KATHLEEN EDWARDS

BEYOND AMERICANA
Kathleen Edwards expands her vistas with Bon Iver

By Matt Ashare

Kathleen Edwards, Voyageur (Zoe/Rounder)

AFFAIRS OF THE SMART: Edwards deals deftly with romantic crises

“Out of the cameras and out of the lights/I’m a chameleon, I hide behind the songs I write,” sings Canadian songstress Kathleen Edwards with stoic resignation midway through “Chameleon/Comedian,” the slowly surging second track on her new Voyageur. In the context of a song that artfully navigates the give-and-take of an imperfectly perfect relationship on an album — her fourth since 2003’s Faller — that fearlessly confronts the mixed emotions, the highs and lows, and the naked vicissitudes of falling in and out of love, it’s a telling rhyme, particularly since she recorded it with musical and production support from her current beau, Bon Iver mastermind Justin Vernon. Buoyed by a lush rush of strummed acoustic guitars, bathed in the kind of soft-focus reverb that are a Bon Iver calling card, she makes a sweet concession to her lover’s “darker side”: she’ll “smile,” she promises in the chorus, but “not for a funny joke.” Because, at least for this brief respite, she’s willing to concede, “I don’t need a punch line every time. . .”

         When Edwards first emerged in the early 2000s, she was hailed as Americana’s next great hopeful, a Lucinda Williams in waiting, crafting empathetic characters with an economy of words and a natural gift for finding that sweet spot between spare, confessional folk and rocky country roots. Working with Canadian producer Colin Cripps (Sarah McLachlan, Bryan Adams, Blue Rodeo), to whom she was married to until last year, Edwards quietly delivered on that promise, growing into the role of the kind of critic’s darling who might also be asked to, say, do a few dates opening for the likes of Bob Dylan and the Rolling Stones. But, with Voyageur, she’s taken a major leap forward (or, perhaps, it’s more akin to an intensely appealing left-hand turn), joining the ranks of the Wilcos of the world in redefining what constitutes Americana. Indeed, if Jeff Tweedy has led his band in the direction of avant experimentalism, then Edwards appears to be using a similar strategy to bring airy dream-pop ambience to her down-to-earth character studies and countrified constructions.

         It’s a shift that manifests itself subtly on Voyageur. The opening track, “Empty Threat,” begins with a very Bon Iver touch — an indeterminate drone coupled with what might be a backwards-running loop of murmuring voices. But Edwards’ bright acoustic guitar strumming quickly emerges from the sonic mist as an easygoing backbeat kicks in and lines like, “This cold heart’s getting warmer/Maybe come September I’ll feel brand new” cast a hopeful light on the singer’s plans to get on with her life. “I’m moving to America/Moving to America/Moving to America,” Edwards intones with veiled anticipation of better things to come, before taking the wind out of her own sails with the admission that “It’s an empty threat.” Piano and a trio of electric guitars emerge in the mix to paint melancholy colors around poetic promises and poignant imagery (“In a city I once said never/I’m learning to say never never never ever/Cuz now I’m its favorite flower/I’m blooming through the concrete cracks of this condo tower”). By the end of the track, Edwards has made her move from one kind of country to another, yet it feels nothing if not entirely natural.

         So, this is the point at which Vernon visionary’s role in elevating Edwards above the pack of perfectly solid singer-songwriters is meant to be celebrated. And there’s ample evidence of his handiwork on Voyageur, from the bleating synths that pulse behind Edwards as she reaches for the sky and cries, “Change this feeling under my feet/Change the sheets and then change me,” to the fragile vibraphone that underpins the mixed emotions of the gently turbulent “A Soft Place Land,” to the Omnichord touches that blend into the twangy backdrop of the desperately bittersweet blues rocker “Mint.”

         But there’s an equally strong, if not stronger, case to be made here for Edwards bringing out the best in Vernon, whose penchant for studio wizardry as Bon Iver has, in spite of four major Grammy nominations this year, often led him into the more-is-more deep end. There’s no question he’s proven himself to be a master sonic sculptor, but there are times, even on his most recent Bon Iver disc, Bon Iver, Bon Iver, when you have to wonder if there’s really a song being served beneath all those layers of vocals and instrumentation. In Edwards, he seems to have found a muse whose songcraft provides solid grounding in clearly defined hooks and melodies for his pillowy wall-of-sound approach.

         One thing’s for sure: there’s some serious synergy happening on Voyageur. And given the subjects Edwards elicits so strikingly in the songs here — from the failing romance of the plaintive “House Full of Empty Rooms,” to the snapshots of a broken marriage in the simply sad “Pink Champagne,” to the guarded rush of romance rediscovered in the rocking “Sidecars” — there are bound to be plenty of questions about the autobiographical nature of the album. Indeed, you get the sense that Edwards anticipated that, and you can find her answer in “For the Record,” the seven-minute track that closes out the disc. With tense electric guitar chords hanging on a modest, deliberate beat, organ tones filling in the gaps between verses, and Norah Jones lending harmonies, Edward conjures an hypnotic hymn from just a couple of loaded lines: “Hang me up on your cross/For the record I only wanted to sing songs/Hang me out to die in the sun/For the record I only wanted to sing songs.” She is, after all, a chameleon. . .

http://www2.the-burg.com/entertainment/2012/jan/25/kathleen-edwards-vividly-reimagines-americana-litt-ar-1638765/ 

           

MATTHEW PAUL BUTLER

Mathew Paul Butler finds beauty in darkness

By Matt Ashare

Who: Matthew Paul Butler and Thee Vandal Choir

When: Friday, January 27

Where: Rivermont Pizza, 2496 Rivermont Avenue, Lynchburg

It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m headed to meet up with locally based singer/songwriter Matthew Paul Butler at the Cavalier when it hits me that, unless he’s the burly Viking guy pictured on the cover of his new EP Hard Headed, I may have trouble picking him out of the lunchtime crowd. “Don’t worry,” he reassures me over the phone, “I’m the little guy with the big beard.” Problem solved.

       Butler, who’ll be playing Rivermont Pizza with his band Thee Vandal Choir on January 27, is immediately recognizable as, well, the little guy with the big beard, a look that’s part mountain man, part Middle Earth. Indeed, if there were an elven dwarf hybrid in Tolkien’s writings, Butler would be a perfect fit. Instead, he’s found a kind of solace and inner satisfaction playing a very different role — that of the uncannily charismatic, accessibly eccentric fingerpicking indie-folk troubadour.

       It’s not exactly the part he was born to play. As the son of Christian missionaries, he spent his formative years in Africa — specifically Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of the Congo). By the age of 15, he was Stateside, in Baltimore, attending high school and worship leading in his father’s church. He seemed destined to follow in mom and dad’s footsteps when he enrolled in their alma mater, a Pentecostal/Charismatic seminary in upstate New York called Elim Bible School back in 2000. But he only lasted one semester there before, guitar in hand, he embarked on an itinerant life that took him to New Jersey, North Carolina, and Kansas City, with a few stops back in Baltimore before landing in Lynchburg, home of Vandal Choir singer Kaitlyn Rose, who’s also now Butler’s fiancée.

       “We got engaged on New Year's Day,” the soft-spoken Butler recounts. “It’s been amazing, to find someone I could gel with so well and who I can also sing together with so well. It's difficult sometimes. With the dudes in my band, if I don't like what they're playing I can tell them it sucks. But you can’t really do that with your fiancée.”

       Over the past year, Thee Vandal Choir has grown to include drummer Drew Fontaine, bassist Benjamin Leon Henry, and lap steel specialist Matt Gulletti. But “Hard Headed” is a spare affair, recorded by Butler and Rose at the Charlotte home of producer Daniel Hodges, who also played bass and “some guitar.” (Hodges brought in Tim Cossor to lay down the drum tracks, a feat Bulter says was accomplished in a matter of hours.)

       Wasted notes and excess verbiage aren’t part of Butler’s lexicon. And, while turbulent emotions surface throughout the six songs on “Hard Headed” — a disc that ends with the ambient sound of a rainstorm framing the melancholy of the last two tracks — Butler doesn’t quite fit the mold of the confessional songwriter. It wasn’t until he revealed that Rose’s younger brother committed suicide a year ago, that the true power of “Older Brother,” a song sung from the point of view of the deceased that concludes somewhat optimistically “I had no regrets,” really sank in.

       Over a couple of afternoon beers, Butler opened up about his approach to writing and recording, the genesis of “Hard Headed” (which is available as a free download on Butler’s bandcamp page through January 27), and, of course, the beard. Here’s some of what he had to say. . .

Q: To what degree have your experiences leading church services carried over to what you do now?

       It’s what taught me performing. My parents would probably be horrified to hear this, but one of the things you learn as a worship leader is a kind of manipulation of people. I'm up there and other people might claim that it's the holy ghost, but really it's just like putting chords together in a proper form and building dynamics in a song in a way that everyone gets really excited and starts raising their hands and crying and god knows what else.

Q: You do put a lot of yourself into your songs, but they really not autobiographical, are they?

       They're not. I've seen a lot. So there are minor references to my life in damn near every song. In "Too Old," there's the "Who knows/maybe we'll get married" line. And that came out of me thinking, "oh shit, do I really want to be with this person for the rest of my life." It was definitely a thought in my mind, even if I wasn't aware of it at the time. It just came out. Generally, I write and then, for the bulk of it, I don't really realize what I was writing about until afterwards.

Q: That sermon in the background of “Oh Dear, Your Bad Luck” — is that you or is that something you found?

       Actually, I didn't put that in there. My friend Daniel Hodges, who produced the album, got it in his head when he was mixing the song, that he should put some radio noise in there. He has this old AM radio and he found randomly this Christian religious broadcast. I think it might be Pat Robertson. I'm not really sure. I thought it was great. I don't know what it is, but it just works in that song.

Q: There’s a bare-bones, homespun quality to the recordings. Was that a happy accident or was that your intention?

       It's weird for me because I'm very much a fan of digital media and the opportunities that it's provided me. At the same time, I'm a huge fan of old recordings. Like, you look at photographs of old Dylan sessions and they're all in a room together recording at the same time. I feel like that's part of the reason why those recordings, at least to me, sound so much better than damn near anything.

Q: Other than Dylan, are there other artists who have inspired you?

       It may not make sense when you listen to this record, but years ago, when I was living in Jersey, I picked up Jeff Buckley's "Grace" and I listened to it for six months straight. I just really honed in on Jeff's voice, and I was like damn. . . I don't really play that style of music, but that album had a big impact on me. And then, as much as I hate to say it right now, the early Kings of Leon albums just kicked up something inside of me. I couldn't get enough of it. When I heard them and read about what they had to say, I liked that they came from the same vein of Christianity that I was raised in — you know, falling on the ground, speaking in tongues, and all that crazy stuff.

Q: Hard Headed obviously comes from a dark place. Is that your preferred mode of writing?

       I feel like a lot of what I do, without being overly dramatic, is exorcizing a lot of stuff from growing up. It's not like my parents beat me or were terrible or anything. A lot of it is that I missed out on releasing a lot of stuff when I was growing up, so I'm doing it now in my songs. I've had discussions with my father about my songs, and he thinks some them seem heretical. But if I reference god in a song, I don't necessarily mean the god of the bible. That's the only language I have to talk about anything. I was brought up that for 20 years. That's just the language I have.

Q: Okay, the beard?

       I dunno. I get a lot of weird frat boys who come up and want to touch the beard. It's kind of funny. If I shaved my beard off right now, I would look like I was 18. So one reason I have it is that it helps me not get carded at bars. I also hate shaving. And, if you want some deeper reason, it's just that I don't really care and I like it. I'm the guy who's short and has a big beard. I grow it and I cut it back, but lately I decided that I'm just going to let it grow. . . 

http://www2.the-burg.com/entertainment/2012/jan/18/mathew-paul-butler-finds-beauty-darkness-ar-1620923/

                                                                       

SNOW PATROL

Snow Patrol overreach on the grandiose Fallen Empires

by Matt Ashare

Snow Patrol, Fallen Empires (Universal)

UNSOUND EFFECTS: Snow Patrol add electronics to their bag of tricks

Before I stick a metaphorical shovel into the sprawling mess that is Fallen Empires, the sixth album by the Belfast-by-way-of-Glasgow fivesome Snow Patrol, I do want to point out that I'm not an avowed hater when it comes to grandiose, slickly produced, arena-reaching rock from the British Isles. For example, I remain a loyal U2 fan (when they're good), and retain an abiding respect for both Bono's good works and his band's willingness, from time to time, to break with formula, as they did to fairly stunning effect just over twenty years ago with Achtung Baby. And, as annoying as I tend to find the bleeding heart-on-my-sleeve ruminations of Chris Martin, every now and again there's a Coldplay single that catches my ear, even if Parachutes, their 2000 debut, is still the only album by that particular band I can manage to sit through from beginning to end. Oh, and just last summer, I dug out a "Singles" collection by the Verve, a self-important ‘90s Brit-rock band with a frontman, Richard Ashcroft, who has a Mick Jagger-sized ego and the lips to go with it. That disc — This Is Music (yeah, that's actually the title) — was in fairly heavy rotation for a good month or two around my house.

       So I come at Fallen Empires with a reasonably high tolerance for dudes with charming accents from dreary climates who feel empowered to wrestle dramatically with the human condition in the context of a three- to four-minute pop song. If it's got a solid stadium-ready guitar hook or a wistful enough chorus, I'm fully willing to pull out the Bic lighter app on the iPhone and wave my hands in the air with the best of them. (Well, maybe that's going a bit too far for a cynical romantic like me, but you get the point.)

       Snow Patrol are big little band who aspire to reach such heights and appear willing to do whatever it takes to get there, even if it means standing in the shadow of Coldplay, a position they occupied with some degree of dignity beginning in 2003 with Final Straw. That was the band's big, international breakthrough, and it came after nearly a decade of toiling rather charmingly in the Scottish indie underground with such ’90s luminaries as Belle & Sebastian. (Seriously: Go back and listen to 1998's Songs for Polarbears.). "Final Straw," an aptly named album if ever there were one, sounded like the successful last ditch effort to take a proven, if borrowed, formula straight to the bank that it was. And it established Snow Patrol as the next best thing to Coldplay — a semi-sweet pill for anyone for whom one Chris Martin just wasn't enough.

       But frontman Gary Lightbody and guitarist Nathan Connolly — Snow Patrol's two main mouthpieces — have apparently been harboring loftier ambitions. After all, they've been handpicked to open for U2 on not just one, but two world tours. When it comes to lofty apprenticeships, it doesn't get much better than that. Indeed, if you've been following the Snow Patrol saga on Lightbody's blog (it's not something I recommend, but you can get the basic gist of it from a mercifully condensed rundown of the basics on the band's Wikipedia entry), the band set out to break with their own conventions on Fallen Empires — to deliver, in Lightbody's words, "twenty songs" that Connelly promised were "very different from each other."

       Sounds like a recipe for success, right? Of the many obstacles that stood in the way was a nasty bout with writer's block that Lightbody confessed to suffering through last September in the British magazine NME. Of the several "cures" Lightbody reportedly subjected himself to, the two most effective (or is "amusing" the word I'm looking for?) were a trip to the California desert U2 made famous (that would be Joshua Tree), and Michael Stipe, who apparently played an indeterminate inspirational role as, I dunno, the band's wartime consigliere or something. When it was all said and done, Snow Patrol had their longest album to date (14 tracks clocking in at 50-plus minutes) in the bag.

       Fallen Empires absolutely delivers on Lightbody's promise to throw a few bold new wrinkles in the thickening Snow Patrol plot. And, as anybody who's read this column before knows, I admire any artist who's willing to push the boundaries, work outside of his or her comfort zone, and/or take the kind of left-hand turn that may leave some fans scratching their heads. I also happen, for the most part, to be a firm believer in the less-is-more aesthetic, which, paradoxically perhaps, often comes into direct conflict with boundary pushing.

       And so it is with Fallen Empires. Working with producer Jacknife Lee (the dude who manned the board for R.E.M.'s "Collapse Into Now" last year), Snow Patrol have added a heavy dose of electronics to their previously guitar-centric approach to rock in a hard place. If I'm not mistaken, Coldplay did much the same on their 2011 album Mylo Xyloto, but that's probably just a coincidence. Besides, the more obvious touchstone for "I'll Never Let Go," the emotionally wrought epic track that opens an album of emotionally wrought epics, is Achtung Baby-era U2. Lightbody sings like a wounded warrior lost on a street with no name, as he navigates his way through undulating sequencers, icy synth tones, and dark-toned industrial guitar riffs.

       While the album's title suggests that Lightbody may have had geopolitics on his mind when he finally overcame his writer's block, he hasn't really changed his tune all that much when it comes to subject matter. "I'll Never Let Go" is right in line with the kind of romantic torment and earnest outrospection that have been his stock in trade all along. "Your words shook me right out of a daydream/I was lost somewhere cold and it looked haunted/I was asking strangers but no one understood me/I was drenched in sweat when your words came to me," he croons to someone whose "house" has literally or metaphorically "burned to the ground" in "I'll Never Let Go." The disc's title track, another synth-heavy concoction, is a slow build through a relationship in ruins ("Harm me most when it's light/The thought of you don't sit right/I need the darkness, a death grip embrace") that leads to a chaotic climax with Lightbody repeating the line, "We are the light," over and over again.

       There are echoes of the old, uncomplicated Snow Patrol here — "Called Out In the Dark" opens with a nice little acoustic guitar riff before the synths arrive and take it to a mournful place somewhere in the neighborhood of that oh-so-’80s film The Breakfast Club, and "This Isn't Everything You Are" is a hope-filled ode to a broken friend centered around chiming guitars that explode into full-blown powerchords on a suitably anthemic chorus, with string embellishments thrown in for a little extra touch of melancholy. But in (over)reaching for something boldly universal, Snow Patrol mostly end up in the general area of the generic, a place where style trumps substance and nobody really goes home happy. Perhaps that's the point.

       I'd leave it at that if it weren't for a modest little acoustic tune, "Lifening," that nails the best of what Snow Patrol are capable of midway through Fallen Empires. Against a backdrop of fingerpicked guitar, spare piano chords, and a nice string arrangement, Lightbody finally gets personal and reveals all he's ever wanted from life: "waking up in your arms"; "Ireland in the World Cup"; "words of reassurance"; "to share what I've been given/Some kids eventually/And be for them what I've had/A father like my dad." The list goes on. Come to think of it, kind of reminds me of something the Verve might have done.
http://www2.the-burg.com/entertainment/2012/jan/18/snow-patrol-overreach-grandiose-fallen-empires-ar-1620557/ 

BEST OF 2011

Going “underground”: A year end top ten

By Matt Ashare
Published: December 28, 2011 

A GREAT ESCAPE: Jane's Addiction took cues from TV on the Radio

It didn't take long for Perry Farrell to make a clear declaration of intention earlier this year on The Great Escape Artist, the first new Jane's Addiction studio album since 2003 and the best disc they've recorded in a good twenty years. "I've replanted my feet back in the underground," he declaims in the opening verse of "Underground," the disc's first track, before going on to admit, "I'm a hustler/I'll never give up on the underground," when the chorus rolls around.

       For Farrell, a trip back to the "underground" meant bringing David Sitek of the mercurial Brooklyn band TV On the Radio on board to help write, record, and produce The Great Escape Artist. And Sitek's talent for artfully deploying futuristic digital embellishments in a hard-rock context turned out to be just the right medicine for Farrell and co.

       But that wasn't the only strategy for mounting a comeback in 2011. R.E.M. and Beastie Boys returned to what they do best on two of the better albums I heard this year, as did former Pavement frontman Stephen Malkmus, who delivered his best solo album yet. And, with Colin Meloy at the helm, the Decemberists borrowed a couple of riffs (as well as guitarist Peter Buck) from the R.E.M. playbook for The King Is Dead, a folk-rocking tour de force that also featured backing newgrass songstress Gillian Welch and her partner David Rawlings.

       Along with Sitek's TV On the Radio, there were other artists who, to varying degrees, continued pushing boundaries without falling off the rockist map — Radiohead and Wilco were two of the more notable bands who fit that description. And yet, Danger Mouse, the DJ/producer who did more than anyone else to popularize the futuristic mash-up when he combined the vocal tracks from Jay-Z's The Black Album with samples stolen from the Beatles' "White Album" on 2004's "The Grey Album," was all about analog this year, bringing a certain epic pop grandeur to the dirty garage blooze of the Black Keys and creating swooning spaghetti western soundscapes for the voices of Norah Jones and Jack White on the faux soundtrack Rome.

       Which brings me, somewhat inelegantly, back to the "underground," that increasingly mythical place/space where all the cool kids hang creating art and stuff — a state of mind Patti Smith (who guested on and was an inspiration for R.E.M.'s Collapse Into Now) poetically evokes in her memoir Just Kids. In a year that saw a Toronto-based band of outsiders called the Arcade Fire surprise everyone by taking home top honors at the Grammys for an album, The Suburbs, that came out on an indie label based in Durham, NC (a Grammy first), it's worth asking if perhaps there is no longer an underground. Maybe what we're moving toward is an ever-shifting multiverse of undergrounds that encompass everything except the most blatantly commercial pop artists, the Lady Gagas of the world. Or maybe we're already there. In any case, here are my picks for the ten best albums whose gravitation fields I found myself caught up in this year. . .

1) TV on the Radio, Nine Types of Light (Interscope).

       I’ve heard Wilco referred to as America’s answer to Radiohead. And I get it. They’ve got a charismatic frontman who’s not afraid to mess with the formula in sometimes surprising ways that verge on the experimental without tossing hooks and melodies into the ambient abyss. But, for my money, these Brooklynites have done more to redefine the sound, feel, and texture of accessible rock than anyone on this side of the Atlantic over the past decade. “Nine Types of Light” delves deep into the realm of unrequited love and finds, well, all kinds of light at the end of a dark tunnel. They may lack a Thom Yorke-ian focal point, but they’ve got two soulful singers and, in multi-instrumentalist David Sitek, a player/producer who’s beginning to look more and more like an Enoesque visionary.

2) The Decemberists, The King Is Dead (Capitol).

       Perhaps it was only a matter of time before Colin Meloy, the brains behind the band who are the Decemberists, set aside some of his loftier concept-album ambitions and simply wrote an album of concise songs that aren’t based around some grand scheme involving Japanese folk tales or obscure British folk singers. “The King Is Dead” is that album. Meloy’s literary smarts serve him well here, but they don’t overshadow the simple joy of the jangling surge of the very R.E.M.-ish “Calamity Song” or the Neil Youngian power of the anthemic “This Is Why We Fight.” Finally, a Decemberists album that doesn’t require footnotes.

3) The Black Keys, El Camino (Nonesuch).

       Having resettled in Nashville, this Akron-bred duo haven’t so much left their garage-rock roots behind as built a multi-leveled mansion of their own peculiar devising around it. At heart, they remain gritty, meat-and-potatoes rockers. But, with Danger Mouse’s help (producing and playing keys), they’ve taken the concept of the stripped-down duo to places that even the White Stripes never quite found.

4) R.E.M., Collapse Into Now (Warner Bros.).

       Now that R.E.M. have officially called it quits after three decades together, this disc has taken on a meaning that transcends the music. Still, it’s great to hear Michael Stipe, Pete Buck, and Mike Mills finding their way back to the kind of jangle-and-drone riffs they patented on their way up, and proclaiming “Let’s sing it and rhyme/Let’s do it one last time/Let’s show the kids how to do it/Fine, fine, fine. . .” Mission accomplished.

5) Jane's Addiction, The Great Escape Artist (Capitol).

       Don’t want to give David Sitek, who not only helped write and produce but also played on much of this album, too much credit. But something shocked this once tired LA band into bringing it on in 2011. Jane’s have always struck me as being more about riffs and attitude than hooks and melodies. Here they’ve got all four. . . Some things are still shocking. . .

6) Wilco, The Whole Love (Anti).

       I’ll keep this one short and sweet: basically, if this is the future of Americana then I’m buying into it big time. Moody and melodic, rootsy and resonant, ambient and alluring, The Whole Love is the product of a band who aren’t afraid to try anything in the name of making a song stick.

7) Stephen Malkmus & the Jicks, Mirror Traffic (Matador).

       By the time Pavement broke up in 2000, they were something of an indie-rock jamband, as Malkmus’ skewed guitar tones began to overshadow his provocative lyrics. As a solo artist, he continued down that road, but Mirror Traffic is a return to what he did best with his old band: great lyrics, great guitars, and more than enough slanted slacker enchantments to keep things interesting from beginning to end.

8) Jolie Holland, Pint of Blood (Anti).

       Holland, a Texas grrrl, has a captivatingly quirky voice and sideways delivery that sets her apart from your average roots-folk artist. And, on Pint of Blood, she’s come through with the kind of album I wish Lucinda Williams were still making. At times poignant, at others defiant, it brings an edgy attitude to the realm of artsy Americana.

9) Beastie Boys, Hot Sauce Committee Part Two (Capitol).

       If you’d told me even just a couple of years ago that the Beasties would be rapping well into their forties, I’d have laughed and said, “I hope not.” Been wrong before. And I’m happy to say I am again. Maybe it’s that the Beasties function more like a band than a trio of MCs, but they continue to hang together with all the fast-rhyming wit and production smarts that have always kept them one step ahead of the game.

10) Arctic Monkeys, Suck It and See (Domino).

       My Brit pick of the year, and not because they did an internship of sorts with desert-rock magus Josh Homme of Queens of the Stone Age. No, the track he plays on here is album’s only real clunker. The rest of the disc is all about singer/guitarist Alex Smith’s sneeringly smart songwriting, and the tuneful bash-and-churn of the band.

RUNNERS UP:

• Tom Waits, Bad As Me (Anti)

• Radiohead, The King of Limbs (TBD)

• Maria Taylor, Overlook (Saddle Creek)

• Patti Smith, Outside Society (Sony Legacy)

• Fountains of Wayne, Sky Full of Holes (Yep-Roc) 
http://www2.the-burg.com/entertainment/2011/dec/28/best-music-2011-ar-1572984/