Nick Cave has been going the longest and the hardest of any of the musicians on this list--with the Bad Seeds since '81 and the Birthday Party since '76. Probably longer than any of the previously mentioned musicians have been alive.
With legacy acts like this, the watershed moment usually comes fairly early on in their career: yes, Morrissey's still making records, but it's not like there's been any revelations since The Queen is Dead. With Cave, however, it's hard to even identify a singular watershed. 1988's Tender Prey epitomizes the darker, grinding side of Cave's work, 96's Murder Ballads his pitch-black senses of humor and narrative.
2001's No More Shall We Part--released after a 4-year hiatus, following the bleak, naked apocalypse of The Boatman's Call--is Cave at his most mature, most emotionally powerful, and the height of his songwriting talent. There's nothing on here to match the brutal sexuality of "Deanna" or the horror of "Song of Joy," but the incredible love and loss throughout it is astonishing. After twenty-five years of hard work as a songwriter, Cave finally wrote the album he was born to.
The whole thing is wintery, melancholy. It's not a sad album--there's moments of incredible tender love, and sly comedy in "God Is In The House." It's an album of post-desolation, though, of quiet recovery, an album made of slight smiles and gentle touches. There are only a few times that it really cuts loose (helped greatly by the contributions of Warren Ellis on his banshee violin), and the quietude of the album empowers them to unbelievable heights.
Moreso than anything, however, Cave's lyrics shine. From the sarcastic exultation to "get down on our knees and very quietly shout: 'hallelujah'" to the cheerfully bitter poetry of "Darker With the Day" ("a steeple tore the stomach from a lonely little cloud"), No More Shall We Part stands as one of the incredibly rare albums that could almost be read, which could stand on its own as a work of poetry.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
#9-- FEVER TO TELL
When I was 16 I made a list of the best albums of this decade, SO FAR, and put the Yeah Yeah Yeah's Fever to Tell at the very top of it. Now, obviously, I've reconsidered since then, but very clearly not too much. It's still a great album, and still stands as the YYY's best work.
The influences are clear: the Siouxsie Sioux wail, the Stooge-y clang and grind, Telelvision's pairing of virtuosity and grit, Kathleen Hannah's massive lady-balls, Chrissie Hynde's imperiousness. None of that detracts from the album, however-- O, Zinner, and Chase are one of those rare musical groups (see also: Gnarls Barkley, Jack White) that are able to compress 30 years of musical legacy into a unique sound.
That compression, actually, is what makes this such an amazing album. The whole thing feels perfectly trimmed, as sparse as a skeleton, like something made out of copper wire and hot glue. It never really slows, it never lets go, and every single song is absurdly hook-laden and perfectly performed. It actually makes a pretty perfect companion to the Violent Femmes' first album in that regard: it's rickety, bare frame hides an incredible amount of venom.
Karen O may draw the most attention, but it has to be said: Nick Zinner is probably the best guitarist of modern rock. He blends showy brilliance with an incredible ability to create a wall of sound and pretty incredible songwriting chops. And Brian Chase ain't no slouch neither.
The influences are clear: the Siouxsie Sioux wail, the Stooge-y clang and grind, Telelvision's pairing of virtuosity and grit, Kathleen Hannah's massive lady-balls, Chrissie Hynde's imperiousness. None of that detracts from the album, however-- O, Zinner, and Chase are one of those rare musical groups (see also: Gnarls Barkley, Jack White) that are able to compress 30 years of musical legacy into a unique sound.
That compression, actually, is what makes this such an amazing album. The whole thing feels perfectly trimmed, as sparse as a skeleton, like something made out of copper wire and hot glue. It never really slows, it never lets go, and every single song is absurdly hook-laden and perfectly performed. It actually makes a pretty perfect companion to the Violent Femmes' first album in that regard: it's rickety, bare frame hides an incredible amount of venom.
Karen O may draw the most attention, but it has to be said: Nick Zinner is probably the best guitarist of modern rock. He blends showy brilliance with an incredible ability to create a wall of sound and pretty incredible songwriting chops. And Brian Chase ain't no slouch neither.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
TOP 10 ALBUMS OF THE DECADE-- #10
AESOP ROCK-- LABOR DAYS
Labor Days is a phenomenal album. Seriously, as in the literal sense. Eight years later it's still Aes's definitive work, and the album that symbolizes Def Jux and their fellow travelers.
It also, like the nine on my list that'll follow from here until the beginning of the twenty-teens, represents something about modern music to me, represents some of what this decade is made of sonically. The incredible denseness, the sneer, the sparsity. The album was released just a week after 9/11 and, while the event itself isn't reflected directly, Labor Days fits snugly into the post-WTC modern paranoia, the Raskolnikovian sense of malaise that's characterized the past ten years.
The album itself, recorded while Aesop was still working full-time, is a cynical dismemberment of modern urbanism-- fast food, wage slavery, soot, dying dreams, the 9-5 trudge. Firmly grounded in Rock's own Brooklyn, it flutters back and forth from the manic to the depressive, from skies to subways. It's Aesop's darkest, as well-- psychically violent, sooty, despairing. Aesop's sense of humor is subdued here, manifesting primarily as sarcasm.
Finally, Labor Days is a meaningful album. One of the veins that runs through hip-hop is that of class, wealth, and disparity, and Aesop speaks to that better than any other musician I've heard. My good friend Solomon credits it with pushing him into a new phase of his life, and it's hard to deny the potential power of the work.
And that's why Labor Days is ranked #10 on my list-- it's powerful, perfectly constructed, and succeeds on every level it approaches.
Labor Days is a phenomenal album. Seriously, as in the literal sense. Eight years later it's still Aes's definitive work, and the album that symbolizes Def Jux and their fellow travelers.
It also, like the nine on my list that'll follow from here until the beginning of the twenty-teens, represents something about modern music to me, represents some of what this decade is made of sonically. The incredible denseness, the sneer, the sparsity. The album was released just a week after 9/11 and, while the event itself isn't reflected directly, Labor Days fits snugly into the post-WTC modern paranoia, the Raskolnikovian sense of malaise that's characterized the past ten years.
The album itself, recorded while Aesop was still working full-time, is a cynical dismemberment of modern urbanism-- fast food, wage slavery, soot, dying dreams, the 9-5 trudge. Firmly grounded in Rock's own Brooklyn, it flutters back and forth from the manic to the depressive, from skies to subways. It's Aesop's darkest, as well-- psychically violent, sooty, despairing. Aesop's sense of humor is subdued here, manifesting primarily as sarcasm.
Finally, Labor Days is a meaningful album. One of the veins that runs through hip-hop is that of class, wealth, and disparity, and Aesop speaks to that better than any other musician I've heard. My good friend Solomon credits it with pushing him into a new phase of his life, and it's hard to deny the potential power of the work.
And that's why Labor Days is ranked #10 on my list-- it's powerful, perfectly constructed, and succeeds on every level it approaches.
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