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

The New Classics #40: Boy In Da Corner, Dizzee Rascal

Title: Boy In Da Corner
Artist: Dizzee Rascal
Year: 2003
Label: XL Recordings

If the 1990s were the decade where rap established itself as a dominant force in music, the 2000s were the decade where it began to expand and test its own boundaries. American rap saw dozens of innovators push the envelope with both production and lyrics, but the biggest expansion of the genre seems to have come internationally. Hip-hop from South America, the U.K., Germany, Australia and even South Africa has broadened rap's possibilities, with each country's own traditions and culture putting a new stamp on beats and rhymes. One of the decade's earliest and best examples of this was Dizzee Rascal's Boy In Da Corner, an exemplary release that dramatically rewrote the rules of hip-hop. Recorded when Dizzee was only eighteen, Boy In Da Corner's blend of stark music and lyrical creativity have established it as one of the earliest and most important albums of international hip-hop.

Listening to the music and beats on Boy In Da Corner is still an exhilarating experience. Rather than using the standard James Brown funk breaks or clipped R&B samples of his American contemporaries, Dizzee's songs are built out of staccato keyboard jabs, precise drum machine hits and terse samples of plucked strings. The result is a deeply un-funky, stabby sound, far removed from the sexiness of American hip-hop. Cold, mechanical and often unrelentingly fast, the clockwork beats on songs like "I Luv U" are jarring. Dizzee himself delivers his lyrics with machine-gun speed, spitting the words out in his thick, occasionally unintelligible East London accent. These are songs that get in your face. At that album's most intense, such as the single "Jus' A Rascal" or "Stop Dat," this barrage of words and rhythms is overpowering.

Boy In Da Corner doesn't even pretend to pander to American audiences, as its crammed full of East London slang and references that fly over the heads of many listeners. About half the album's songs deal with Dizzee's own ego, attacking enemies with an unyielding wall of braggadocio and threats. However, rather than coming across as arrogant and irritating, Dizzee's wordplay and sheer, youthful dedication to what he's saying allow him to create a powerful, charismatic personality for himself. Lyrical gems like "it's possible you'll get hit with a chair" and "I'll make you care intensively" from "Hold Ya Mouf" give the songs a fun sense of humor amid the danger and violence. Despite all the thuggish elements of daily life Dizzee raps about, he's clearly a very intelligent guy, slinging elaborate metaphors and rhyme schemes at high speeds.

Yet, it's the other songs, when Dizzee slows down a moment and observes the world around him, where Boy In Da Corner really earns its place. The paranoid opener "Sittin' Here" is spectacular, with Dizzee reflecting on how bleak things have become compared to his childhood. The same themes haunt "Brand New Day," featuring the observation "looks like I'm losing mates, there's a lot of hostility near my gates, we used to fight kids from other estates, now eight millimeters settle debates." At only eighteen, Dizzee Rascal already sounds grizzled and nostalgic. He's smart enough to see through the life of violence and "pregnant girls who think they love useless mans with no plans," leading to dire warning songs like "Jezebel." The wistful closer "Do It" ends the album with Dizzee wishing he could "sleep forever" to escape the intense, frightening life he documents throughout Boy In Da Corner. Powerful and emotional, it's a highly effective way to end an album. Despite all the struggles he talks about, Boy In Da Corner definately sounds like Dizzee's ticket out of that suffering. Sure enough, it catapulted him first to massive critical acclaim (winning the U.K. Mercury Prize) and, finally, mainstream success in the U.K. Although these recent hits came at the expense of the detailed lyricism and musical innovation that first made him famous, Boy In Da Corner is still as awe-inspiring as it was in 2003. You can call him a sell-out if you want, but after living the bleak life he discusses on his debut, I say he deserves to just enjoy himself a bit.

Next up on The New Classics: Vespertine, Björk

The New Classics #41: You Forgot It In People, Broken Social Scene

Title: You Forgot It In People
Artist: Broken Social Scene
Year: 2002
Label: Paper Bag/Arts & Crafts

Here's something you may have never realized: Canadian music in the 1990s sucked. Now, before I get beaten to death with hockey sticks, let's just look at some numbers here, eh? Out of the one hundred most acclaimed albums of that decade, only two were made by Canadian artists: Alanis Morissette's Jagged Little Pill and Neil Young's Ragged Glory. Not that there's anything wrong with those two albums, but that's it? An ubiquitous coffee-shop, singer-songwriter record and one last gasp from a guy who's been in this game since the damn 1960s? The fact that all those holier-than-thou critics, who listen to music that hasn't even been recorded yet, chose only those two albums is quite telling. Sure, the 1990s had a few weird groups like Barenaked Ladies or country phenomenons like Shania Twain, but critics never jumped on either those bandwagons. It seems the 1990s really were a musical drought for the Great White North.

Good thing Canada wasted no time laying ownership to the 2000s. The first sign was 2000's Mass Romantic, a winsome power-pop album by the New Pornographers, a songwriting collective from Vancouver. Friendly and warm, it was far removed from 1990s moping and misery. Two years later, though, Broken Social Scene broke through in a massive way with You Forgot It In People, another charming, inclusive record, but one that aimed for the stars with its expansive hugeness. On standouts like "KC Accidental" and "Almost Crimes," you can hear the power Broken Social Scene can harness when the really get into gear. Tumbling drums, overlapping voices and a veritable army of guitarists create churning, dense songs, rewarding those who listen closely and repeatedly.

Yet, You Forgot It In People is at its strongest when it pares things back a bit and lets these gentle songs breathe and grow slowly. The memorable "Anthems For A Seventeen-Year-Old Girl" is a definite highlight, especially when its mantra of "park that car, drop that phone, sleep on the floor, dream about me" starts repeating over and over again. "Lover's Spit" has substantially more grandeur, but the same sense of restraint gives it a special peace and calm, especially with its chorus of "isn't it time we grew old and did some shit?" If the album has a weakness, it lies in the lyrics, which are often frustratingly vague or unformed ("Cause = Time" is about religion and molestation...maybe?), but Kevin Drew's slurred delivery reduces most of the words to just another enjoyable element weaving its way through the mix.

Above all, You Forgot It In People reflects the immense community that created it. Not unlike the New Pornographers before them and bands like Arcade Fire after them, Broken Social Scene create music that sounds spontaneous and huge as a result of incorporating many different musicians into the band. In the case of Broken Social Scene, though, that number was in the dozens. You Forgot It In People introduced its audience to future indie hitmaker Leslie Feist, along with Metric frontwoman Emily Haines, Evan Cranley from the Toronto band Stars and scores of other Canadian musicians. All these different voices and influences create a scattered, diverse album, but the whole thing still manages to magically gel into a cohesive work, with its own recognizable style and internal logic. Of course, a few years later, Arcade Fire would use this same expansive, majestic sound to conquer the world, but that's a story for later. You Forgot It In People is an early musical high point from the 2000s, showcasing a busy, yet ultimately relaxing sound that would go on to influence all kinds of music down the line.

Next up on The New Classics: Boy In Da Corner, Dizzee Rascal

The New Classics #42: Person Pitch, Panda Bear

Title: Person Pitch
Artist: Panda Bear
Year: 2007
Label: Paw Tracks

I was slow to jump on the Animal Collective wagon. Despite being exposed to their music from 2004 onward, they never really did anything for me. First off, they were saddled with that whole "freak folk" genre title for a while, which, in hindsight, they never even remotely deserved. Then there were the whimsical album covers, featuring squashed berries and cartoon animals and so on. Most importantly, though, the music never grabbed me. Squishy, squelchy and often formless, I found Animal Collective's mid-decade albums to be only so much forgettable, inoffensive noise. I'd like to say that Person Pitch, the second solo album released by AC member Noah Lennox (under the name Panda Bear) was the album that changed that. But that's not true in the slightest. My bored distaste for the band prevented me from ever giving it a true chance back in 2007. I saw two songs with running times approaching thirteen minutes and I balked. Yet, in hindsight, I've realized what a colossal mistake that was. Two years later, Animal Collective would release Merriweather Post Pavilion and leave most of the world picking their jaws off the floor, myself included. Looking back, it's clear that Person Pitch laid the groundwork for most of what made Pavilion so successful. It should have been my initiation into the world of Animal Collective, but my own stubbornness prevented that from happening. So, it's time to go back and recognize this accomplished and overwhelmingly uplifting masterwork.

Trying to describe the music on Person Pitch always brings me back to the same word: soup. I realize that good music isn't often described as "soupy," but there's really no better term to describe the rolling, dense, yet endlessly flowing music landscape Lennox created. Primarily recorded using samplers, the album's seven songs string together bits and chunks from other records into looping rhythms and soaring grooves, interrupted by sound effects and other unidentifiable noises. Rather than the stark, crisp sound of samples found in most hip-hop, however, Person Pitch's tracks are organic. They slosh around, rarely leaving midtempo, building upwards as more looped bits and bobs are layered into the mix. So yeah, soup. This music rolls around, revealing various delicious odds and ends now and then that you have to fish out with your ears and devour. Or something like that.

The real appeal of Person Pitch, though, is the mood. Lennox cited some recent changes in his life as the inspiration behind the album, including getting married, having a child and moving to Portugal. The resulting atmosphere, then, is a happy one, balanced by a healthy dose of maturity and responsibility. The opening track, "Comfy In Nautica," revolves around the optimistic advice of trying "to remember always just to have a good time." Likewise, the end of "Take Pills" concludes that "I don't want for us to take pills, because we're stronger and we don't need them." The album's most celebrated track, "Bro's," has the best lyrics of all, as Lennox speaks to an unspecified partner (possibly his wife or Animal Collective bandmates) that "I'm not trying to forget you, I just like to be alone." As songs about honest communication go, it's hard to beat, as Lennox carefully explains to those who want him around that occasionally we all just need a bit of alone time.

Animal Collective have always enjoyed rapturous critical notices from the hipster set, but Person Pitch was positively engulfed in praise upon it's release. Sunny and almost unfashionably optimistic, it still managed to be a progressive, experimental record, featuring a grand-yet-ethereal sound far removed from anything in indie rock beyond Animal Collective themselves. In year end album best-of lists, it regularly eclipsed Strawberry Jam, the proper Animal Collective album released the same year. Of course, as I explained, I missed that boat entirely. It wasn't until Merriweather Post Pavilion and Lennox's touching song "My Girls" that I went back and realized that Person Pitch was the genesis for all these lovely songs about family and dedication. This really is a wonderful and engaging album, managing to be quite upbeat while still retaining enough weirdness and edge to keep things interesting, evoking the Beach Boys at Brian Wilson's most eccentric and ambitious. For me, it took a long time to recognize all that. Hopefully, Person Pitch's charms will be more readily apparent to the rest of you.

Next up on The New Classics: You Forgot It In People, Broken Social Scene

The New Classics #43: Madvillainy, Madvillain

Title: Madvillainy
Artist: Madvillain
Year: 2004
Label: Stones Throw

No matter how hard we all try to deny these things, it looks like the era of the classic hip-hop long-player is all but dead. As the 2000s went on, this became increasingly clear, as mainstream hip-hop drifted away from coherent end-to-end albums. The Illmatic's and Return Of The Wu-Tang's of the 1990s have few comparable works from the past decade. Yet, hiding amidst much of this rap wreckage, left-of-center rap flourished, providing some of the most satisfying and often surprising albums of the day. Most iconic of these underdog classics is Madvillainy, the first and, to date, only album by Madvillain, a collaboration between MF DOOM and Madlib. Both veterans of the alternative/indie rap scene, these two accomplished artists joined forces to create an album totally at odds with the prevailing trends in hip-hop and rap, yet still fun and innovative in ways that continue to endure.

The first thing you notice about Madvillainy is the song lengths. Ten of the twenty-two tracks are under two minutes, while only four exceed three minutes. Madvillain tracks feel like commercials, cramming entire concepts and messages into compact little nuggets, ready for easy consumption. These aren't the goofy skits you find on many rap albums; these are fully realized songs, boiled down to their most basic elements. "Accordion" fits a crisp beat, a woozy accordion sample and DOOM's barbed takedown verse into just one minute and fifty-three seconds. Madlib's jazzy samples and snippets of dialogue stolen from ads and cartoons are unique and complex, yet never overstay their welcome. The music and beats can't become repetitive, simply because they don't have time. Once you factor in DOOM's ability to create vivid scenes with a bare minimum of lyrics, you realize what a lean, efficient album you're dealing with.

Yet, for all this control and restraint, Madvillainy is comically casual, resembling a hazy night spent getting high with buddies, while the TV rambles endlessly in the background. Madlib's retro samples and DOOM's drawling, associative lyrical style don't sound like the results of clear minds. In case the listener has any doubts, one of the album's longest tracks is "America's Most Blunted," a loving ode to the stoned lifestyle, punctuated by the sounds of bong hits and coughing. The album is also united by a vague concept of "the mad villains," a cartoon duo of supervillains who diabolically threatened society. This self-mythologizing is nothing new to DOOM, who performs wearing a metal Dr. Doom mask (just check out that album cover). However, rather than feeling like the product of bloated egos (Kanye, I'm looking at you), DOOM and Madlib just sound like fun guys, casting themselves as lovable antiheroes who just like to smoke up and make wacky, cloudy music.

Upon its release, virtually everybody loved Madvillainy. Its universal acclaim actually bordered on frightening, with even The New Yorker getting in on the action. Who knew that a fuzzy album of stoned rap vignettes, punctuated by vinyl crackle and superhero dialogue would be the thing that would unite music critics the world over? As the years have gone by, it seems to have been overshadowed by other classics, resulting in its impressive but not eye-popping place down here at #43. Yet, it wouldn't have the same charm without some of that underdog swagger to it. Rather than being overly earnest or just plain pretentious, like much of indie rap can be, Madvillainy is friendly, warm and inclusive, rewarding those who just put it on and let the calm silliness fly by.

Next up on The New Classics: Person Pitch, Panda Bear

The New Classics #44/#51: Fever To Tell, Yeah Yeah Yeahs

Title: Fever To Tell
Artist: Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Year: 2003
Label: Interscope

[Note: On Acclaimedmusic.com's list, the 44th most acclaimed album of the decade is Sigur Rós' Ágætis Byrjun. That's all fine and wonderful, but that album was actually originally released in Iceland in 1999 before making its way to the U.K. and United States the following year. As such, most critics have grouped it in with the albums of the 2000s, but for this project, I find it ineligible. So, instead, I'm covering Fever To Tell, the 51st most acclaimed album on the list. It's a dandy, too!]

Is punk dead? That's certainly a subject you hear a lot about these days. Some say it died in the 1990s, when Nirvana and Green Day brought it kicking, screaming and pogo-ing into the mainstream. Some say it never made it out of the 1970s (I tend to lean in this direction). Yet others say that it remains alive and well, albeit in a radically different form than the Sex Pistols ever imagined (assuming they imagined these things at all...which they probably didn't). It all depends on how you define "punk." Is it the music of rebellion? Is it an attitude? A certain energy? It a particular political persuasion? All these definitions have been argued over the years, but it all seems to boil back down to that certain reckless spirit, that urge to spit in the face of authority and run around like crazy. I'm not sure I'm ready to call Yeah Yeah Yeahs' Fever To Tell a great punk album, but one thing is for certain: you're going to be hard pressed to find an album with more reckless spirit than this fiery masterpiece.

Appreciating Yeah Yeah Yeahs' music has to start with Karen O. Spastic, seductive and sensitive, she's one of the most charismatic women in alternative rock history. When Fever To Tell was first released, she was an absolute revolution, bubbling over with personality and unstoppable sexiness. The fact that half of the album seems to consist of her orgasmic shrieks and moans certainly helped matters as well. Karen O certain knows how to abuse vocal ticks like nobody else, but she's also a very powerful and versatile singer, leaping from soulful crooning to throat-shredding exultation at a moment's notice. On songs like "Date With The Night," "Rich" and "Tick," she brought back rock's unpredictability. As music increasingly sounds like a product polished and shined for mass consumption, Karen O still seems authentically volatile.

Her instrumentalist bandmates more than carry their own. On Fever To Tell, Nick Zinner stacked his claim as a certified guitar hero of hipster-dom, with his zooming slides and aggressive, gritty riffs. Combined with his distinctive hairstyle and penchant for Polaroid photography, he was destined to become a cult icon from the word go. Drummer Brian Chase has always been the band's secret weapon, as his shuffling rhythms imbue Yeah Yeah Yeahs' songs with surprising funkiness. He's far from a traditional, pounding rock drummer, but his style suits the band, supplying both power and subtlety as needed. Best heard on singles "Y Control" and "Pin," the band's ability to consistently craft a tight, compelling groove is staggering.

Fever To Tell starts with an unstoppable run of high-octane, punky songs, almost all of which seem to be about sex in one way or another. Yet, around the midpoint of the album, the band downshifts toward more midtempo material, revealing the other side of the band. Culminating in the indie rock power ballad "Maps," Yeah Yeah Yeahs revealed themselves to be an extraordinary pop band, crafting evocative songs about longing, romance and emotional pain. Its this side of their that the band would embrace fully for their next two releases, resulting in more critical acclaim and moderate chart success, although they've never had a hit to rival the exquisite "Maps." However, by jettisoning that earlier, punkier sound, Yeah Yeah Yeahs have lost a frightening amount of what made them initially special. Fever To Tell remains one of the most thrilling albums of the decade because of its balance of belligerent chaos and careful, restrained songcraft.

Next up on The New Classics: Madvillainy, Madvillain

The New Classics #45: Speakerboxxx/The Love Below, Outkast

Title: Speakerboxxx/The Love Below
Artist: Outkast
Year: 2003
Label: Arista

Pioneering artists often aren't recognized for the greatest works. Sgt. Pepper's made the Beatles the biggest band in the history of bands, but I think most listeners today can point to a decent of handful of the Fab Four's records that they enjoy more than the bloated studio pomp of that 1967 landmark album. For the Atlanta-based rap duo Outkast, their Grammy-award winning, chart-topping, world-conquering double album, Speakerboxxx/The Love Below, may well be their Sgt. Pepper's. Released following the genuinely visionary works Aquemini (1998) and Stankonia (2000), this double album arrived on a wave of critical acclaim and surging popularity. The ambitious concept of two full-length CDs, each a solo project for Outkast members Big Boi and Andre 3000, was one of the boldest pop experiments in recent memory. The awards came flying from every direction, with their victory at the Grammys being a crowning achievement for not just Outkast, but also rap in general and fans of truly left-field music. Outkast had done the impossible and brought the alternative firmly within the fold of the mainstream.

However, lost in all the hubbub and awards and alien costumes was the actual music on the actual records. Looking back at the two albums, it's undeniable that much of the music has not aged well. The biggest culprit is the first album, Speakerboxxx, featuring Big Boi's semi-traditional take on southern hip hop. "GhettoMusick," released as a single from this disc, sounds like a weak imitation of Outkast's previous hit "B.O.B.," with its frenetic synth jabs and unpredictable structure. Big Boi had always represented the harder, thuggier side of Outkast's music and Speakerboxxx is the disc more likely to appeal to classic hip hop fans. But aside from the irresistible single "The Way You Move," the songs on the album are generally forgettable. Big Boi's delivery verges on goofy more often than not and even prominent guest appearances from Jay-Z, Ludacris and Cee-Lo can't breath much life into these tracks. Critics generally ignored Speakerboxxx upon the double album's initial release and it no surprise why. While it's a serviceable slice of semi-retro hip hop, Speakerboxxx is eclipsed creatively by The Love Below.

Not that The Love Below is perfect, but it certainly takes a hell of a lot of chances. After building a cult of personality around himself as Outkast's maverick artistic spirit, Andre 3000 delivered a sprawling collection of songs and sketches that can rarely be defined as hip hop. Tapping into the spirit of Prince and other genre-bending pioneers, Andre plays fast and loose with musical styles, jumping from the jazzy "Love Hater" to the stomping funk of "Happy Valentine's Day" with ease. The groovy "Roses" isn't actually that far removed from Steely Dan, for crying out loud. Throughout is a fun, playful, cartoon version of the standard rap persona, with tracks like "Spread" all but mocking the "bootylicious" songs you'd find on the radio. Mind you, much of The Love Below is still about sex and love, but it's presented in a gentle, comically romantic way, celebrating monogamy and the search for "the one."

Of course, The Love Below also features "Hey Ya!," an era-defining song if there ever was one. Catchy as all hell and blessed with an unforgettable video, "Hey Ya!" was a major cultural touchstone from the moment it was released. As a pop song, it's quite bizarre, with an unusual time signature and undefinable genre, but these were things we expected from Outkast. With "Hey Ya!" leading the way, Speakerboxxx/The Love Below finally awakened the rest of the world to the magical genius of the group. Sadly, however, it captured the duo at a moment of creative flux that has yet to be truly resolved. Since it's release, Outkast have only released 2006's underwhelming Idlewild and rumors of a permanent split are always swirling. While these two albums served as an impressive breakthrough for Big Boi and Andre 3000, splitting their two personalities onto seperate albums ultimately weakened both sets of songs. Speakerboxxx lacks spark and imagination, while The Love Below needs some serious grounding. However, their collective ambition and pioneering spirit should not be ignored. Outkast deserve whole chapters in the musical history of the 2000s, but they earned that place with other albums than this inspiring-but-messy double CD.

Next up on The New Classics: Fever To Tell, Yeah Yeah Yeahs

The New Classics #46: Return To Cookie Mountain, TV On The Radio

Title: Return To Cookie Mountain
Artist: TV On The Radio
Year: 2006
Label: Interscope

From the beginning, TV On The Radio stood out from other contemporary bands. Amidst the overwhelmingly Caucasian world of indie rock, the presence of two black men within TVotR's core trio gave them a distinctive identity. Racial politics aside, however, it was their music that first brought them acclaim. Best heard on 2003's Young Liars EP, early TVotR combined soulful, R&B-flavored crooning with the nervous, noisy energy of post-punk. This fascinating blend of styles led to a storm of hype surrounding the band, which their 2004 debut, Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes, never truly lived up to. That early promise had simmered down to occasional nuggets of thrilling rock, surrounded by endless, shapeless jamming. Two years later, however, after recruiting a full-time rhythm section, the band released Return To Cookie Mountain and finally gave the world the masterpiece that we had been promised.

Make no mistake about it: Return To Cookie Mountain is big. The musical arrangements are lush and nuanced, full of rolling percussion, cascading guitar arpeggios and the occasional wall of static-y noise. The lyrics also aim for the stars, as singers Tunde Adebimpe and Kyp Malone tackle the world's biggest issues: love, war, power, corruption and redemption. Opening with "I Was A Lover," which alludes to a past "before this war" and closing with the swirl of "Wash The Day," full of references to "greenhouses," "landfills" and the "dying woods of Brazil," Cookie Mountain is framed by world conflict. Hailing from Brooklyn, it's tempting (and certainly justifiable) to read a distinctive, post-9/11 flavor into TVotR's lyrics and music.

Yet between those epic bookends lies an album full of love songs. Mind you, love within the context of Cookie Mountain is a dangerous, violent thing. The album's standout track and lead single, "Wolf Like Me," compares attraction to a supernatural, werewolf-esque transformation, begging a potential lover to "lay hands on me." This religious phrasing is echoed in other songs throughout the album, especially "Blues From Down Here," where the song's narrator pleads to a higher force in the face of his struggles, only to hear the response "just stay on your knees." Yet, even at their most grandiose, the songs on Cookie Mountain keep things relatable and personal. The album seems to place a premium on love in the face of a hard world. As the chorus of "Province" states, "love is the province of the brave."

Powerfully delivered by Malone's soaring falsetto or Adebimpe's gospel-tinged howl, these sweeping themes are given all the emotional heft the require. Backed by guitarist/producer Dave Sitek's grinding guitar, the music on Cookie Mountain is strong and visceral, a far cry from the gentle acoustic guitars and crisp snare hits usually associated with indie rock. Few groups can claim to draw equally upon Marvin Gaye and Joy Division, yet TV On The Radio combined them elegantly on this album. Bringing both grandeur and some occasionally overt sexuality into a genre often devoid of both, Return To Cookie Mountain is an unconventional, but undeniable important milestone in the history of 2000s alternative rock.

Next up on The New Classics: Speakerboxxx/The Love Below, Outkast

The New Classics #47: Up The Bracket, The Libertines

Title: Up The Bracket
Artist: The Libertines
Year: 2002
Label: Rough Trade

One of the big musical stories of the 2000s was the return to rock, both in the United States and in the U.K. While us Americans had our Strokes and our White Stripes to carry the burden of rock, the English had the Libertines, a shambling quartet from London, led by future gossip column mainstay Pete Doherty and the comparatively stable Carl Barât. Like their American contemporaries, the Libertines brought rock back to its garage roots, playing lean, mean, gritty blues riffs over a crisp rhythm section. However, the Libertines infused their music with a tremendous sense of place and pride, following in Britpop's footsteps by celebrating the Union Jack and all that was English.

The Libertines' debut album, Up The Bracket, features twelve sharp, snappy songs about running around town, getting drunk, chasing after women and just generally being, well, a libertine. Given an extra level of authenticity by Doherty's and Barât's drawling, heavily accented singing style, the Libertines' songs sound like that perfect night when everyone is just drunk enough to get along with anyone who walks in the door. Even at their most lyrically forlorn, the songs on Up The Bracket maintain a certain cheerfulness, suggesting that everything happening is just part of life in the Libertines' eyes. Doherty and Barât storytelling is too detailed to be simply imagined, especially on epic songs of daily struggle like "Up The Bracket."

Behind that ragged optimism, though, lies a fierce pride towards England, especially in relation to America. The anthemic "Time For Heroes" features the stinging lyric "there are fewer more distressing sights than that of an Englishman in a baseball cap," while "The Boy Looked At Johnny" acknowledges that "New York City's very pretty in the night time, but don't you miss Soho?" In the video for the title track, the four Libertines prance around dressed as Queen's Guards, while friends of the band wave a Union Jack in the background. In this sense, the Libertines were a logical extension of bands like Oasis and Blur, who championed being English in the face of increasing global Americanization. However, rather than copying Oasis' stadium rock (and delusions of grandeur), the Libertines brought that attitude back to street level, playing pub-ready rock, full of stories with everyman heroes and villains.

Up The Bracket is a stunning album, especially given that it was the band's debut. Sadly, like so many artists on this list, the Libertines never got the chance to live up to the promise this album hinted at. Doherty's drug use and legal issues drove a rift between him and the rest of the band. Barât, ever the level-headed one, decided put the band to rest in 2004, after one more lackluster album and a seemingly endless slog through the tabloids. Doherty formed a new band, Babyshambles, before taking a stab at a solo career, while Barât fronted Dirty Pretty Things, featuring Libertines drummer Gary Powell. None of those endeavors resulted in much of anything and early this year, the band announced plans to reunite and play assorted summer festivals. Music lovers the world over remain cautiously optimistic, but no matter what shape the band is in now, we still have Up The Bracket. Combining charmingly ramshackle guitar rock, piercing lyricism and so much attitude (just listen to the wonderful "fuck 'em!" on "I Get Along"), the Libertines crafted an album perfectly in tune with the prevailing zeitgeist of the times, bringing rock back to a dirtier, more dangerous place while simultaneously striking a blow for ol' Britannia.

Next up on The New Classics: Return To Cookie Mountain, TV On The Radio

The New Classics #48: Relationship Of Command, At The Drive-In

Title: Relationship Of Command
Artist: At The Drive-In
Year: 2000
Label: Grand Royal Records

Having Relationship Of Command appear on this list interests me for several reasons. First off, At The Drive-In were only a band for the first year of the 2000s, making them essentially one of the last 1990s bands rather than one of the first of the new decade. Second, I used to love this album, end to end. Harkening back a few years, when I was an excitable high schooler learning his way around a bass guitar, the limitless energy and spastic rhythms on Relationship Of Command were irresistible. Time has not been kind to this album, though. Revisiting it for this project, the technical skill of the band is irrefutable, but some of that excitement has aged into semi-formless flailing. But I'm not the one picking these albums. Relationship Of Command has found a place in the new canon of great albums and still has an impressive legacy seen in other modern music.

At The Drive-In were a five-piece band formed in El Paso, around the multi-racial nexus of guitarist Jim Ward and singer/professional spazz Cedric Bixler-Zavala. After getting their primordial musical ooze straightened out over the course of their first releases, the band settled into a post-hardcore punk juggernaut, fueled by unpredictable rhythms, Bixler-Zavala's evocative lyrical style and some certified guitar pyrotechnics from Omar Rodriguez-Lopez. By 2000, this combination had gelled into the explosive songs found on Relationship Of Command, such as the first single, "One Armed Scissor." Incorporating an impressive sense of melodicism and local Mexican music into the usual sturm and drang of hardcore, At The Drive-In distanced themselves from the pack with genuinely catchy tunes like "Pattern Against User."

Their proximity to Mexico also informed their lyrics, especially on the Relationship standout "Invalid Litter Dept.," which dealt with the rape and murder of young factory workers through oblique lyrics like "in the company of wolves was a stretcher made of cobblestone curfews." This strong political angle kept Bixler-Zavala's lyrical shenanigans from spiraling too far out of control, keeping things grounded in some level of relatable themes. Combined with the band's often staggering ability to pull gorgeously crafted songs out of their back pocket, best heard on the churning "Quarantined," it really looked like At The Drive-In were ready to dominate the 2000s right out of the gates.

Relationship Of Command held up its end of the bargain, as critics greeted it with a hail of approval. It snuck into the lower reaches of the Billboard 200. They even got Iggy Pop to do guest vocals on a couple songs (just listen closely to "Rolodex Propaganda"). At The Drive-In seemed to be firing on all cylinders, with their newest album being their crowning achievement to date. However, behind the scenes, the band was rapidly pulling in two very different directions. Bixler-Zavala and Rodriguez-Lopez veered towards a druggier, more experimental side, full of mind-splintering guitar and time signatures, pushing the surreal, artistic side of the band further. Meanwhile, Ward, bassist Paul Hinojos and Tony Hajjar set their sights on a more commercial brand of alt-rock. Finally, in 2001, these differences proved impossible to overcome and At The Drive-In splinted in half, becoming the modern prog noodleheads The Mars Volta and the intermittently interesting Sparta. Both bands have found loyal fan bases and have continued to chase their chosen paths to the most logical conclusions. Yet, neither band has been able to record something that tops the remarkable fusion of Relationship Of Command. This album has become the last word from a band that bowed out right when opportunity seemed to be knocking, pursuing two extreme musical visions instead of trying to conquer the world with both. Maybe such a goal was beyond their reach. Maybe it was all for the best. We'll just never know.

Next up on The New Classics: Up The Bracket, The Libertines

The New Classics #49: LCD Soundsystem, LCD Soundsystem

Title: LCD Soundsystem
Artist: LCD Soundsystem
Year: 2005
Label: DFA Records

So much of the past decade of music has been defined by the always uneasy relationship between rock and dance music. The 2000s' first big breakthrough artists, such as the Strokes and the White Stripes, were championed because critics felt that this new music was wiping away an era of prefabricated, inane drivel (the boy band/pop diva continuum). More recently, in the later half of the decade, dance-influenced music has risen again, through the work of bands like Daft Punk, Hot Chip and M.I.A., leaving the rock purists whining once more. This dynamic is nothing new and it taps into a familiar opposition: the raw, "authentic" expression of rock vs. the escapist, functional beats of dance music, which, as any good rock critic will tell you, is "entertainment, not art." Combining these two supposedly opposing forces is always asking for trouble (just ask the 1980s) and can lead to music that simply no one wants to hear.

LCD Soundsystem broke every conventional expectation about dance-rock with their debut album, a monolithic effort split into two discs. The first, containing all new material, including the pounding single "Daft Punk Is Playing At My House," is spectacular in its own right, yet it's the second CD, wrapping up LCD Soundsystem's earlier singles, that features the band's definitive story. Their debut recording, "Losing My Edge," introduced to world to James Murphy, the intensely witty, charismatic dynamo at the core of the band. With an impeccable eye towards the details, "Losing My Edge" is the frantic attempt of an aging hipster to keep the younger generation from overrunning him completely with their iPods and Interpol. As the rage and jealously increases ("I hear you have a compilation...of every good song ever done...by anybody"), Murphy is reduced to a twitching pile of name-dropped references, heralded by the manic cry "have you seen my records?!" Oh, and the beat rocks, too. In this single song, Murphy revealed his master plan for great LCD Soundsystem songs: unstoppable rhythms, relentless hooks and lyrics filled with carefully calibrated social observation.

One of the classic arguments against dance music has been its lack of lyrical depth. While that's certainly true in many, many cases, Murphy's brand of beat-driven showstoppers are just as rewarding to the young writer scouring the lyric sheet as they are to those who just wants to dance the night away. The aforementioned "Daft Punk" unfolds as a celebratory depiction of roaring house party, while the lovely "Never As Tired As When I'm Waking Up" teems with yearning and sexual frustration. Musically, the band is no slouch. The songs on LCD Soundsystem lean towards raw, immediate power, even falling deep into the abyss of rock on "Movement" and the ironically named "Tired," which sounds more like the Stooges than anything else. The album's tracks sit precariously on the fence between rock and dance, while hinting all the while that the chasm separating them might not be as huge as imagined.

LCD Soundsystem are definitely one of the most important sounds of the 2000s. Even with only two albums released during the decade (with a third released today!), they've defined a whole new path for both powerful dance tracks and inordinately groovy rock. While other bands from this era tried awkwardly to shoehorn electric guitar next to drum machine beats, on LCD Soundsystem, they created a sound that always feels natural, yet effortlessly bridges that gap. They've never been a hybrid band. Murphy and his cast of capable characters have simply played their music, tapping into the exploratory spirit of post-punk and new wave to create an exciting way forward that is still going strong.

Next up on The New Classics: Relationship Of Command, At The Drive-In

The New Classics #50: A Rush Of Blood To The Head, Coldplay

Title: A Rush Of Blood To The Head
Artist: Coldplay
Year: 2002
Label: Parlophone

While they'll never win the affections of the hip, collegiate intelligentsia, Coldplay have spent the past ten years winning over virtually everyone else. Few rock bands in recent memory have enjoyed the unparalleled, international success of this London-based quartet. Their penchant for sweeping, emotional anthems has struck a very familiar chord with the listening public, the same one U2 have tapped into for decades. Yet, before A Rush Of Blood To The Head, Coldplay didn't seem to have the potential to blossom into such a world-conquering force. Their 2000 debut, Parachutes, was charming but also painfully quaint and, as one critic put it, "possessing more sap that Mrs. Butterworth." The lilting ballad "Yellow" had earned them a few respectful nods, but they certainly didn't seem like a band with any real shelf life.

Rush Of Blood catapulted Coldplay into the upper echelon. Written and recorded in the weeks following the events of 9/11, frontman Chris Martin spoke at great length about how he wanted his songs to start reaching wider audiences. Those lingering comparisons to Radiohead were still haunting the band and Coldplay were ready to assert their own identity upon the world. The lead single "In My Place" certainly did that, with it's ringing guitars and cascading cymbal crashes. Even now, you have to be unusually cynical not to get all caught up in the song's whooshing melody and guitar hook. "The Scientist" went even farther, matching plodding piano chords with some truly shameless lovelorn lyrics. The sound heard upon its release was the rustle of millions of emotional, over-earnest guitarists adding it to their repertoires.

Of course, there was "Clocks," with its inescapable, rolling piano line. Despite being the third single off the album, "Clocks" remains Rush Of Blood's most famous calling card, despite lyrics that verge on nonsense ("come out, all things unsaid/shoot an apple off my head"). Yet, the single that sounds the best all these years later is the off-kilter "God Put A Smile Upon Your Face," a twisting ballad powered by a discordant acoustic guitar lick. It's a song that reveals just how strange Coldplay's songwriting can be when you peel back Martin's piano clomping and wispy lyrics. Best heard on the driving "A Whisper" and the soaring "Politik," Coldplay's ability to inject their usual sugary balladry with unexpected edge and grit is a characteristic that has gone woefully ignored by most reviewers.

A Rush Of Blood To The Head breaks little musical ground, but it's special because Coldplay crafted eleven exemplary pieces of populist alternative rock. While Radiohead's The Bends certainly established the blueprint for Coldplay's entire career, Rush Of Blood was the album where they mastered that exacting balance of melody, emotion and grandeur. Sure, virtually every song is about finding lost love, but the world needs well-crafted cliches every now and then. The album's legacy is a glowing one, since its been embraced by both the public and the ever-wary music press. Like it or not, A Rush Of Blood To The Head will be one of the defining albums of this era of music.

Next up on The New Classics: LCD Soundsystem, LCD Soundsystem