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[  Honorables .. 100-91 .. 90-81 .. 80-71 .. 70-61 .. 60-51 .. 50-41 .. 40-31 .. 30-21 .. 20-11 .. 10-1  ]




THE MICROPHONES: The Glow, Pt. 2 (2001): Phil Elverum's 2001 magnum opus, The Glow, Part 2, is modern music's lo-fi masterwork. Everything great about the fragile acoustics of Elverum's prior work—in particular 2000's It Was Hot, We Stayed in the Water—was blown up onto the huge canvas of these twenty immaculately conceived tracks. The journey through the album's peaks and valleys—from quiet, finger-picked folk, to washes of ambient static, to moments of metal-like alchemy, a conceit he runs with to this very day—is all part of the greater experience of the album as a whole. Subtract one piece from this intricate structure and it would topple under its own delicate walls of tape hiss. Elverum's ambition has remained intact throughout all of his subsequent work, but the crystalline beauty he captured with his breakthrough album has yet to be matched. JC




THE SHINS: Chutes Too Narrow (2003): The Shins’ Chutes Too Narrow is a shining example of how to make a sophomore album. With successful debut Oh, Inverted World under their belt, the indie-pop group not only avoided a slump and lived up to the sizable expectations they created, but they surpassed those expectations. The formula and musical palette on both records are similar—it’s clear that the band had no intention of reinventing themselves—but the writing and composition show remarkable maturity over the span of just a couple years. With singer James Mercer’s distinctive songwriting and the band’s sharp execution, this lean, tight pop album is a genuine triumph and the best they've recorded to date. It’s probably impossible to overstate the amount of hooks stuffed into the 34 minutes of Chutes Too Narrow, but it’s the way the group present them that makes the record so enthralling. Mercer rarely takes a melody where you expect him to, preferring to subtly twist and invert it in unusual yet coherent ways. The band gives each track a fitting arrangement using touches of synth here, a bit of slide guitar there, and just enough detail to differentiate each tune from the last while keeping the album cohesive. Chutes Too Narrow is so excellently put together and recorded that it almost seems too easy, and that’s just another reason why it’s so special. CN




BURIAL: Untrue (2007): Untrue still represents dubstep's one true crossover success, and for good reason. Steeped in two-step beat lock, trip-hop and the ghostly atmosphere of a lost-but-not-forgotten soul, Burial's Untrue remains a beautifully intangible enigma. Perfectly capturing the rain-soaked alleys and crowded city streets of London, the record envelopes the senses, and the result—truly unlike any album on this list—breathes and recedes on an uneasy foundation of scarily familiar vocal loops. And while the album is minimal in the sense that each of its elements represents its own revolving axis, its emotions aren't static, reaching out for levels of nostalgia, trepidation and morbidity that inorganic tools can rarely, if ever, authentically express. In the years since the album’s release, Burial has been revealed as a modestly shrouded producer by the name of Will Belvin, but it’s the spirit-like incantations that continually weave through the music’s thick fabric that continue to give Untrue a humanity all its own. JC




GRIZZLY BEAR: Yellow House (2006): Grizzly Bear’s progress from first to second album, 2006’s Yellow House, can be likened to a move from an apartment to a house. The first record released under the Grizzly Bear moniker was a set of sparse, lo-fi recordings produced in the apartment of singer/songwriter/guitarist Ed Droste. Fast-forward a couple of years, and Grizzly Bear is a four-piece recording in the Cape Cod home of Droste’s mother (yes, the house was yellow). One important addition to the band was singer/songwriter/multi-instrumentalist Daniel Rossen, who came with a few songs of his own. What makes this record impressive is how unified it sounds despite the fact that most songs were written by separate members before the band had formed. Yellow House debuted what we now know as the “Grizzly Bear sound,” which features lush, mid-tempo arrangements constructed with guitars, banjos, reed instruments, and vocal harmonies. For my money, this might be the most atmospheric record of the decade. I can’t listen to it without thinking of a dusty attic in New England, not only because I know the story behind the record but because it sounds like a dusty attic in New England. The album seems to explore—through minimal lyrics—the 21st-century American home. Disappointment, abandonment, loneliness, and misunderstood love are explored in the context of middle-class domesticity. It all comes together to form a subtle, yet complex record, both sonically and thematically. In light of all this, Droste’s question in the album’s final moments (“What now? What now?”) sounds almost like a challenge, as if Grizzly Bear, searching for a rival, is daring someone to respond to their modest triumph. GB




WOLF PARADE: Apologies to the Queen Mary (2005): The hype surrounding Wolf Parade’s debut, Apologies to the Queen Mary, was considerable, and its success catapulted frontmen Dan Boeckner and Spencer Krug out of relative obscurity and into the indie spotlight. So it’s easy to label the record an important one, though that’s probably not enough to put it so high on a list of the decade’s best albums. Fortunately, Apologies is every bit the success many claim it to be, combining two strong and distinctive artistic styles into one genuinely awesome rock ‘n’ roll tour de force. With the help of Krug’s dark ruminations and insistent keyboards, and Boeckner’s buoyant personality and fiery guitar riffs, Wolf Parade brought something unexpectedly great into being, the likes of which we hadn't heard before. The whole of Apologies is played with an electrifying energy and fervor that borders on manic. Each song is stuffed with riffs and fills to the point of bursting, with powerfully sung melodies and harmonies erupting constantly in a joyous and grandiose manner. The music begs sing-alongs and air-guitar accompaniment, but it’s far from a simple arena-rock album. Krug, Boekner and company are clever composers, creating insanely catchy tunes with a varied and often unusual selection of instruments blended together seamlessly. But no matter what you know about the music’s composition, it’s easy to hear what makes the appealing Apologies to the Queen Mary such an astonishing accomplishment. CN




ANIMAL COLLECTIVE: Strawberry Jam (2007): I still remember the first time I heard Strawberry Jam. The opener, “Peacebone,” begins with an abrasive, static-y noise that made me ask my friend to turn the record off. Fortunately, as the song continues, a beat emerges and the noise forms something like music. In a way, “Peacebone” functions as a microcosm of Animal Collective’s sonic progression over the years. The band’s early sound consists of noisy, electronic soundscapes, but with each record, more of pop music’s influence worms its way in, and consequently those records are more accessible. Looking back, 2007’s Strawberry Jam seems to be the record that bridged the gap between AC’s early, experimental days and 2009’s highly acclaimed Merriweather Post Pavilion. And because of its transitional nature, noise and pop elements blend well throughout the record; Avey Tare’s punctuating screams on “For Reverend Green” lead into “Fireworks,” in which vocal performance and unique melody help the song attain a surprisingly moving tone (and, for my money, make it AC’s best standalone track to date). Since Panda Bear was hard at work on Person Pitch around the time Strawberry Jam was in the works, this record feels Avey Tare-centric; he helms seven of the nine songs. However, Panda Bear’s presence isn’t entirely absent, and his Brian Wilson-like vocal inflection proves the perfect foil to Tare’s desperate yelp. These differing styles exemplify duality; much like the image on the album cover, Strawberry Jam is a sweet and sticky mess, but it’s also a singular record that boldly seeks to redefine what pop music can be. GB




INTERPOL: Turn on the Bright Lights (2002): Probably the most pristine, mature and fully formed debut album of the decade, Interpol's seminal Turn on the Bright Lights was the first of countless albums to re-envision late-70s/early-80s post-punk as something creeping and haunting, yet still altogether human—the latter quality too many imitators have failed to capture. The unquestionably perfect opening run of "Untitled," "Obstacle 1," "NYC" and "PDA" will most certainly remain in the musical lexicon for all eternity, yet the overlooked second side of the album houses highlights just as rewarding. This is one of those albums that everyone thinks they've experienced through its most recognizable moments, but rarely has a debut full-length been as carefully constructed from end-to-end. “Stella Was a Diver and She Was Always Down” crackles with drawn-out suspense, while elegiac closer “Leif Erikson” sends the record out with an air of ambiguousness that stands in stark contrast to the first side’s immediate pleasures. This dark album may have spawned some of the decade’s most triumphant singles, but it’s worth exploring for less immediate moments hidden in its shadows. JC




JOANNA NEWSOM: The Milk-Eyed Mender (2004): I’m just gonna throw this out there: Joanna Newsom's The Milk-Eyed Mender is possibly just as excellent an album, if not better, than her widely-considered masterpiece, Ys. If her sophomore album upped the complexity and depth of Newsom’s inimitable folk music, her debut is the more approachable of the two in style and structure, composed of 12 stunning examples of the imaginative storytelling and considerable talent that made us notice Newsom in in the first place. Perhaps it’s simply a matter of preference, but wherever you may stand on the issue, it’s impossible to deny that Mender made an indelible impression. From the moment of her arrival, Newsom proved herself an ambitious and unique songwriter of the highest caliber with gems like “The Book of Right-On” and “Peach, Plum, Pear,” which are filled with odd and fantastical poetry presented through a high-pitched, almost child-like voice and signature harp playing. Newsom is a brainy and literary songstress, but she also imbues her music with emotional warmth that complements and enhances her lyrics; the effect is beguiling. It’s not incorrect to label her style an acquired taste, but it’s one that begs to be acquired, so that each successive listen can be a more revelatory experience than the last. Before long, Mender becomes a wonderful place to lose yourself in for an hour. CN




IRON & WINE: Our Endless Numbered Days (2004): The release of Iron & Wine’s 2004 album Our Endless Numbered Days was met with a bit of apprehension. Following Sam Beam’s acclaimed 2002 debut, The Creek Drank the Cradle, the studio involvement on Days made fans nervous, Beam’s southern gentility having turned him into the unofficial poet laureate of folk. However, minor exceptions aside, the designation of poet is nowhere more fitting in Beam’s oeuvre than on Days, with its lyrical ambiguity and Beam’s plaintive delivery. Nearly every song on Days seems to burst forth from Beam’s mind, obscurity and intimacy positioning them somewhere between stream-of-consciousness musings and anecdotal catharsis. Songs like “Naked as We Came” and “Each Coming Night” act as momentary intrusions into delicate conversations, while a song like “Fever Dream” offers only an obscured glimpse into a complicated love affair: “Sometimes I’d like just to ask her what honest words she can’t afford to say.” On Days, more than on any other Iron & Wine album, this line describes our relationship to Beam, too. With his newfound ubiquity looming, it makes sense that Beam would disguise such personal, heartrending songs through his carefully enigmatic lyrics, leaving us the tough but rewarding job of deciphering what exactly he’s saying while also considering what isn’t being said. Beam breeds nostalgia, entirely devoid of cliché, into the simplest of sentiments, and his penchant for the melancholy is rivaled only by his commitment to the beautiful, celebrating the paradoxical complexities of romance, life and death. And in the final moments of Our Endless Numbered Days, an album rich with life-affirming sadness, it's hard to imagine a more poignant line than Beam’s declaration, “A baby sleeps in all our bones so scared to be alone.” The beauty of Beam’s music is in its duality, allowing us to discover for ourselves whether joy and melancholy exist apart or, as Beam sees it, simultaneously and beautifully as one. LG




KANYE WEST: Late Registration (2005): You don't have to imagine what Late Registration might sound like without Jon Brion's contribution; just listen to the official version of Fiona Apple's Extraordinary Machine, which strips all but one of that record's songs of the carnivalesque accouterments the Brion-produced bootleg lent them and ladles on pop schmaltz and watered down rock arrangements. That comparison is of course a little off—Kanye has an ear that Fiona doesn't, and his work on some of "big brother" Jay-Z's very best songs attests that he would have made Registration worthwhile with or without Brion in the producer's chair. But it took a collaborative effort between these two singular artists to realize a classic, and just as Extraordinary Machine suffers extraordinarily without one of its key conceptualists, I shudder to think how different Kanye's opus would be minus its still-innovative and ambitious orchestration. Where would "Heard 'Em Say" be—with its effeminate Adam Levine-crooned chorus and spare setup of fuzzy base and piano—without that fitfully strange coda, built around kitchenware percussion, muffled horns and xylophone? And where would the skittish "Addiction" be without its bongos, shakers and dissonant backing vocals, not mention that clipped soul sample? Brion gives idiosyncratic life to these songs, lending them character and dimension. In turn, Kanye grounds Brion's typically hard to pin down aesthetic, giving each track a center and a strident sense of purpose. The whirligig strings of Registration's best song (epic closer "Gone") aren't anything new for Brion, but paired with knotty verses from Kanye, Cam'ron and Consequence (the latter rapper's finest hour) the song takes on a singular levity, only enhanced by the ghostly Otis Redding sample which worms its way through the track's first half. Like Clipse's Hell Hath No Fury, Late Registration finds transcendence in pairing its uniquely great writer with a producer perfectly attuned to his identity. The results prove hip-hop is alive and well. SCM




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