The Best 100 Songs of 2000-2009: Part 1/10

Bro’s (Panda Bear): while comparisons to Brian Wilson’s Beach Boy days are easy to make, most Animal Collective fans also looked beyond that to speculate the true meaning behind this stunning, ten minute electronic mash-up track by member, Noah Lennox. Lyrically, the track is a soliloquy that runs dangerously close to a fight for independence. Is this for the band or for his long-standing and complicated friendship with fellow AC songwriter Avery Tare? We may never know but we can take comfort into the sum of its achievement because this was the moment in the band’s evolutionary process where we first evinced their electronic cohesion and was better for it. ()


Fell in love with a Girl (The White Stripes): in less than two minutes Jack Black re-invigorates two-chord rock. Nothing more than his flinty vocals over Meg’s unrelenting back up guitar and a complicated tale of modern relationships. Quite a slapdash introduction. ()

PDA (Interpol): despite Paul Bank’s detached vocals cutting through superb guitar riffs, PDA achieves a weird type of rollicking sexiness and groove. Maybe it’s the cool comfort found in technology or the eyeliner that smudges just under the eye that betrays his emotion. ()

Take Me Out (Franz Ferdinand): it may not have ushered in hard rock again but here was the celebratory single of 2004. Franz Ferdinand gleefully wreaks tasty bloodshed over bleeding guitars and catchy lyrics. ()

Cry Me a River (Justin Timberlake): the first collaboration between Timberlake and Timbaland came on the back of the most famous break-up in teeny bop history. The creepy video aside, Timbaland transforms Timberlake from pop poster-boy to adolescent working on serious traumatic stress. Relationships are messy when they end and the period of dissection here are geared towards a little spite yet deliciously stated. Timbaland doesn’t obstruct the flow but merely enhances it with so many pop flourishes that one realizes that Timberlake gets caught up into a flow that the reigning king of pop, Michael Jackson, would have killed for. ()

Wolf Like Me (TV on the Radio): The search for the decade’s Prince has led us to the path of Tunde Adebimpe, lead singer of TV on the Radio, the critically-acclaimed pop/rock band. The lead track from their sophomore, Return to Cookie Mountain, the track opens to thunderous guitars with Adebimpe in a perfect refrain. Literally an ode to lycanthropy, the song’s meaning can also hearken to that clannish and fierce feeling Prince fans had in the 1980s…the recognition of a musical leader emerging, one who will lead the way forward. This was one such glittering moment. ()

Morris Brown (Outkast feat. Scar & Sleepy Brown): we have grown so accustomed to Outkast broadening the scope of hip/hop with other genres that we forget how devastating they are when they play within confines. Morris Brown is an insanely, catchy piece of bragging rights, a kind of turf being reclaimed while throwing out some new tentacles from their ever growing influence. ()

Umbrella (Rihanna): In one infectious instance, Rihanna moved from a Caribbean exotic to the undisputed queen of teen pop with this synth-driven mash up of electro-claps and punishing bass-lines. The writers, Christopher “Tricky” Stewart, Kurt Harrell and Terius “The Dream” Nash wrote the track with Britney Spears in mind then it passed on to Mary J. Blige who had to pass on it due to Grammy consideration stipulation. But for L.A. Reid, the track may still be languishing somewhere in the ether because there was still reservation even after Rihanna laid down the first demo. Enter Jay-Z and his altering rap verse and the rest is history. Its success grew slowly but once radio caught on then the song moved from #42 straight to the top of the Billboard Hot 100. A part of the success is the video, which features Rihanna dipped in metallic liquid and a cutesy dance number with an umbrella. With all of that geared and manufactured towards a ‘hit’, the song is a triumph of so much commercialism yet also artistic value. ()

Bamboo Banga (MIA): After the breakout success of her debut, MIA came up against a brick wall trying to get into America to record Kala, her sophomore. Thus, the tale goes, she ended by-passing the North and we’re all the better for it. Of course, with the critics sharpening their collective pens for any letdown, the album needed a strong opening track and that is exactly what Bamboo Banga is. MIA coming back with power, power, goes the mantra and we’re hooked. For nearly five minutes we’re treated to an astonishing mixtape of heavy-hitting pop, MIA’s own steely idealism, Hindi-inspired choruses juxtaposed with a sample of Jonathan Richman’s Road Runner. Though some would easily pigeon-hole it as ‘world music’, the genius of MIA and the track is to identify a clear boundary overstep….why, as MIA must surely posit, should one be content to rule towns when there’s an entire world to conquer? ()

What You Waiting For (Gwen Stefani): Everyone loves Gwen Stefani so when word was that she would finally go solo from No Doubt, the fan excitement grew. Of course fans never see past their own expectations but artists have to because there are investors, music execs and their own fears to deal with. The Alice in Wonderland-inspired music video expertly tracks the aforementioned process but even it pales in comparison to the fantastic groove of the track. Not that Stefani conceived the idea herself. Linda Perry, whom Stefani was initially reluctant to work with, added her usual electro-pop flourishes as well as the title, by accident. The song is thus a confessional dubbed into the New wave style that she enjoys dabbling in (You're still a super hot female/You’ve got your million dollar contract/And they're all waiting for your hot track). ()

I Look to You (Whitney Houston) (2009)

Humble Mumble

Perhaps the most thankless part of criticizing popular music is post-analysis of the review. Whereas buyers of albums have their tastes and stars selected for them by record labels to an extent, the critic must never fall into this state of affairs. It’s not easy because critics are music lovers themselves and music lovers only really criticize once they’ve fallen out of love. Critics must stay in the nexus of such emotional upheaval to pointedly encourage or, more direly, assault musical complacency. The feedback leveled against me by several U2 fans of my No Line on the Horizon review has nothing to do with actual music but with my daring to criticize the band in the first place.

Well, the axes will grind again because now it’s Whitney Houston’s turn. Houston, aka the Voice was the woman whose stratospheric rise in the mid-80s paved the way for future black female soul singers. They’ve all been influenced by her in some manner…from her many talentless clones to the current ‘it girls’ Beyonce and Rihanna. She was the first of the Clive Davis-led fembots that rose through the Arista stables to gain global superstardom. Without her there may have been no Vegas opening for Celine Dion, no Mimi being emancipated or sentimental musings from Deborah Cox, et al. Now, if you for even a second thought that the non-emergence of any of these singers would have been right as rain, then you get the perilous scope in which Houston returns with I Look to You.

Perilous because the music industry eats its own stars in the end. Houston may not end up a walking plastic-surgery disaster like Michael Jackson but her emotional scars are just as devastating. An ill-timed divorce, allegations of drug abuse and the skeletal-frame health she looked in at a MJ tribute show years ago have wagged tongues of even her most ardent fan. Her resurgence is akin to that of the doomed Anne Rice vampire character, Akasha. If you’ve read that brilliant novel then you see the same fated parallels: the revered yet out of place goddess returning to conquer a scenario that holds her as key yet running totally oblivious of her participation.

I Look to You is more than an album; it is a timely PR stunt to launch her career back on track. So, it features big names contributing songs, including R. Kelly and Alicia Keys. Million Dollar Bill, written by the latter, isn’t bad but in true Keys manner, it asks little of Houston vocally and the lyrics are far from revealing. In a sense it is totally fitting that the song should sound so nice yet empty. Kelly tries to unearth more with Salute but despite the feisty lyrics, Houston’s vocals cannot match its insistency. The loss of her tremulous voice hits the listener immediately. Several of the dance-oriented tracks (Nothing but Love, Like I Never Left) set up for something totally mind-blowing only to turn technically competent and curt. Without Houston providing her trademark vocal firepower then unfortunately these songs serve more for curriculum vitae purposes than anything else. Her remake of A Song for You comes the closest to a bona-fide hit but again her trained vocal use curtails it before it can spin blissfully out of control. Some clever DJs will no doubt splice it up in the clubs to a much greater effect. I Look to You is thus divided into dance tracks and ballads but if the former just fail to catch afire then the latter never get going at all. Which is odd because Houston has never been engineered for sustained club purposes. Ballads have always been her bread and butter but here they feel like spam. Dianne Warren contributes the cold title track and Houston barely avoid cracking up on the boring I Didn’t Know My Own Strength.

Clive Davis is quoted as saying that the album’s aim is to side-step popular music trends and to keep Houston’s influence intact. This is not surprising as her career, like the music industry in which she’s inexorably tied, operates on this motif. No one expected to hear the infamous ‘crack is whack’ refrain used in a sample but smothering her recent personal tumult with feel-good music is equally insulting. It’s as if the past decade of her life, all the ugliness involved, can be avoided if not too much emphasis is put on it. Whereas other soul singers naturally turn their pain into personal art that reflect truthfully a state of mind, Houston through her handlers acts as if she is above discussing it all. Hasn’t this shadow approach been the hallmark of her career for far too long? Would the end result be just as wooden if she dared pen a few tracks herself? Also, when one considers it, after nearly twenty-five years as a megastar what do we really have been allowed to know about the woman behind the voice?

Davis treats Houston just as carefully as his music empire but his short-sightedness has never been so at fault. Houston is no longer relevant in popular music and neither are big labels. The evolution of music is leaving both ideals behind. I Look to You will no doubt debut no.1 on Billboard but then sink fast as the next big release comes along—ironically it should be Mariah Carey’s latest—and no amount of couch-time with Oprah will garner new fans if Houston doesn’t get ‘with it’. I Look to You never cracks a realistic hint of pain behind its making for too long, instead it slips rigidly back in place once things start to get too real.

Therein lays the extent and overwhelming problem of Houston’s legacy however. She was the last of the great four pop stars tied to the big label system (MJ, Prince and Madonna being the other three) and she’s now the only one left caught up in it still. As long as that system continues to breathe then the prospect of the real Whitney Houston emerging from years of puffed-up divadom is dim. As the years creep up on her and with her once great voice gone one wonders though if she will realize her irrelevance too late. How much longer is she willing to be the product of other people’s perspicacity and talent instead of reclaiming her zeal for belting out big tunes again? After a decade of perfecting the art of saying pretty much nothing at all, now is the time for the Voice to ring out truthfully for once with (he)art.

RATING: 4/10

THE 100 BEST ALBUMS of 2000-2009:

Apologies to the Queen Mary (Wolf Parade) (2005):

Perhaps the decade’s best rock debut, Apologies...is the introduction many of us got to Wold Parade, namely Spenser Krug and Dan Boeckner. Starting with the fantastic You are a Runner and I am My Father’s Son, the album’s themes of inter-personal relations and obsessive paranoia. Krug’s lyrical genius shines through as he lilts things towards a funky disposition (Grounds for Divorce), lyrical melodrama (Fancy Claps) and idealism steeped in mere self-belief (Dear Sons and Daughters of Hungry Ghosts). Krug manages to twist his voice into very timeless ether to records these tracks—especially the groovy ender, It’s A Curse---as if his band is sojourning along space and time and not lighting up the joint for the first time. Then there’s the huge groundswell of I’ll Believe Anything which shifts Krug’s now trademark tense refrain. Though they’ve spawned other projects, namely Sunset Rubdown and Handsome Furs, the team best shines here and even after so many spins and years passed, it’s clear to see why.

THE 100 BEST ALBUMS of 2000-2009:

Veckatimest (Grizzly Bear) (2009):

Depending on your musical taste, this would have been the most or second most anticipated album of 2009. The initial leak was a bad rip but by the time the real stuff hit, it was clear that a year-end list contender was here. Ed Droste and Daniel Rossen create the type of tender brilliance (Live with You, Foreground) that no one else can. Their chorale, heavenly harmonies are spun so tightly, so cleverly crafted that it leaves one gasping for breath afterwards. Then there are simple ballads like While You Wait for the Others that simply reel out sickly brilliance that even Animal Collective might be a bit jealous. Yet if Droste and Rossen play around each other then it’s left up to Christopher Bear to connect whatever seams spill.You hear the guitar riffs lulling Two Weeks into precision as well as the tenderness of All We Ask. Not to mention the beautiful, poetic lyrics that indicate the creative process involved on this project. Whereas Animal Collective returned home from different point origins to Merriweather Post Pavillion, Grizzly Bear manifest time well spent on the island of Veckatimest…bringing us their wondrous result.

THE 100 BEST ALBUMS of 2000-2009:

Kid A (Radiohead) (2000):

Any attempt at following up the massive Ok Computer would prove to be a task so consider Kid A the reverse of that album, the opposite image staring out of the mirror. If Radiohead ended the previous decade on the cusp of drawing art and technology together then they entered the new one showing withdrawal symptoms. This is a sharp withdrawal, an acute understanding of how pyrotechnics work and maneuvered for an effect that ironically comes to the same conclusions. It opens with Everything in its Right Place, a fitting last kiss goodbye yet it emits warmth and loneliness in buckets. The title track threads minimalism to a new high because up to then bands hadn’t figured out how to assimilate so many technological gains in music into a simple, humane body of work. And yet for all the triumphant artificial intelligence (The National Anthem) there is enough of the human touch to keep things vitally in check (Optimistic, Idioteque).

THE 100 BEST ALBUMS of 2000-2009:

For Emma, For Ever Ago (Bon Iver) (2007-8):

The story of Justin Vernon going off to mourn the end of his band (or is it a love-affair?!) has been well chronicled but if this self-journey is what it takes to produce such beautiful art then I think such a move should be mandatory for all musicians. This stuff is best listened when rain is lightly falling on a morning when you can toss around in bed. If the opening falsetto of Flume doesn’t soften you up then the swelling of vocals and guitar work of Lump Sum will. There’s a peacefulness juxtaposed with raw emotion at work here...as if trying desperately trying to resolve itself while it pleases the ear. Skinny Love breaks out of its holding pattern then turns lyrically dark and accusatory. The Wolves (Act I and II) is even sparer but works. It pales to Blindsided but then the tenderness emitted here is of a rare kind. I haven’t even touched on Creature Fear swirling giddily into the stuff of greatness.

THE 100 BEST ALBUMS of 2000-2009:

Back to Black (Amy Winehouse) (2007):

Initially I had felt Winehouse’s sophomore had potential but looking back now I realised I hesitated because it seemed too bizarre an existence to what she sung about to be real. Alas it is but so too is the lascivious soul-weariness on display here. Back to Black is a smartly configured opus of 60s big brass sounds that was perfected by Motown before her. Every track is layered with heavy trumpets, stoned lyrics and a heart-felt realness steeped in modernity. Credit her for keeping the album above sea-level too even with the jazzy textures that don’t require much fire-power. Rehab is a stunning ditty reportedly done as her refusal to seek help in an institution for her emotional instability. When she hits a winning formula though---the blissful title track, Tears Dry on Their Own, Rehab, You Know I’m no Good—it all simmers into a slow melting pot of sedative-like escapism. Winehouse totally immerses herself into character because this is her life and all producers Salaam Remi and Mark Ronson have to do are keep up with her.

THE 100 BEST ALBUMS of 2000-2009:

Robyn (Robyn) (2005-8):

Released so many different years, with so many different versions yet Robyn’s core brilliance has not been diluted since its original home country release (Sweden). To describe her music one must consider the hustling groundings of M.I.A, the vocal uniqueness of Bjork and a physical resemblance---but with a more daring pop presence—to Pink and presto, you now start to realise the triple threat the diminutive Swede is. Handle Me and Cobrastyle have so much booty-shaking funk that it’s futile to resist. Even the pure pop With Every Heartbeat is of a higher standard than the average Billboard Hot 100 tune. The great thing about Robyn though is her insistence to merge pop with her special brand of production. Many view pop as inferior to other genres but Robyn is pure pop and brilliant too.

THE 100 BEST ALBUMS of 2000-2009:

Funeral (The Arcade Fire) (2004-5):

To understand the elegant Funeral, one need to consider the many paths that came entwined in order to make it possible. The band lost nine family members during the recording process, then broke up only to rebuild. Funeral thus is in memory of that emotional upheaval: the beginning and end of things. Its heightened sense of fragmented loss serves its purpose well on the ten tracks that are orchestrated with a wide range of instruments, sadness and loss. This only reinforces Ren Butler’s lead vocal work and the wretchedness associated here. His sound is reminiscent of early Michael Stipe; smouldering insistence of the heart-breaking Neighbourhood #2 (Laika). The track best captures everything that is so magical on the album. It is defiant and powers on a type of refrain that even more established bands will never master. Haiti, the saddest track, features Regine Chassange alone as she rekindles love for her country of birth and she takes a moment to breathe on In the Backseat. Fittingly, this is the last track and The Arcade Fire achieved what most rock albums hadn’t up to that point: a time to exhale. This was to prove a trademark as well as irrefutably influential.

THE 100 BEST ALBUMS of 2000-2009:

Merriweather Post Pavillion (Animal Collective) (2009):

If it seems Animal Collective has been growing from strength to strength then it is true but even I felt topping Strawberry Jam would be impossible. That said, the band has made a serious effort to do just that. The opening two tracks—In the Flowers and My Girls---make this abundantly clear with their restless beats and opulent timing. Also Frightened overdubs itself more pointedly with each verse, with no apparent hook other than repeating its chorus and dragging its lines along to full psychedelic effect. Such audacity only comes from a band assured in its stature and not concerned with playing it safe. Even bolder is the anthem aspirations of songs like Bluish and Guy’s Eyes, both swirl with heavy grooves and outperform the others within the headphones space that it demands. It even gets better the more listens one gives it proving that though other experimentalists are out there manifesting efforts, none come close to these guys who, for the third album running, continue to evolve further away from the ensuing pack. And yes, even though there are three more months left in the year, rest assured, you won’t find a better album in ’09 than this epic release.

THE 100 BEST ALBUMS of 2000-2009:

Stankonia (Outkast) (2000):

The rap duo’s fourth album continues a stretch of mind-blowing consistency that is only rivaled by Radiohead and Bjork since the last decade of popular music. Outkast don’t do music, they reinvent it and Stankonia features all the giddy funk tricks that we’ve become accustomed to. Here are the Hendrix-esque guitars tripping electric magic everywhere. Here is George Clinton-led dirty funk in irresistible hooks and verses. Toss in the afro centricity of Sly Stone and the cheeky sexuality of Prince and we have a strong contender for best rap album of the decade. Outkast are not necessarily the first to sift all these angles together but they are the first and best and coalescing them all into one solid, irrefutable outfit. Certainly, no other track—save, perhaps Radiohead’s 2+2=5---can top B.O.B in relevance this decade. A shape-shifting funk track that morphs endlessly, toasting goodies a mile wide. Ms. Jackson chronicles a real-life situation with synthesized funk and So Fresh, So Clean slows it down for mere bragging rights. Humble Mumble features a frantic Erykah Badu and Red Velvet became the proto-type future rap acts would mimic for years to come. The album does feature an excessive amount of skits, eight in total, but the P-funk style holds everything together.

THE 100 BEST ALBUMS of 2000-2009:

Twin Cinema (The New Pornographers) (2005):

The Canadian/American super-band’s (A.C Wonder, Neko Case, Dan Bejar, ect.) third album was a great champion of the indie pop-meet-power pop marriage that proves so tricky for so many other bands. The true measure of their growth here is the boisterous hyper-ballads especially when Case assumes vocal authority (the majestic The Bleeding Heart Show and Three or Four. Of course, anyone in collaboration with Bejar has to take a backseat to his madcap brilliance. Jackie, Dressed in Cobras is all his, a fast-tempo romp. He leads the troupe through Broken Breads as well but alongside some taunt guitar work by Kurt Dahle. In fact, the most stunning thing about Twin Cinema is not anything musically achieved but more so the realization that it was no longer an AC Newman-led collective. The strands of this change settle comfortably for now but one can deduce that if they continue to banter power pop around this nicely then they can unearth even more gems.

THE 100 BEST ALBUMS of 2000-2009:

Medulla (Bjork) (2004):

Never one to contentiously rest upon her fabled glory, Bjork decided in 2004 to rediscover the main tool of her fame: her lovely voice. Medulla is yet another daring concept from the Icelander that works wondrously. The 14 track opus is a capella in intent but within even such a defined space Bjork has redefined set boundaries for pop music yet again. With a wide array of musicians to help her produce maximum gains—Kelis, Robert Wyatt, former Roots member Rahzel and Mike Patton---she further distanced herself from the ensuing pack of odd geniuses working today. Where is the Line rumbles along with Rahzel’s amazing beat-boxing juxtaposing Bjork losing her bearings amid a Mario Bros-like production. Mouth’s Cradle positively relishes the challenge of collusion of which Bjork still has no true equal. Even the less experimental stuff here—the gorgeous ballads (Who Is It, Desired Constellation and especially Oceania) sparkle with her star-shine even if they are enigmas. Enigmatic yes but there we go again downplaying the significance of an artist to challenge their listeners. Here is Bjork toying with the very flimsy strand of fascination we have for her and continuing an artistic evolution that, up to this point, had nothing or very little resemblance to her genius from which it all derives.

THE 100 BEST ALBUMS of 2000-2009:

Yankee Hotel Foxtrot (Wilco) (2002):

Though I can’t be counted among the legion of critics who love Wilco, I can appreciate the ground-swell of the reception to the band’s fourth album. Delayed time and time again, Jeff Tweedy’s alternative country musings hit the gut hard and refreshingly like a rebellion because finally, thankfully, the band tripped into the electronic age. Bands that pride themselves on longevity sometimes struggle with change and after a patch of purple Wilco could have continued being everyman’s band and careened through the good life. Yet, things changed after 9/11 and Tweedy looked within himself to unspool some of his most personal feelings and plugged in. It had consequences immediately: their label (Reprise) refused to release it, fearing that such an experiment wouldn’t be successful and the two split. In a move that preceded Radiohead, Wilco then offered the album free through their website and the rest is history. It remains the highlight of their career and best selling album (nearly 600,000 copies in America). Despite the upheaval though, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot is a record about being in love, not in the classical romantic self but simply loving life and an appreciation of it. Before it was cool to reminisce, Wilco was doing that on tracks like Heavy Metal Drummer, an ode to Kiss. Even better are Tweedy’s slow burners like Radio Cure which expresses the lingering for a lover while away so specifically and Jesus, which is a renewal of faith. The last track is Reservations, which swells memorably and sadly but with a twinge of self-belief. Maybe Tweedy knew all along this project was fated to be definitive of his career and for that he stuck to his guns and we can all acknowledge that perseverance.

THE 100 BEST ALBUMS of 2000-2009:

Return to Cookie Mountain (TV on the Radio) (2006):

In the final analysis, it is this album, and not the two it sandwiches, that will come to define the TV on the Radio experience this decade. Though Bowie championed their debut’s cause, it is here that he contributed and though critics lapped up Dear Science by rote, it still doesn’t cover as much ground and really just benefits from its predecessor. One can bandy Bowie’s name around to define the middle group the band covers with pop/rock but predominately this is the sound of Prince if he had leaned in on the heavy stuff. And who has not been wondering when the next Prince would come along? In Tunde Adebimpe we’ve found the next best thing and his band proves that no one does swagger quite like them. At just under an hour, Return to Cookie Mountain wastes little time in establishing itself. I Was a Lover is a slow-burn that samples Massive Attack’s Teardrop to beautiful effect. The track sounds like electronic poetry being slowed for a saddened heart. Wolf Like Me is the undeniable hit, a track that captures the restless, beast-like energy that pulsates through rock music and the youth who live by it. A Method features a simple percussion loop but fierce backing vocals by Kyp Malone and Adebimpe. These three tracks help to identify what is so enduring about the album and the band; a uniting force that draws so many different listening ears to one central figure or moment in time, just like Prince and Bowie in their prime. This is for all the freaky folks uniting and getting their cookie genetic make-up groove on while sipping cool-aid and taking shade from the sun in designer glasses.

THE 100 BEST ALBUMS of 2000-2009:

New Amerykah Part One (Erykah Badu) (2008):

If life indeed imitates art then the cover of Badu’s fifth album is very telling. A big-ass afro of writhing figures is being figuratively pomaded by Badu who has both fists out sporting the bling that has come to define American hip/hop. New Amerykah Part One therefore is a cultural statement, one that targets the African-American experience through critical lenses. Whereas her previous records centered through neo-soul expressions, Badu’s change of direction from here on would be more pointed social commentary. Unlike others though who sacrifice funk for politicizing, Badu ups the cheese through producers like Madlib and Mike ‘Chav’ Chavarria. Juxtaposing message and music can be tricky but Badu has spent the last twelve years doing just that. The opener, Amerykan Promise, twins the evil of commercialism and black exploitation. Healer documents succinctly the state of hip/hop being the driving force of the American dream. The track serves as a warning as well as guarded celebration. The Cell derides the effect substance abuse has had on the black community (momma hopped up on cocaine/daddy on space ships with no brain) while Twinkle exquisitely rebuffs hand-outs for blacks looking excuses not to do better for themselves (they say their grandfathers and grandmothers/work hard for nothing/and we still in this ghetto). It is very heartening to hear Badu tackle these issues as her male counterparts are more concerned in the accumulation of street credo to effect change besides she has done in this decade what none of them have managed so far: she has grown up.

THE 100 BEST ALBUMS of 2000-2009:

The first decade of the 21st century is nearly up so it's time to start looking back at the albums that shaped our thinking. It's a lot of recollection but here are my picks at the best 100 CDs in no particular order.

Kala (M.I.A) (2007):

If her grimy debut (Arular) helped launch Maya Arulpragasam into public consciousness, then her sophomore cemented her spot as the one to watch. By the one of course I mean that tag of the pre-eminent pop visionary of the day… that label we lovingly bestowed upon another cool, non-American with a weird name, Bjork Gudmundsdottir. The two women are inextricably linked by this record, both pre and post-release. Bjork saw the firepower long before we did and embraced it even as Kala was the closest sonic document to her own masterpiece ten years before, Homogenic. Both albums work within a known pop frame to bring forth results that resemble everything around yet itself not being imitable. M.I.A brings an evolutionary process to this though, a kind of battle-weary toughness that finally had won its way to the spotlight. Whereas Arular was a rallying cry that critics embraced but wondered if it was a bluff, Kala rode into town, positively glowing with confidence and Maya’s own special brand of experimentation. Armed with producers such as Timbaland, Switch, Blaqstarr and Diplo, she drove head-first into the varied sounds with her pastiche method. Steel-pans queue up on the soca-driven Bird Flu. Grime and umree roll out on Hussel and Boyz respectively. Even Bollywood isn’t spared as both Jimmy and the brilliant opener Bamboo Banga are soaked through with Hindi references. Elsewhere, it is her use of sampling and sharp jabs at the many assertions of her character that lifts tracks like $20 and Paper Planes into the stuff that will be ripped off for decades to come.

Harry Potter and The Half-Blood Prince (2009)

Devil May Care

You know the stakes are high for Harry Potter (Daniel Radcliffe) in his sixth year at Hogwarts when headmaster Dumbeldore (Michael Gambon) appears within five minutes of The Half-Blood Prince. Indeed the film opens with a shot of Death-Eaters running foul in London and a cloud formation briefly manifests the dark lord Voldermort. Harry is initially also found in the Muggle world enjoying the twin delights of nightly coffee and picking up a potential date. The escapism is touching but also acts as a catalyst for what is to come. For what marks the transformative relevance of The Half-Blood Prince is the juxtaposition of the threat on Potter’s life to our own as Muggles. By the end of Order of the Phoenix, Voldermort had shed any reservation of taking out anyone who dares stand in his way. His then brief clash with Dumbledore was merely buying for time. Now his minions are forcing an all-out attack and that includes randomly terrorizing humans.

With the Ministry of Magic being slowly overrun, Dumbledore realizes that his options have tightened considerably and sets out to amass all he needs to thwart Voldermort for the last time. That includes, of course, Potter but the scope of Dumbledore’s thinking is finally laid out. He carries Harry along to convince an old friend, Prof. Slughorn (the ever excellent Jim Broadbent) to return to Hogwarts. Both men know the real reason behind the request is not merely to resume teaching potions yet Slughorn agrees. Harry is in awe watching the two wizards as they display magic before him, not realizing the role he will later play. Dumbledore wants a particular memory from Slughorn, one that he feels will help to destroy Voldermort. Dumbledore’s manner here is increasingly human. In many ways, The Half-Blood Prince is the first real examination of him. The previous films have maintained an invincible yet distant aura about him but here we see the ineffability of his role. His scholarly pitch is effective to convey thought yet it bends more tenderly the more it centers on Harry. It is the best Gambon performance of the series so far because the duality involved has never had so much impetus behind it.

But if Dumbledore represents all that is good about wizardry then he also knows that tactics have to be dire in perilous times. He dangles Potter in front of Slughorn like a prize to be had while impressing upon Harry the importance of ‘allowing’ Slughorn to win his confidence over so as to collect the memory. He goes as far as to show Harry the tampered memory through the Pensieve. Here the general aloofness of Dumbledore plays well against the request. There is something almost homoerotic in which Harry is to befriend Slughorn that is never stated yet it hangs in the air thickly. Broadbent’s exquisite performance lends credence to this idea as Slughorn is atypically vain, romantically attached to his students’ achievements and clearly a man hungry for attention. The flashbacks of him and Tom Riddle (the young Voldermort played efficiently by Frank Dillane) show how the latter played on Slughorn’s self-importance to elicit information. Of course, being a film for the PG-13 audience, The Half-Blood Prince makes this impression then relents even though screenwriter Steve Kloves is able to fire off some potent stuff. More salacious is the memory of Dumbledore’s initial meeting with Voldermort at the orphanage where he grew up. The young lad becomes only excited when Dumbledore sets his a part of his room on fire. There is a scary yet impressionable glint in his cold eyes. I think there’s something in your wardrobe that’s trying to get out, Tom, states the elder wizard in reference to things Riddle has stolen. I can speak to snakes, they tell me things about people, Riddle shoots back and the headmaster cannot hide his shock. One sense a vague homoerotic reference between the two or at least the beginning of a power struggle for supremacy or even both entwined in messiness that the film does not resolve.

Kloves works just as hard at character development of others except the villains. Voldermort is only present in flashbacks and memories. Bellatrix Lestrange (Helena Bonham Carter) remains painfully enigmatic as is Snape (another delicious Alan Rickman one-tone performance). The film’s main antagonist is Draco Malfoy (Tom Felton) but the progression from student rebel to budding Death Eater is not sufficiently presented. He remains the film’s weakest link because his family ties to the dark lord are never brought up for a proper examination. Which is odd because The Half-Blood Prince promised to be redemptive for the character, a kind of temptation-based trial to be overcome or overrun by. It is only towards the end, where the irreversible damage is done, do we see Malfoy’s doubts about the path that was chosen for him. We can surmise his loneliness but never truly feel it as how we can feel the twitches of adolescent love emerging from Harry, Hermione (Emma Thompson) and Ron (Rupert Grint). Here the film succeeds in showing the youthful romantic interest and the adult recognition of it. In one scene, Harry and Ginny (Bonnie Wright) find themselves staring at each other in the Weasely household. Arthur Weasely watches them then quickly leaves and they are alone for a few seconds before Ron comes crashing between them uneasily. Ron is himself battling to define the extent of interest in Hermione. He becomes a hero in Quidditch thus girl-bait and one in particular sets out to claim him with a zeal that irks Hermione.

At over 150 minutes though, director Davis Yates is yet again criminally overusing elements that needed to be scaled back. Ron’s lovesick portions end up annoyingly cutting into his time as emerging finally from Harry’s shadow. We see Malfoy repeating the same (dis)appearance trick without realizing the implications beforehand. Bellatrix taunts the Weaselys without any real reason while repeating lines from the last film. Of the three only Malfoy arrives at some epiphany that has repercussions and even then that is swallowed up by the final thirty minutes. The film takes on new life at that point when Dumbledore discovers Slughorn’s secret memory of passing on information to Tom Riddle about horcruxes, dark magic that allows wizards to store parts of their soul into objects. In such a state the wizard would never die unless the horcruxes be destroyed. Dumbledore and Harry set off to destroy a potential horcrux yet both are nearly vanquished by the effort. In his greatest scene, Gambon flips from authoritative to pleading as draughts of poison must be consumed by him to get the cursed amulet. It maddens him but he helps Harry escape from the Inferni, guardians of the cave where the amulet was hidden. They Apparate back to Hogwarts where separate fates await them in the form of Snape.

What happens next yet again proves how Dumbledore’s calculations prevail overtime but still sting in the short-term. Hogwarts becomes vanquished as there is a glorious shot of Bellatrix in all her mad-cap glory eliminating the light from the dining hall while Malfoy sobs openly. The damage is done but the gamble played by Dumbledore is threatened to be for naught if Harry’s fury cannot be abated. Taken into the headmaster’s confidences only to be deserted yet again, he reacts by violently attacking Malfoy, using Snape’s own curses against him and, ultimately, questioning Dumbledore himself. It is the crux of The Half-Blood Prince; the point where the student questions the master. No one has the nerve to answer him except Lupin, who quips the film’s most telling line. ‘Dumbledore trusts Snape, therefore so do I… it all comes down to a question of judgment.’ Judgment indeed and one that must be repeated several times to be believed.

RATING: 7.5/10

The Bachelor (Patrick Wolf) (2009)

Version 2.0


If like me your first experience of Patrick Wolf was the shocking red hair two years ago then what has happened since comes as no surprise. Shamelessly ambitious and talented, Wolf represents a cultural oddity in popular music even though he wasn’t aware of that status until this record. The Bachelor thus serves as a buffer, or, more appropriately, a barrier to reflect on as well as to go beyond. There is no proverbial ‘going back’ now for him, especially with there being no more Universal execs to guide his career. The Magic Position garnered him a huge fan base two years ago because even then his potential was obvious so with initial plans for his next project to be a double-album, many wondered what next from the Brit.

Many critics have cited that the decision to split the double album’s worth of music into separate halves has negated the full scale of his ambition this time around. Those critics fail though to understand Wolf’s immense appetite for self-reinvention. It is this trait that serves him yet measures the reception of his music. The Bachelor, though over-reaching at times, is very much an epic statement, the type of artistic bravura that has almost vanished from pop music ever since the start of this decade. Swinging from personal politics to depression to falling in love, The Bachelor is an immediate indie experience.

The opening track, Hard Times sums up in its pristine production and steely lyrics the state of Wolf’s mind and the recording industry at large (we have grown to ignore/ mediocrity applauded/ show me some revolution/ this battle will be won). One track in and we are welcomed to the world Wolf inhabits and the showman and dramatist in him shines superbly. Along with Hard Times, the next four tracks help to form an amazing arc of consistency that rivals any other album this year so far.Oblivion stutters to life with sweeping violin and a lush programmed beat without letting up. The title track tackles the topical issue of gay marriage without being too pointed. Wolf is at his resonant best here yet the result is gorgeous and reflective, making it one of the best songs of the year. It even manages to make guest vocalist Eliza Carthy sound manly, further complicating the track. Damaris laments the loss of a lover due to religious belief (my God damned Damaris/killed with last kiss/ I loved you) while Thickets reels away into such lovely Celt musicianship that one ignores its lack of a message.

The other stuff is engaging too: from that stinging political line, ‘in this war without and end/ what fear do you defend?’ of Count of Casualty to Vulture and its decidedly disco groove that doesn’t quite work but it’s fascinating to hear Wolf wrap himself up into the effort of being pretentiously someone else.

Not everything works quite as smoothly though. Unlike his last album, the ballads here---Theseus, The Sun is often Out—lack the same immediacy that a track like Bluebells had. Both tracks seem at odds with the tone of the album, as if the switch from major label to independent funding source caught them in a cross-fire. It’s as if when the context of his music strays from his personal politics, Wolf is left in a bit of a lurch. Without a sense of societal injustice to highlight, Wolf becomes trapped with the confrontation he seeks to flee from: his former mirror image. He seems to realize this midway Blackdown as he questions himself, ‘desire/desire/you are not the maker of me’, which ends the track. One can argue that ambition is the maker of him but what Wolf doesn’t highlight enough is what he’s pushing back against. Battle trudges its pop/rock terrain, battling homophobia, anti-human rights and conservatism, et al while The Messenger ends things optimistically. Nice enough but here I have to agree with his detractors who claim that his sense of artistry at such turns is vague and do not cut deep enough to the root problem. Tilda Swinton and Alec Empire are present with nice touches but still they merely camouflage the enigmatic leading man.

Wolf’s brilliance as an artist has never been in doubt and now, with The Bachelor, his evolution as an entertainer is entering an original phase. Never mind that his music videos are gaudy and still reflective of his heroes (Bowie’s White Duke, Madonna circa 1990) his real accomplishment is surviving the split with Universal. Funding for The Bachelor was completed after an appeal to fans through bandstocks.com (the remarkable FrYars—you heard about him here first—followed the same route). It’s a novel way for direct interchange between fans and musician and allows an artist like Wolf to express ideas, flaws and all, without big label interference. Universal no doubt would have tweaked the misses here but perhaps we’d never hear the title track either. That alone speaks volumes about the importance of his split and freedom to create art in any explicit way he chooses. It is at those times, when he is his new liberated self, that his battles are won.

RATING: 8.10/10

R.I.P Michael Jackson

"Goodbye, King of Pop"


Of course I could not allow the most significant death of the MTV-toting popular cultural movement to pass without adding a few words. The media coverage has been surprising to some because Michael Jackson was not currently recording music and was fifty (50)but what they fail to note is that the man wasn't just a star but he was the star. Time doesn't allow for too much detail right now but even without his statistical brilliance on the pop charts, MJ is the main reason why the pop/R&B stars can enjoy the vast cross-racial appeal now. Back in the late 1970s--before MTV emerged, black artists were mostly pigeon-holed into one frame, R&B, but when he released "Thriller" in 1982, all that changed. MJ was the first to create the possibilities of men of color in popular music. His albums, singles, endorsements, stage performances all became the ultimate, not just for black men but for everyone. MTV rolled around and the videos that he conceptualized--"Thriller" especially--were larger than life.

Yet, this doesn't answer the question why we care so much about him now. Consider though that most of the current pop acts that people pine for and worship (Rihanna, Usher, Justin Timberlake) are obviously influenced by MJ's "full package" approach to music. He made art and they all strive to do the same, to be mentioned in the same breath as him decades from now. This media storm is even more remarkable when one considers that he was the only one of his peers (that trio of him, Madonna and Prince, all fifty coincidentally)who was not still recording music. Yet people cared time and time again for the sinewy details of his personal life, grabbed up the expensive tickets for his London concert (July) and still could moonwalk.

On top of it all, we cared fiercely to see if he would get the redemption perfectionists like him crave. We wanted a last hurrah, a triumphant show that if necessary he could muster up some of the old magic. We do not like when our stars struggle or show, finally, mortality settling in. We want them to live forever, to excel always, to make the world seem alright. Who watches the mighty Roger Federer just merely to win a match...no, we want an exhibition, a flawless display of skill that is beyond mere human execution. For the music critics, Radiohead occupies that rarefied space currently of enviable love from critics and fans. If they follow up the blissful "In Rainbows" with anything less than ideal or remotely commercial, we will feel a sense of betrayal, a letdown beyond words. Not everyone reaches such idealized heights in our eyes but it brings with it its own set of issues, that we are miostly unable to rationalize.

Michael Jackson leaves a rich musical legacy: great pop music that transcends its time and genre. That immense Beatles catalogue that his children will now inherit. His family and fans are left with a lifetime of good and not so good memories. In the days to come, we will hear the rumours, the possibilities of prescription-drug overdose, the state of his accounts. Endless critics will tear into his child-molestation cases but the truth is that it all plays a part of his life, his legacy.Bob Dylan may be the most culturally relevant musician alive, David Bowie the most vastly copied and Radiohead the most acclaimed band but MJ was the greatest entertainer for the vast part of four (4) decades. Take a second to reflect on that. Bless.

Michael Jackson was fifty (50) years old.
1958--2009