The Pesthouse, like the two other books by Jim Crace that I have read, is initially composed of absolutely beautiful writing, just like Being Dead, but at some point into the book everything starts to feel like it is composed of cardboard. This is a terrible, sad thing, because the books two main characters, Margaret and Franklin, are terribly endearing — even if they hardly speak, hardly anyone speaks in The Pesthouse — and our time with them is all too brief.

The Pesthouse is a tale of unlikely love between two absolute innocents in a dystopic America where absolutely nothing, except perhaps the dirt, is innocent. Even Margaret, who has never done an uncouth thing in her life (except, perhaps, bringing a beating upon a potential suitor in her youth), comes from a town that shamelessly profited off the shameless optimism of weary American travelers hoping for peace and (a safer kind of) freedom on the other side of the Atlantic. It is only fitting then, that in the book’s introductory chapter, that everyone in that city is killed by a, perhaps vengeful, freak geologic incident.

Where this all takes place exactly is unclear (though one bit of prose reminded me of the New Jersey Turnpike) and when it all takes place is hinted at through the recounted memories of dead family members and rusty coins embellished with buildings (containing a tiny floating Abraham who would one day come and return America to it’s splendor!)

The Pesthouse is a novel absolutely devoid of explanation. This is odd, since there is almost no dialog, the novel operates entirely on Crace’s wonderful prose and exposition. But when Franklin disappears randomly, and with little fan-fare, the terror of Margaret’s existence is exhilarating — in that I wanted nothing more to get through all these pages of one-dimensional chase and ellusion. (I just invented a word!) I don’t know why it happens, but without Franklin by Margaret’s side, it almost feels like there is little reason to keep reading.

Crace’s America-post-whatever is convincingly dangerous, as such that it seems like it is only a matter of time before Margaret’s age, beauty, or innocence catch up with her while she is without Franklin. The novel is harrowing in this way, and perhaps ultimately disappointing: nothing truly ugly happens to our protagonists. I wouldn’t have wanted anything to happen to them, however, as I said, they both are true innocents and the world they exist within is lacking in redemption, but by the end of the novel you almost feel as if nothing has happened (and this is, in part, a literal thing) where you should feel, instead, that our two lovers — who hardly even touch each other throughout the course of the novel — have grown and hardened through their experiences and come out of it more sure of themselves and their love.

But, no. Margaret and Franklin both land themselves is very shitty situations in which either of them could become seriously injured or maimed, but both manage to avoid any sort of real psychological or physical harm. Franklin is beaten, repeatedly, for months on end, but apparently the beatings are so unremarkable that Crace only brushes over them briefly when Franklin suddenly reappears long after I had figured that Crace pulled some sort of cruel punch by making Franklin’s disappearance have some permanence. Margaret is very nearly raped, and then manages to avoid the lecherous desires of some obviously crazy religious nutjobs and spends the winter doing absolutely nothing. Margaret emerges from her scenarios literally untouched. Franklin emerges thinned, muscular, and no less boyish than he went in.

By the end of The Pesthouse, you can’t help but be happy: we’re introduced to two innocent, lovable and loving characters, who obviously belong together in a world where nothing aside from themselves is pure and untainted. They’re thrust into harrowing situations and emerge from them completely unscathed. But the journey to the end is paved with somewhat one-dimensional situations and, perhaps unavoidable, cliches. The happiness you feel for them is slightly strained by the fact that the journey, both for the characters and for the reader, is one of futile hardships performed merely to achieve the destruction of long-held dreams. Franklin’s almost relentless naivety and optimism in the face of Margaret’s almost exhausting reasonableness is the one thing that saves the novel from being an absolutely depressing affair.

But, by the very end, the one great poetic loss of The Pesthouse is simply the slow dispersal of Franklin and Margaret’s personal things as the world tears at their edges. But even that loss is not much of a blow to them, because when they are together they seem to need nothing else: their frayed edges intertwine and they build a somewhat silly strength out of romance in the face of adversity and their own absolute inexperience. Survival is — in the end — just a foot-massage away for these two unlikely lovers in America.

This is the most hauntingly beautiful book I have ever read. It’s been days since I’ve read it and thoughts of it come to me randomly and sweep me away to this sad little place that the book spurred in me. The entire novel, which opens with the random grisly death of a couple on a beach, carries this somber, sad tone, but it is tinged with this overwhelming sense of love. It’s hard to explain and describe, but I’m only writing this because I still can’t stop thinking about it.

While Jim Crace almost painstakingly describes the slow decomposition of the couple’s bodies, which sounds disgusting and awful and only mostly is, he also leads us through how they met and fell in love. He shows us the day they spent together leading up to the point they got murdered. We also follow the couple’s only daughter, for the latter half of the novel, in her discovery of her parent’s situation. It is brilliantly paced and, really, one of the most beautifully written things I have read.

No mystery is solved, aside from the mystery of how two people can spend their lives together and how they exist at the beginning and end of it all.

Read it. Read it now.

I’ve already written a bit about the film version of Being There, but it has stuck with me to the point that I think I need to write more about it. Yesterday, a day after watching the movie, I read the short novel by Jerzy Kosinski.

Being There really struck a chord with me, and I’m not entirely sure why. It feels like there is something more to it, lurking beneath the surface. There are obvious things — the ending, the whole “I understand” thing that I only vaguely caught when I watched it — that show the movie to be something more than just one long joke, but I think there is more to it. I had hoped that the novel would help me understand the movie better, but I was wrong.

Being There is the one movie/book combo that I’ve come across where the film actually completely removes the need for the novel. Maybe that is how Jerzy Kosinski wanted it, and when you read the novel after watching the movie, you do get the clear feeling that the novel was purely an outline of what was to eventually come. There is nothing in the novel that elaborates on the movie. In fact, the movie consistently improves upon the novel in every way. If you land on this post wondering if you should bother reading Being There, then I say to you: no, there is no reason for you to read it. Just watch the movie.

I’ll even write my own summary. Being There follows Chance, a simple-minded — retarded, if you will — gardener who has never known anything outside of the garden he works in. One day the master of his house dies, and with no record of him ever even existing within the household, and not knowing anything of his family or where he came from, he wanders the streets. Eventually he is picked up by the wife of a wealthy financier after her driver accidentally crushes one of his legs between parked cars. She takes him home and somehow through the simple things he says about gardening and himself, everyone from the financier to the President himself get the impression that he is a genius and before long he is famous within all types of circles and even attracts the romantic attention of the financier’s wife.

It’s a simple concept, and one that almost doesn’t seem original at all, but the movie takes this simple concept and elevates it to something so much more than it is. If I was to take a wild guess at why I can’t get Being There out of my head, it’s that: there is so little to this movie, so little meaning to hold onto, that the one thing it is trying to say it says with such potency that I can’t help but dwell on it.

If the things that Chance says were in some way actually stupid, you could say the film is a biting satire of politics and the gullibility of the American people, but they’re not. He doesn’t say anything offensive to an intelligence observer. The only way the film fumbles is in that Peter Sellers portrayal of Chance is almost too simple, and I find myself wondering that if I met him without knowing him, would I really not get the feeling that I was talking to someone mentally handicapped? But overlooking that one gaffe, the idea that the film is actually mocking politics or just people in general is almost entirely removed.

The ending, I think, and I am going to go to great pains to not spoil anything for anyone who watches, gives away the point of it all to me. Chance’s beauty, Chance’s grace, even, comes from the fact that his perception of the world actually crafts the world around him. The ending isn’t some symbol of divine inspiration, though the aforementioned “I understand” might allude to that, it’s a symbol of the words spoken over it when it happens, “Life is a state of mind.” Chance isn’t able to do what he does because of some special power he has, unless you decide to call the inability to know the world as others do a special power. Chance has probably never even seen a body of water like that before! When you consider the ending from that perspective, it becomes somewhat clear. Perhaps Chance’s ability to win people with his words comes from the simple fact that he doesn’t know that other people treat mentally handicapped individuals differently than normal people.

Life is a state of mind, indeed. Perhaps I am just seeing what I want to see in Being There. I already believe that your mental state helps shape your reality around you, and my interpretation of Being There completely supports that. It’s probably safe to say there is someone out there who sees something divine in Chance, or someone who sees Chance as the antithesis to what the common American thinks of himself and interprets his infiltration into the highest of American institutions as scathing satire.

Regardless, I was beginning to feel that my ability to truly appreciate film has all but disappeared, but Being There has shown me that it is still possible for me to absolutely love a film, and if only for that I am thankful I watched it. You should watch it, too.

I almost feel like I’ve been on a kick of watching satirical films from the 70’s at this point. Admittedly two movies does not a trend make, but I wonder if my subconscious has been leading me in this direction for a while. With my recent ranting about the internet and my general feelings about the isolation and near-celebration of stupidity I feel is becoming epidemic among everyone and everything, how funny is it that I am watching films from 30 years ago that cast a harsh light on all these things?

That paragraph confuses even me.

Network and Being There are both long, slow, and subtly hilarious films about one joke. Network’s joke is that you can mock the degenerate nature of television endlessly and insult people directly through the medium itself and they will eat it up. Being There’s joke is that you can put someone completely and unabashedly retarded within important political and financial institutions and the people within them, and outside of them, wont know the difference.

Being There: In director Hal Ashby’s Oscar-winning satire, illiterate gardener Chance (Peter Sellers) is run over by wealthy Eve (Shirley MacLaine) and suddenly becomes educated gent Chauncey Gardiner, thanks to Eve’s misunderstanding of his mumbled introduction. Taken in by Eve’s family, Chance simply regurgitates what he’s heard on TV — from gardening instructions to economic predictions — and Washington’s political elite hail him as their next star.

Being There succeeds where Network fails, as Being There doesn’t try to reach outside of what it meant to achieve. Being There is comfortable with its one joke and it doesn’t try to elaborate. Sure, the situations “Chauncey Gardiner” get himself into become more and more important, but as a character, and as a message, he never changes. Being There doesn’t even try to make itself out to be a film with a message, as its heart it is just a subtle comedy executed flawlessly. You can read into it all you want, but you’re going to come up with a lot of dead ends. There’s no real message in Being There, there doesn’t need to be, because as a film it is simply enjoyable.

Peter Sellers, whose work I am unfortunately almost entirely unfamiliar with, is amazing in his role, and you only come to understand why he nails it so perfectly when the credits roll and there is an unexpected “blooper” sequence of him, as Chauncey, trying to repeat a message given to him by a young black man. He can crack up, laughing hysterically, and within seconds he is back within the skin of Chauncey Gardiner. Right at the end he delivers it flawlessly, and the entire set cracks up. People in the background double over in laughter, the camera shakes with the laughter of the camera man, and Sellers himself wipes tears from his eyes. Sellers, in this somewhat brief moment, taken out of character for the first time out of the two hour run time of Being There, retroactively causes you to realize how fantastic, and hilarious, the film really was.

Also, as a side note, the ending is brilliant and warrants a couple paragraphs all on its own, but I wont tackle it here. I think I get it, and maybe the novel fleshes out the reason for it a little more and can tell me whether or not I’m right. I’ll find out, and maybe write about the novel.

Network: Paddy Chayefsky predicted today’s rash of trash television and shock-laden news broadcasts. The writer of Marty created network news anchor Howard Beale (Peter Finch), who loses his mind on the air. Unfortunately, his outrageous rants boost the ratings and intrigue cutthroat network executives Faye Dunaway and Robert Duvall. William Holden contrasts their avarice as an old-school TV journalist hopelessly out of step.

Network, on the other hand, starts out very strong, but then dwindles into something that isn’t funny or biting anymore, just unsettling and confusing. Roger Ebert covers this. The first hour of Network is excellent, and could have stood as a film all on its own, but then it gets into some weighty subject matter. Where the protagonist of the film starts off as a likable, understandable, and even powerful character, it becomes clear that there is something seriously wrong underneath the surface and by the near-end he is no longer the protagonist but a just pawn being relentlessly molested by a group of people composed almost entirely of unlikable characters.

The almost intolerable state the film finds itself in after the halfway point is summed up by the “romance sequence” that occurs between Faye Dunaway and William Holden where all throughout the course of their torrid love affair, she never stops speaking of work. Not once does she ever relent in her constant dialog about her job, even while undressing and making love. Network itself is kind of like that, in that it never relents, not once, in trying to convey to you just how corrupt and broken the television industry really is.

Network kind of winds along this sad path where at the beginning you saw hope for a film bent on tearing into the television industry, but by the end you realize the film is actually waving the white flag, saying, fine, you know what, television is the future and it is a sick sad future that is completely unavoidable. The reason the end of Network is biting is the exact reason the film itself is so sad: it depresses us, and by the end of it we, too, just want to shut it off and walk away.

It took me a long time to eventually become a fan of Blade Runner. I watched it when I was probably about fourteen, and I kind of liked the look of it but it was slow and somewhat boring, a trait I could appreciate in movies at that point, but in Blade Runner I found it kind of ridiculous since it seemed like a brainless movie about a dude killing some androids. To make matters worse, I read Philip K. Dick’s novel that it was “based” on and discovered that Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? is a deeply thought provoking novel with many well thought out characters and emotional undertones. From what I could see, Blade Runner had absolutely nothing to do with the novel outside of a few characters names and the idea of killing renegade androids. Finding out that Ridley Scott didn’t even read DADoES? made me furious and hate the film even more.

It wasn’t until I took a humanities class and was forced to sit through the film again after all these years spent disliking it. Even before we got into a discussion on the meaning and significance of what happens in it, I understood. For some reason it just clicked in my head, and I saw Blade Runner for what it was: a subtle film about what it means to be human. I decided that, sure, it has nothing to do with the novel, and perhaps Dick was reading some other version of the screenplay when he said they compliment each other, but it is a good film that deserves attention. I think all of Ridley Scott’s other work is shit in some way, I just can never manage to enjoy it, but Blade Runner is good stuff.

It’s only been a year or two since that time and after enjoying The Director’s Cut many times, I got to watch The Final Cut on Matt’s super-awesome HDTV on HDDVD and, my god, that was an experience and a half.

First: I didn’t know Blade Runner looked like this. I wish I had gone and seen it in a theater when I had the chance, and now I am kicking myself over and over again for not going. I guess when they said the original DVD release of Blade Runner was a piece of shit, they weren’t kidding, because the Blade Runner I grew up watching was washed out, muddled, and just kind of dirty. I assumed the film was meant to be that way, that it added to the tone in some way. No, not at all. Blade Runner is sharp, vibrant, and so full of detail that my head spun within the first five minutes. The opening shot of fire bellowing out of the smokestacks is breathtaking and the film just keeps getting better looking from there. Here’s a pullquote for you: If there is one film that single-handedly demonstrates the need for a high definition movie format, it is Blade Runner.

However, I expected something more than just The Director’s Cut with more violence, “father”, and Deckard’s eyes being open during the unicorn vision. I guess I can’t say I was disappointed, but I really expected something to be different between the versions and, in short, nothing was. I suppose after George Lucas has repeatedly bastardized the original Trilogy (and there is only one), I should be thankful that Ridley Scott didn’t feel the need to ruin Blade Runner, but he could have probably done anything and not subtracted from what a great film it is.

But, and this is a huge but, Blade Runner is not the film I thought it was. I’m such a die-hard fan of the book that even though the Director’s Cut tries really hard to make it obvious that Deckard is a replicant, and Ridley Scott says Deckard is a replicant, I refused to believe that within the film, Deckard is a replicant. I can’t stomach it. Harrison Ford couldn’t stomach it and I am very disappointed that, according to Scott on Wikipedia, that even Ford has “given up hope” on Deckard not being a replicant.

The entire philosophical content of the film hinges on the fact that Deckard is not a replicant. The emotional tone of Batty and Deckard’s final confrontation felt hollow and silly when I watched it this time with the understanding that Deckard is a replicant. The question of whether or not the man is more monster than the monster is man is completely lost, and the emotional complexity of the story is destroyed. What made Deckard a man was his willingness to love Rachel even though he knows what she is. What gave the story depth was the clear image at the end of Batty being more man than Deckard was at that point, and Batty being the catalyst that made Deckard realize that he is, indeed, a monster and has no right to destroy Rachel.

When you paint Deckard as a replicant, it becomes clear that he is just an emotionless killing machine, and that the feelings he develops for Rachel are just a symptom of his design, just like how Batty had feelings for Pris. It’s ridiculous on so many levels, and opens even further conflicts when you consider that the unicorn origami was folded by the same guy who told Deckard, “It’s too bad she won’t live!” when he should have already known at that point that Deckard himself was a replicant. It just doesn’t make any fucking sense, and it ruins everything I ever liked about the film.

So, thank you Ridley Scott for giving me the most beautiful version of the film I’ve ever seen, but fuck you for making Deckard’s eyes glow, for the unicorn vision, and for that origami unicorn. Fuck you for absolutely ruining a film that could be perfect if you just didn’t go back on what you and Harrison Ford originally agreed on.

I’m late. I’m so very late, but there is reason for it: 2007 was an amazing, incredible, utterly stupendous year for music. I don’t think I have been so impressed by a year since, well, I’m not sure. I thought it was 2004, but maybe it was 2005. I don’t know! If you’re curious, here’s links to my “Best of” from previous years: Best of 2004, Best of 2005, Best of 2006.

For those who have been following me for a while, you know that my “Best of” lists aren’t really ever a limited list. This year will probably be no different. (Don’t you just love how I don’t even know what I am going to write before I write it?) Let me say a few things first however:

This last year, like I said above, has been simply incredible. Not only did I get releases from almost every band that I love and adore, but I discovered a bunch of new bands that are equally incredible. My taste in music has been shaped and changed and I’ve got to say a lot of this was due to OiNK, oh dearly departed OiNK, I will never forget you for probably being responsible for giving me the best year in music I will ever experience. The loss of OiNK will be felt by me for years to come, and I will probably never listen to music the same way ever again. Thank you, OiNK, for exposing me to so much new music in such a short amount of time. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be who I am today.

Without further ado, in order of greatest first…

The National - Boxer
The Polyphonic Spree - The Fragile Army
Nine Inch Nails - Year Zero

I can’t pick a number one out of these three. I just can’t. It’s not possible this year, and I’m a little surprised I don’t throw the Arcade Fire up into this list. I will say that it makes sense however, because all three of these have something in common: they are albums by artists I already love deeply (even if The National I only love for their previous release) that show the artists re-inventing themselves in some way or breaking out of their pre-existing conventions.

The National do something somewhat miraculous: they take their sad, comfortable songs about dying relationships and stagnant life, soften them, place them on a pillow, slide them under a piano, and place the whole thing under a comforter on a rainy winter day. Even though I tried right there, there is no easy way to describe the feeling of this album. Their prior release, Alligator, was comfortable with random bursts of frantic noise, and those moments are almost entirely lacking from Boxer, and thank goodness. As an album, there is none more consistently lovely to emerge from 2007.

After the admittedly over-produced and somewhat excessive Together We’re Heavy, Tim DeLaughter and The Polyphonic Spree came back with something they hadn’t really done before: real songs, with actual subject matter outside of shiny happiness. I am a die-hard Polyphonic Spree fan. I’ve seen them five times, and two of them were this year, and each time I brought three other people with me. During the second show I went to, Tim DeLaughter came out into the audience and hugged me and when I think of that moment I still grin like a idiot. My somewhat manic fandom of the Spree is probably why this album isn’t a clear #1: while I think it is a step in the right direction, I still prefer Together We’re Heavy. That shiny happy excess is what I fell in love with, and while The Fragile Army is a leaner, tighter, less excessive showing from them, they’re not quite the same band I fell in love with. However, if you’re looking to listen to an album by them for the first time, there is none better than this. It is relevant, politically, and the songs are catchy.

Nine Inch Nails, Trent Reznor, nearly lost me as a fan with With Teeth. His songwriting was no longer relevant to me and even if it was, it was lost under a somewhat minimalistic and entirely electronic wave of music. Year Zero, however, had me hooked even before it came out. It might seem gimmicky and incomplete in retrospect, but the Year Zero ARG was a stroke of genius on behalf of Reznor. Perhaps he knew that no one would take his new direction seriously unless he explained it to people before hand, but I know from my own experience with exposing people to this album: Year Zero is genius. Not only does he combine his musical trademarks of the past with the new direction present on With Teeth, but he is no longer writing songs about addiction, depression, and suicide. This album is political to the hilt, casting an eye to a dystopic future under the Bush Administration where freedom of speech has been entirely obliterated and the masses of the world are rendered passive by a chemical in the drinking water. Admittedly, you wouldn’t understand any of this if it wasn’t for the ARG, but it is a testament to Reznor’s songwriting that the songs are still emotive and almost none of them fall flat without the support of the backstory. To me, Year Zero is a relief. It means that an artist I grew up listening to is not a has-been, and leaves me looking forward to what is to come.

Arcade Fire - Neon Bible

I discovered Funeral long after I wrote my Best of 2004. It is one of my biggest regrets, because I no longer listen to a lot of the albums I wrote about that year but Funeral still gets listened to today. I hate to jump on the Arcade Fire bandwagon, because they are a severely popular artist and I am a pretentious fuck who doesn’t like to admit to being a fan of something popular, but make no mistake: Arcade Fire make amazing music that everyone, seriously, everyone, should listen to.

Neon Bible is no different. In many ways it is a better album than Funeral. It is consistent, it is lovely, it is brooding. I am not sure who, but one of the members said that, “Neon Bible is like standing on the beach at night,” and there is no better way to describe it. While listening, you can easily close your eyes and see the waves crashing on the shore, the cold wind cutting through your hair and raising goosebumps on your arms, and by the time you reach No Cars Go, you can feel the arms of your love come in around you and hold you close.

Take that Pitchfork! I can write more pretentiously about the Arcade Fire than any of you fuckers.

Beirut - The Flying Club Cup

Beirut caught my attention with the Lon Gisland EP. Unfortunately for Mr. Condon, it did not hold my attention. For containing only 3 real songs, it was surprising to me how annoying they all got after repeated listens. Fortunately for Mr. Condon, The Flying Club Cup does not suffer from this. However, it does suffer from something that I think has caused it to be overlooked by pretty much every music critic there is: it will put you to sleep if you don’t attentively listen to it. In fact, if I were to order this list by what album will most likely end up on your “going to sleep” playlist, this would be number 1. Furthermore, it would also destroy everything else in that playlist.

However, it would be foolish to say that this is not a beautiful album. A few of the songs have made it into my iPod’s rotation and rarely get skipped. In The Mausoleum sounds like Peanuts, jovial and fun. Cliquot’s lyrics are memorable and fun to sing along with, and is quite possibly the best track on the album, which is unfortunate for Condon as it is the one track he doesn’t sing on. Nantes is one of my favorites to bounce around to, albeit slowly. The Flying Club Cup, as an album, is definitely a keeper, even if you only listen to it to fall asleep.

Jens Lekman - Night Falls Over Kortedala

This album took me by surprise. I don’t mean to sound close-minded, bigoted, or ignorant when I say: this is some of the gayest music I have ever listened to. I’ll admit, I was more impressed by it when I had no idea that every song is built around samples from classical pieces of music I’d never heard before. Even if you take away the sheer excessive beauty of the music, there is still his songwriting, which is clever, funny, sometimes heartbreaking, but all around excellent on every track.

However, if you’re close-minded to excessively swelling strings, lyrics that border on bubblegum pop, and, I hate to say this again, music that just sounds blatantly homosexual, then you probably won’t like Night Falls Over Kortedala. You’d be a fool not to try to listen to his prior works, because songs like Black Cab and Maple Leaves are classics of songwriting and it’s sad to say, Night Falls doesn’t contain any songs that are quite as good as those two.

Menomena - Friend & Foe

I barely remember this album, and that’s unfortunate because it contains songs that have carried me throughout the whole year. The Pelican, Wet and Rusting, Air Raid, and Ghostship have been a part of my iPod’s rotation for nearly a year now and they have never been skipped. I am reasonably certain those four songs will always be a part of my rotation, and I vaguely remember the whole album being nearly as good as them. Friend & Foe’s music nearly defies description, Menomena is simply weird, but underneath the weirdness are memorable songs with lyrics that might be meaningless and nearly impossible to sing along with, but are catchy and memorable.

Andrew Bird - Armchair Apocrypha

Mysterious Production of Eggs got Andrew Bird noticed within the pretentious indie scene that I begrudgingly call home, and much like what happened to Beirut, his album from this year was pretty much exclusively ignored and damned with faint praise. Why? I don’t know. In many ways Armchair Apocrypha is a better album than Mysterious Production, though I guess I’d be hard pressed to say why. I’ll admit that it is much of the same, and as far as individual songs go, it is lacking, but as an album it is consistent and memorable and, though some might argue with me, the songwriting is actually decipherable on occasion.

Blonde Redhead - 23

This kicks off the section of this “best of” that dives into albums that are on the list only because they contain great songs. As an album, 23 isn’t very memorable. Song-wise, however, there are some splendid tracks. Spring and By Summer Fall is definitely one of my favorite songs from this year. Publisher, and Heroine are fantastic as well.

The Pirate Ship Quintet - Self-titled EP

I don’t like post-rock. I don’t think I ever will. I think most of it are just musicians getting together and jerking-off into each other’s hair with their instruments. Maybe it’s just that I can’t understand music that doesn’t contain vocals and lyrics, of any kind. There is something about The Pirate Ship Quintet’s EP that speaks to me. There is something dramatic and epic about it, while also being subdued. There is little else I can say in support of it.

Patrick Wolf - The Magic Position

Two great songs, Get Lost and the title track, The Magic Position, are the only reasons this is on the list. Again, like with Jens Lekman, this is some of the gayest music I have ever listened to, but if you’re willing, like I am, to give yourself over to the sheer excessive happiness of it, there is a lot to like. When you couple it with the fact that Patrick Wolf himself is actually playing all the instruments you hear in every song, it becomes impressive and, to me, that makes it more listenable.

The Broken West - I Can’t Go On, I’ll Go On

This is where my list starts to really dwindle. The Broken West’s debut impressed me and there are a few songs that have made it into my rotation. They’re one of those bands that crafts pure guitar based pop songs and this is significant because I generally don’t like bands like this. However there is something that feels honest about The Broken West, as if they couldn’t be any band but the one they are, and I appreciate that and that is enough to make them somewhat significant in my eyes.

Bowerbirds - Hymns for a Dark Horse

Sarah exposed me to this band through the song In Our Talons, which continues to be one of my favorite songs from 2007. Bur Oak is the second song off this album that is memorable. If you’re a fan of tranquil folky acoustic guitar indie music, this album might be for you. Much like Beirut’s album from this year, it suffers somewhat from being able to put you to sleep.

Alaska in Winter - Dance Party in the Balkans

I’m sure most people who have any idea what this is only know of it because Zack Condon of Beirut guests on it. When and where is somewhat beyond me, but this is an interesting album because it is titled exactly what it sounds like. This is indeed good dance party music, but only if you think your kind of dance party would be held up in the hills in some remote part of some remote eastern European country. There are fat beats, and even fatter accordion parts.

Christine Fellows - Nevertheless

As someone new and under-qualified in his fandom of Christine Fellows, there is little I can say about this album. One thing I can say for certain, however, is that it was a very poor decision on her part to make this a semi-concept album about an old lady and then choose to sing it in a very small and feeble voice. A lot of Fellow’s goodness from her prior albums comes from the fact that her voice is unique and rich in subtle ways. Unfortunately, her vocals on this album are meek and, to quote Sarah who introduced me to Fellows this year, she sounds something like a cartoon character. It’s sad, because a few of these songs, notably the title track and The Spinster’s Almanac, are actually fantastic but her vocals cast a somewhat annoying light over them.

The Jealous Girlfriends - Self-titled

This is album number two from this year that is distinctive in that it is not actually a good album but a somewhat decent collection of tracks. In this case, it’s the second half of the album that truly shines. Organs on the Kitchen Floor, How Now, and Something in the Water are some of the best tracks from this year, and it’s unfortunate that the rest of the album is almost entirely forgettable.

Jesca Hoop - Kismet

And hanging onto the very bottom of the list is Jesca Hoop, who only gets here because I saw her open live for The Polyphonic Spree and she was incredibly sexy. Yes, her album gets noted by me merely because her live performance was somewhat mesmerizing. She’s not even particularly attractive, she’s a little too thin for my tastes, as she looks somewhat like a heroin addict. While she’s singing however, and my God does she have a fantastic voice that her album doesn’t even do justice to, she sways side to side, gyrates, and practically fucks you from all the way up on stage. Tom Waits said some confusing shit about her music being “like swimming in a lake at night,” which, unlike in the case of Arcade Fire’s Neon Bible, is utter bullshit. Her music is actually fairly typical and jumps across the board from folky displays of vocal beauty to hip-hop inspired crap about parties, but her showmanship is really second to none and I can’t fully explain why.

Song: Ed is a Portal, by Akron/Family

Off their album from this year, Love is Simple, Ed is a Portal is, hands down, the best song of 2007, if not of all time. I know, I know, you’re saying: Really, Brad? The best song of all time! I’ve got to say, yes, yes it is. Admittedly the lyrics are total gibberish, apparently torn out of some weird email the band was sent by a friend, but that doesn’t change the fact that this song defines everything I love about music. As such, it is almost indescribable. It is simply a fun song to listen to, and while I don’t enjoy the band very much, as a song it has almost no equal. If you listen to one piece of music to come out of 2007, it should be Ed is a Portal.

Compilation: Palms & Runes, Tarot & Tea: A Michael Penn Collection

Michael Penn is easily one of my favorite artists. Some people can’t stand him. I’ve come across people using him to define everything that is wrong with adult contemporary pop music, but I adore him. He writes music that, on occasion, almost entirely apes The Beatles, or The Byrds, or, well, really, anyone. Michael Penn’s music could be written by anyone, probably, but he makes it his own and if you remember No Myth from the late 80’s and what to see what he’s been up to since, or enjoy Jon Brion (who I consider Penn’s other half), then there is no better place to start than Palms & Runes, Tarot & Tea. There are few, if any, signature tracks missing from this collection.

Song: Don’t Make Me A Target, by Spoon

I’m pretty much alone in this, but Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga disappointed me entirely. I only really liked Gimme Fiction, that album has a great mood that is consistent throughout and some really unorthodox songwriting. The rest of Spoon’s work has never appealed to me, and Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga is much the same. However, the opening track, Don’t Make Me A Target, is almost catchy to the point of nausea. The rest of the album, including The Underdog, can go suck a big shitty pop music hook-based songwriting dick, but Don’t Make Me A Target will be listened to, by me, for a long time to come.

Album: Tomahawk - Anonymous

Mike Patton is a genius. There is no arguing it. The scope of his work is staggering, and there is no place this is more apparent than on this album. Tomahawk, who on their prior album crafted some really heavy face-pounding rock, decide that instead of doing much of the same, craft an album “inspired by” Native American music. It sounds like it, and that’s all I can really say about it. Is it listenable? Yes. Is it memorable? Somewhat. Does it succeed at what it sets out to do? Yeah, yeah, yeah. Is it actually good? Well, I don’t know, but it deserves mentioning.

St. Vincent - Marry Me

There was a time that I thought St. Vincent’s debut album would be somewhere in the top 5 of albums from 2007. That time passed, and long ago. Initially I was deeply in love with this album, St. Vincent impressed me with her good looks, smooth voice, and quirky song stylings. Then I saw some pictures of her where she looked meek and somewhat awkward, which wasn’t a big deal. I mean, I like a lot of artists who are genuinely ugly people. Then I heard some recordings of her live and discovered that she can’t actually sing despite what a lot of people say. On top of that, when she’s by herself she’s only got a guitar and songs that sound amazing, layered, and richly textured end up sounding flat and weird. Admittedly I haven’t seen her live, in person, so maybe I am being unfair but this last point is what kills her for me: her songs are meaningless bullshit. Underneath all the nifty sounds and instruments and vocal effects, her actual songwriting is just nonsensical crap. There isn’t a song on the album, with the exception of the title track, that actually means anything. If you can tell me what the lyrics to Jesus Saves, I Spend mean then I will give you eight thousand dollars. Marry Me is full of a lot of really pretty sounding songs, but when you really get down to it, they are as empty as the reasoning for her moniker.

Queens of the Stone Age - Era Vulgaris

Lullabies to Paralyze was a surprising album. I didn’t expect Homme to be able to make a decent album without his Oliveri counter-part, but he did, and it was good. Unfortunately it was only a matter of time before shittiness caught up with Josh Homme and Era Vulgaris is that album. I only listened to it once, which was enough to decide that I didn’t like it, but not enough to be able to tell you why. In short, I was disappointed, and didn’t want to tarnish my opinion of Queens’ prior works by repeated listens of this album.

Rilo Kiley - Under the Blacklight

I’m reasonably certain that Blake Sennett was killed by Jenny Lewis and replaced with a soulless robot programmed to do her bidding. This album is fucking awful, and is a clear example of what happens when you’re a good band that is crushed under the weight of some crazy self-centered bitch high on the success of her shitty solo album. I don’t know any of this as fact, but if you listen to Under the Blacklight, it seems clear to me that something went horribly wrong inside of Rilo Kiley once Jenny Lewis became popular as a solo artist.

Type O Negative - Dead Again

I’ve already covered this, so just click here to read a very lengthy rant about why this album is the definition of failure.

Stay tuned for the sequel to this post: The Best Songs of 2007! Yay!