of the elite albums of the decade within a few years.

Next up on The New Classics: Vampire Weekend, Vampire Weekend

The New Classics #38: Ys, Joanna Newsom

Title: Ys
Artist: Joanna Newsom
Year: 2006
Label: Drag City

Let's set one thing straight: there isn't any other remotely high-profile musician like Joanna Newsom. People like here aren't supposed to escape their local coffee shop. For starters, the main instrument in her music is the harp. Last I checked, the ranks of highly acclaimed harpists in popular music were pretty damn thin. Then there are her lyrics, full of abstract imagery, extended metaphors and plenty of multisyllabic goodness. Finally, there's "the voice." Mewling and childlike, Newsom's voice isn't one you easily forget. Not unlike Björk, Newsom's voice requires a certain level of dedication and patience before listeners can really acclimate to it. However, she's certainly doing something right. The critics can't get enough of her music and her fans rival Radiohead's when it comes to sheer, starry-eyed zeal and devotion. Of the two albums she released this past decade, 2006's Ys is definitely the favorite, representing this fascinating, singular musician within the canon of new music.

Ys (pronounced "ees" and named after a mythical, sunken city) is quite odd, even by the loose standards of independent music. Although it only contains five tracks, Ys is almost a full hour in length, meaning each song is an expansive, sprawling epic. The songs themselves feature Newsom's harp playing, complemented by strings arranged by Van Dyke Parks, who worked with Brian Wilson on the Beach Boys' failed Smile project. There are no drums, minimal percussion and only a bit of guitar to taste. All things considered, Ys is closer to chamber music than indie rock or even the poorly defined "freak folk" genre it got lazily grouped into. This is grand, intricate music, highlighting the characteristics that differentiate Newsom from virtually all her peers. (One odd piece of trivia: Newsom's harp and vocals were recorded by alterna-icon/card-carrying curmudgeon Steve Albini. You can't exactly tell just by listening.)

So, what are these five songs actually about? Well, that's the million dollar question now, isn't it? After digging through the lyrics and repeatedly listening, I can't say I'm exactly sure. More important than actual meanings is the general mood and atmosphere associated with each song. The opening "Emily," named for Newsom's sister, seems dominated by a sense of distance, with lines like "come on home, the poppies are all grown knee-deep by now" and "the meteoroid is a bone thrown from the void that lies quiet in offering to thee." As long as these songs are, the truly staggering thing is that Newsom's lyrics continue, verse after verse, for these songs' entire running lengths. There are no extended instrumental breaks or intros plumping these songs up. The lyrics are just ridiculously dense and involved. "Monkey & Bear" probably has the clearest narrative, featuring the titular couple and the ensuing betrayal of the coniving monkey. Yet, it can simultaneously be read as an elaborate faerie tale and as a deeper commentary on a relationship between actual people.

Some of the best moments on Ys are poignant and sad. The gentle "Sawdust & Diamonds" concerns (among other things) a dove who "with your pliers and glue" is essentially taxidermied. But when the dove coos "hold me close" and Newsom reveals that the dove is "stuffed now with sawdust and diamonds," it seems like the most tragic thing in the world. The harp, as an instrument, is absurdly well-suited to these soft-yet-weepy moments. The opening to "Cosmia" is my favorite instrumental sequence on the album, evoking feelings of longing even before Newsom brings it back at the song's end, repeatedly singing "I miss your precious heart." It's these very powerful emotions, seeping through the literate lyrics and density, that keep Ys and Newsom's other music from becoming nothing more than weird, art-music curiosities. Despite paying almost no concessions to established conventions of popular music, Joanna Newsom has delivered some of the most touching songs of the decade. A bit of work is required to comprehend them, but, trust me, it's worth it.

Next up on The New Classics: Arular, M.I.A.

The New Classics #39: Vespertine, Björk

Title: Vespertine
Artist: Björk
Year: 2001
Label: One Little Indian

It's a shame that, for many people in this country, Björk is synonymous with swan dresses, angry attacks on hapless journalists and lazy SNL impersonations where every third work is "snarf." Sure, she can be a bit eccentric now and then, but the Icelandic singer has quietly had one of the most critically successful and artistically challenging careers of anyone in music over the past twenty years. Her first five albums have all been massively successful, establishing her as Iceland's most important cultural export and as a beloved international icon. She's dabbled in film, again to great acclaim and has branched out into music production as well. So, it's time to stop giggling about her kooky mannerisms and finally give her actual music a chance. I can't imagine a better starting point for someone interested in Björk's career than 2001's Vespertine.

Compared to her earlier works, Vespertine find Björk eschewing the "filthy troll techno" (her words, not mine) of her 1990s recordings in favor of shimmering keyboards, bells and string sections. This is profoundly pretty music, first and foremost, but also somewhat icy and melodically warped. The single "Pagan Poetry" is a prime example, with its crystalline musical structure and Björk's skewed syntax and emphasis. Similarly, "An Echo, A Stain" has sweeping harps and a full-blown chorus chanting in the background, but the result is still ominous and subtly creepy. It's the kind of music that makes you subconsciously think of Iceland before you even realize it: beautiful, but mysterious and more than a little magical, in possibly frightening ways.

Björk's voice is definitely the make-or-break element of her music for most people, though. Highly emotional, dramatic and affected, it's certainly understandable why some people find it off-putting. However, not unlike the music on Vespertine, Björk's voice takes on a certain unearthly beauty itself over time, as all those weird octave leaps and enunciations began to create their own, strange little logic. Vespertine seems to have less rough edges than any of her previous albums, possibly because the majority of these songs seem to deal with emotional and sexual relationships between a man and a woman. "Hidden Place," "Cocoon," and "Unison" are actually quite blatant, with lyrics like "embrace you tight, let's unite tonight" allowing for some fairly obvious interpretations. Yet, throughout these songs, that eerie voice and odd lyrical sense complicate matters, as themes of innocence and undeniable carnality interweave.

The other songs on Vespertine, such as "It's Not Up To You" and "Undo," convey a sense of going with the flow and accepting life as it happens. Compared to her previous work, which can often be quite forceful and immediate, these songs seem to mark a definite shift in her general outlook. Again, this ties into the themes of love and relationships touched upon elsewhere on the album. Perhaps most telling of all is that in all the music videos made for the album, Björk appears boldly and shamelessly naked (and thus unavailable on YouTube). While artistic statements like these only seem to reinforce perceptions of Björk as a weird and socially deluded artist, they actually make a great deal of sense when put in the context of Vespertine as a complete work. For the first time in her career, Björk stripped back the aggression and opted for a lush, almost romantic sound. Vespertine is a very vulnerable record, but Björk implies that we must let down our defenses for love to enter our lives. Across a dozen tracks, Vespertine tells a tale of a woman's new found acceptance of love and her joy at how it has changed her life. Not too shabby for a girl in a swan dress, I'd say.

Next up on The New Classics: Ys, Joanna Newsom