Pretty Goes with Pretty

My Listening Hours: The Best of April–June

Andrew Bird & the Mysterious Production of Eggs
Just looking at Saturday's post you can probably guess that this is my favorite purchase of the season (not to mention favorite of the year). I've written about this album's effect on me already, so I'll just add that, happily, I think it is so good that it will probably rise above any sort of personal connection to this period of my life. I hope so, at least. Meanwhile, I read Bird's posts at Measure for Measure with great anticipation for his new album, whenever it may be finished.

• Andrew Bird, Masterfade

Neil Young, Everybody Knows This is Nowhere
Five years ago I had zero Neil Young albums in my collection; now I have five. Harvest is still my favorite—I just love the mood of that album—but this one is a strong contender for the top spot, as Young gets a lot louder and a lot jammier. Epics like "Cowgirl in the Sand" and "Down by the River" are mindblowing, while the shorter songs like "Round and Round" and the title track have undeniable hooks. This album is outstanding from start to finish.

• Neil Young, Everybody Knows This is Nowhere

The Lovin' Spoonful, Anthology
The Lovin' Spoonful are one of those bands I didn't know I'd been listening to for pretty much my whole life. I never connected the band to their many, many hits ("Do You Believe in Magic," "Did You Ever Have to Make Up Your Mind," "Summer in the City," and a few others), so it wasn't the obvious songs that finally drew me to them. It was Paul's post at Setting the Woods on Fire on the roots of country-rock, which included "Nashville Cats." I fell in love! A few weeks later I was at the library and saw this greatest hits collection, at which point I realized just how many of their songs I already knew. The collection bounces around between their British Invasion-inspired tunes and their more explicit forays into country. It's the latter songs I respond to the most.

There are a handful of songwriters or bands that fall into a special category for me—i.e., songs my imaginary toddlers will love. I'd say at least half of this collection, if not the whole darned thing, fits in nicely. (Also in this category: Harry Nilsson, a lot of Cat Stevens and Simon & Garfunkel, a few bossa nova tracks and country songs, and probably a bunch others... perhaps a post for another time.)

• The Lovin' Spoonful, Jug Band Music

Les Paul & Mary Ford: Best of the Capitol Masters
Acquired at the library on the same day as the Lovin' Spoonful, I could say a lot of the same things about this wonderful collection, which also fits into my imaginary toddler playlist. Mary Ford's voice (is she overdubbing her own harmonies? I think so) is just so lovely, and I honestly cannot figure out how Les Paul's fingers can dance across the fretboard; his style is absolutely unique and I've never heard anyone after cop his sound.

• Les Paul & Mary Ford, The World is Waiting for the Sunrise

Elvis Costello & the Attractions, Armed Forces
Last year, thanks to Imperial Bedroom, I went from liking Elvis Costello to flat-out loving him. So I've begun filling in the holes in my collection, trying to move chronologically through his ouerve at least until I get to the spotty part of his career. Which brings me to his third album, Armed Forces. I can see the progression between the first two albums, which were buoyed at least in part by a lot of sheer attitude, and Imperial Bedroom, which is wall-to-wall perfectly executed pop songwriting. The songwriting on the first half of Armed Forces is pretty much right up there with Imperial Bedroom: "Accidents Will Happen," "Senior Service," and "Oliver's Army" are all fantastic. Somewhere around the middle things falter a little; I'm not too fond of "Goon Squad," and everything after that falls a little flat for me. Not bad by any means, just not to the highest caliber Costello is capable of. (And for the record, while I like "What's So Funny About Peace, Love and Understanding," it's never been one of my favorites.)

• Elvis Costello: Oliver's Army

Philip Glass, Glassworks
I've been flirting with contemporary composers for years now, in a very shallow way: bought Koyaanisqatsi some time in college, picked up Steve Reich's Music for 18 Musicians five or six years ago, bought a box set of early electronica forbears (which includes the likes of Cage, Young, Stockhausen, and others), and then a few months ago got Terry Riley's In C for a whole dollar. So I don't profess to have anything more than a passing knowledge of the genre, as evidenced by my just now getting Glassworks, which is probably a (rightly) obvious place to start. It's really a fantastic collection of pieces, mostly for piano. Unlike the other material I already own, which is either hour-long works asking you to immerse yourself and listen or brief, literally experimental exercises, Glassworks is short and easily digestible. That's not the best endorsement, but what I mean is that it really does feel like a kind of gateway drug, moreso than the other discs I've tried (and liked) in the past. So, a question for those of you more schooled than I: where to next? Other works by these composers? Other composers altogether? Who are some of your favorites?

• Philip Glass, Opening

Shearwater, Rook
The lone 2008 release to make it into my favorites this time around. And at first I really didn't think it would. Rook requires some patience, to say the least. In terms of songwriting, performance, and production, it is pretty much flawless. It feels epic, and composed, despite running under forty minutes altogether—which in itself is an accomplishment, in an age new releases that include "bonus tracks" on already overlong albums (off the top of my head: Fiery Furnaces, TV on the Radio).

So why did I hesitate, at first, in liking Rook? The voice. Jonathan Meiburg, who is the singer, songwriter, and overall creative force behind Shearwater, has a very pretty, obviously trained vocal delivery. His timbre, tone, and projection are all very practiced, sometimes a little mannered and often careening into the dramatique. At one point during "Home Life" I halfway expect Meiburg to don a little white mask and sing about the music of the night. It's a little offputting at first, in other words. But! Every other element of Rook is outstanding, so you sort of keep going back to it despite the oily bits that make you cringe a little. And after a few more listens Meiburg's vocals stick out less and less, until finally everything clicks. (It took me probably five listens before I realized that the vast majority of my least favorite vocal parts were all in one song—again, "Home Life.") In the end, Rook really works, and it's becoming one of my favorite releases of the year so far (though, I admit, the playing field is not that crowded at the moment--more on that later this week). It's also worth emphasizing that Rook works best as an album; tweezing a single track out from the pack doesn't exactly get across how fluidly the songs work together. The sum is most certainly greater than its parts. Nevertheless:

• Shearwater, Rooks

The United States of America, s/t
I've long been on the hunt for this album, ever since hearing reference to them in regards to Broadcast many years back. In fact it seems like I only hear about the United States of America when they're being namechecked in a Broadcast review—which is kind of a shame because this record is a lot more varied than those mentions would let on. Only the (excellent) first song, "The American Metaphysical Circus," sounds like a precursor to Broadcast. The rest is a simply outstanding psychedelic album full of cacophonous overlapping sounds, otherworldly production, and not a little sense of humor, as on "I Won't Leave My Wooden Wife For You, Sugar." This record is way, way ahead of its time.

• The United States of America, The American Metaphysical Circus
• The United States of America, I Won't Leave My Wooden Wife for You, Sugar

Tomorrow, the rest (and the worst).

My Listening Year: Best Discoveries of 2007 (Blind Spot Edition)

2007 was a great year for new releases, but even better for all the blind spots I filled in. I unintentionally had a very 70s year—seventeen out of my twenty-eight blind spot purchases were released in that decade. That's a good thing. Talk about blind spots: as a whole, I think the 70s were one of the least represented decades in my collection until this year.

Elvis Costello, Imperial Bedroom [mp3: "Human Hands"]
Hands down the biggest surprise of the year for me. I'd already made my mind up about Costello—I like him, but I don't like him like him. So when I picked up Imperial Bedroom and This Year's Model, it was really a matter of "eh, why not?" I was so ambivalent about it that I didn't even listen to Imperial Bedroom right away. Good thing I finally did, as the album turned out to be among my most-listened-to albums of the year. Like I said about Armchair Apocrypha last week, this is one of those wonderful albums where every song, at one point or another, is your favorite song. For the first time I consider myself a fan of Costello's, and will likely pick up more of his albums in the near future (starting with those from the same era as Bedroom.)

Big Star, #1 Record [mp3: "The India Song"]
As with Costello, I had no real expectations for Big Star, and picked up #1 Record/Radio City on a lark. Based on Third/Sister Lover, I thought I'd already made up my mind. I'm so thankful I gave these guys another chance! I've been listening to #1 Record pretty obsessively since getting it a couple months ago. My sense is that this might be the only Alex Chilton album I really need, however. The other Big Star albums, to my ears, descend in quality (Radio City is pretty good, not great, and Third/Sister Lover is unfocused). Somebody help me out—does his solo material change tack?

The Byrds, The Notorious Byrd Brothers [mp3: "Wasn't Born to Follow"]
Going into 2007, I knew it was going to be a year for the Byrds.  And it was: I picked up three Byrds albums total, in addition to the three I already owned. They were all great, each in their own way, but The Notorious Byrd Brothers sets itself apart in my eyes. For all the accolades Sweetheart of the Rodeo gets, Notorious is a far more interesting fusion of country and rock because it is more subtle. Gram Parsons's contributions to Sweetheart are fine, but they're also totally transparent, in that they simply are country and bluegrass, sharing album space with McGuinn's folk-rock tunes. Notorious is, from beginning to end, a Byrds album which has integrated the lapsteel and largely set the twelve-string acoustic aside. Crosby's excellent harmonies are still there, and neither Parsons nor Dylan's fingerprints are anywhere to be seen. It's not the perfect Byrds album (in fact, I don't think there is one), but it's the most interesting. It's still the Byrds, but you can hear, quite obviously, that the band was growing artistically. Sadly, it was the swan song for the original lineup, so there's no telling where the group would have gone if they'd stuck it out.

Joni Mitchell, Court & Spark [mp3: "Free Man in Paris"] and Blue [mp3:  "Carey"]
If anything, my Byrds fascination has grown to a near untenable obsession with their entire scene. in addition to steadily tracking down all of their albums, I've begun delving into the Laurel Canyon scene of the 60s and 70s. That's brought me to Buffalo Springfield and Joni Mitchell so far, with a long list of others I want to pick up. Mitchell in particular has turned out to be a terrific discovery for me (actually it was my brilliant wife who picked up Court & Spark).  I didn't fall immediately in love with this album, or with Mitchell in general. The first half was immediately engaging, but it sort of fell off after the midway point. Mitchell, left by herself, has some tics that were/are repellant to me, particulalry on first listen. Mostly it's the way her voice jumps into the upper register almost at random, or the way she seems to squeeze as many syllables into her lyrics as she damn well pleases, meter be damned. It's offputting. Nevertheless I liked enough of Court & Spark to give another album a chance. So I bought Blue. On first listens I was disappointed to find that this was a sparser album, none of the full-band treatment as on "Help Me" or "Free Man in Paris." But as time goes by I'm finding Blue to be the stronger album, and I'm coming around on all of Mitchell's quirks. There's still something kind of antagonistic in my listening relationship with Mitchell, but that's precisely what keeps me coming back to her.

My Listening Hours: The Rest of July–September

Blonde Redhead, 23
Without trying, every single Blonde Redhead album has come into my possession at one point or another. I’ve managed to follow and assess their career with each release, though I haven’t truly felt compelled to do so since somewhere around their fourth album. That’s not to say I don’t like them, however—just ambivalent. At any rate, Blonde Redhead have been continually refining their sound with each subsequent album, shaving off their ragged edges long ago in favor of something more atmospheric and moody. 23 picks up where Misery of a Butterfly left off, getting even more atmospheric and moody. The album is good but not perfect. It’s biggest fault is its sequencing—three similar-sounding Kazu Makino-fronted songs lead off the album before Amedeo Pace’s voice finally makes an appearance. The interplay between the two voices is a major part of what makes Blonde Redhead so enjoyable to listen to; when one overtakes the other, the album suffers. Not to mention, Pace’s songs are the better songs this time around.  Aside from sequencing, Blonde Redhead have by now refined their sound so much that it’s become predictable: propulsive drums, minor-key arpeggios, blurry soundscapes filling in the white space. All that really sets one song apart from the other is who’s singing (best is when they both sing, as on "Publisher"). Ultimately the band has settled into a sound that has become inessential unless you’re their biggest fan, blind to their imperfections, or you’re a casual fan looking to be sated by one Blonde Redhead and one album only.

Elvis Costello, This Year’s Model
Picking up from yesterday’s post on Imperial Bedroom… once I went back to This Year’s Model after falling in love with the later album, it seemed, well, obviously good. Whatever it was about Costello that I was having trouble getting past had all but evaporated. Suddenly every track here was better; nothing was blending together as it had before. Everything from “No Action” to "Night Rally" was rocking my socks off. The only reason the album finds itself in with “the rest” is that, frankly, when I put this album on a part of me wonders why I’m not listening to the other album.

Buffalo Springfield, s/t
My Byrds obsession is spiraling out of control. Keeping up with the many lineups of the band, who came from where and went on to do what, requires some serious research. Mostly that’s been done by wasting countless hours on wikipedia and searching old threads at I Love Music. Now the universe of Southern California bands from the 60s and 70s has opened up to me. Previously I’d never really associated Neil Young, Emmylou Harris, Joni Mitchell, et al. with any one location or era. Hence a number of the albums being outlined in this post all come from a certain time and place: thus we come to Buffalo Springfield’s first album. It’s good but not essential. Their biggest hit, “For What it’s Worth,” leads off the album and feels completely separate from the rest of the record. Its production values are different, its lyrics more direct, and everything about it feels more sophisticated than the other ten tracks. The rest of the album feels like solid but run-of-the-mill 60s rock. It is kinda fun, though, to hear lil’ Neil Young singing utterly straightforward 60s pop tunes. His "Out of My Mind" is the highlight of the album.

Emmylou Harris, Elite Hotel
I bought this the same day I bought Sweetheart of the Rodeo, and that may have been this album’s downfall for me. That’s not to say I don’t like it, but my tolerance for the lap-steel was tested between the two albums. It was simply too much of the same instrument, played the same way and used to the same effect, in the span of one period of time spent listening to albums. I began unfairly comparing the two albums, and as far as my personal tastes go, when I’m forced to compare something to the Byrds, it’s an easy bet where I’m going to place my affection.

All that is to say that this album did not ultimately take up a great deal of my listening hours. The association with the Byrds album will fade in time, and I’ll begin to hear this album in its own context. My impressions thus far: it flips back and forth between yearning ballads and bluegrass stompers, with not a lot of nuance in between. I find that I like both categories (including her cover of “Here, There, and Everywhere,” and the raucous fun of "Feelin' Single, Seein' Double"), but no one song has fully embraced me.

Joni Mitchell, Blue
If you’d have asked me six months ago what I thought of Joni Mitchell, I’d have told you I could take or leave her, more likely leave her. But my wife became enamored with her and picked up Court and Spark. I was blindsided! I liked it way more than I expected to, and I went on about it in the last MLH roundup. Then a few weeks ago, wandering Amoeba all by my lonesome, ostensibly to buy the New Pornographers album, by golly I found myself leafing through the Mitchell bins and there was Blue, supposedly her best album, used for $7. I couldn’t pass it up.

I like the album but it hasn’t grabbed me the way Court and Spark did. It has a lot of the same elements as that album, minus one thing—all those great harmonies (though I do like "This Flight Tonight"—that little production hiccup partway through is wonderful). Blue feels much more like a “solo” album—it’s mostly just Joni and her guitar. Whereas my favorite tracks from C&S were those that had more of a full band sound. (Anyone reading this a Joni fan? Is there an album by Mitchell that picks up where “Help Me” and “Free Man in Paris” left off?)

Pavement, Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain
Crooked Rain has had a weird effect on me. This album came out when I was in high school; I’ve had a casual familiarity with it in the last fifteen years from its airplay on Alternative Nation and the love my college roommate showered on all of Pavement’s albums (early stuff more than this one, though). Yet I can’t say I’ve ever spent alone-time with it, which for me is essential if I ever want to claim that I’ve “heard” a record. All that said, when I listen to Crooked Rain, I immediately become nostalgic for high school. I think of off-campus lunches, classmates with colored sunglasses and doc martins, driving my crappy 1976 Toyota Celica to my local Tower Records. Yet Crooked Rain was the soundtrack to none of that. Somehow it has insinuated itself into my memories, as if I bought it the same day I picked up Automatic for the People or the first Weezer album. That’s not to say I have negative associations with that era of my life, but I’m finding it difficult to simply enjoy this album on its own merits. All of my mental associations—fuck dude, I went to a renaissance fair in Tulare one weekend in 1994; why am I thinking about that?—are destroying my honest experience of this album.

Iron & Wine, Our Endless Numbered Days
I bought Sam Beam’s first album, The Creek Drank the Cradle, when it was first released. I liked it but felt sated—I felt no real need to continue following his work.  Then the mp3s for his new album, The Shepherd’s Dog, started floating around and I thought they were fantastic—particularly “The Boy with the Coin.” In anticipation of that album, I went for this one. It’s pleasant. I put it on when I want something mellow and nice and... pleasant. I can’t say it knocks me out. Part of that might be because this album, unlike most albums by most artists, takes a long time—half the record—to really get good. Beginning with "Each Coming Night," Our Endless Numbered Days is pretty outstanding. But there are seven tracks prior to that that float right by. There’s enough to keep me coming back to the album, though I’m not moved by it. That said, I can still hear growth from the first album to the second, and I remain optimistic about the third.

Iggy Pop, Lust for Life
Lust for Life has the opposite problem of Our Endless Numbered Days; that is, it's got an outstanding first half and then loses the plot at the midpoint. Each song here is really a vamp on one idea, so their success hinges on whether that idea is sustainable for more than a minute or two. You already know which songs do it well—they're the ones that have been used for Cialis commercials. But somewhere around the last few minutes of "Here Comes Success," the vamping gets tiresome. The last three tracks on this album are bluesy jams, each with nice moments here or there, but all ultimately lacking the inspiration of the first half of the record.

Velvet Underground, Loaded
Loaded is probably the spottiest of the Velvet Underground's four albums, though it does contain one of my favorite VU songs, "I Found a Reason." Personally, my favorite VU songs are the more somber ones; Loaded has its share, but it also has some questionable rockers ("Head Held High," in particular). There's some great stuff here, but when I'm in the mood for the Velvets—my Velvets—I'll probably choose their third, self-titled album over this one.

My Listening Hours: The Best of July–September

New Pornographers, Challengers
Curious critical trajectory, that of Challengers. When “My Rights Versus Yours” and “Myriad Harbor” started circulating in June, I heard only rabid praise. Those that bought the album via Matador’s Buy Early Get Now program seemed similarly enthusiastic. Then when the album hit bricks-and-mortar stores in August and the reviews started hitting officially, the response seemed to get a lot more tepid. Suddenly I was reading that it was their worst album, that it lacked all the energy that made everyone love the New Pornographers in the first place.

I read all this without hearing the album, which I didn’t actually pick up until two weeks ago. I’ll admit that on first listen I was slightly disappointed—it doesn’t sound like Mass Romantic or Electric Version—but on repeated listens I’ve come to find Challengers to be the most rewarding NP album thus far. That’s not to say it’s the best album—the immediate gratification of the first two albums is hard to deny—but it is a composed album, with peaks and valleys, left turns and home stretches. The band obviously took tentative steps into new territory on Twin Cinema, and Challengers sees them occupying that space with greater confidence.

Appreciating this album is an exercise in analyzing your own expectations. Shortly after buying the album, I read Rob Mitchum’s Pitchfork review, which I think sums up the tone of disappointment I’ve heard in other quarters. It’s been nagging at me each time I listen to Challengers, mostly because it claims that Neko Case is “wasted” on ballads and seems to think the only truly successful songs are the rocket-propelled “All the Things That Go to Make Heaven and Earth” and “Mutiny, I Promise You,” both of which are terrific and, not coincidentally, the only two tracks that could be placed seamlessly within any previous NP album.

It’s a legitimate fanboy urge to wish the band would just keep making Mass Romantic over and over again, but in the long term that’s a losing proposition. Personally, I need only need look at my longtime favorite of favorites, the Pernice Brothers, who have churned out album after album with diminishing returns because they refuse to take new risks. With album #4, the New Pornographers were on the verge of taking the same path. Instead they turned in a record more varied than anything they’ve ever done, and contrary to Mitchum’s critique, I’d argue further that Challengers might feature some of Case’s best work with the group, and further that "Challengers" is possibly the best song on the entire album. It strikes me as the most lyrically mature thing the band has ever done, and the trajectory of the song itself, which Mitchum feels suffers because it has “no peaks,” fits perfectly the melancholy lyrics and Case’s spot-on delivery.

Spoon, Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga
Speaking of, Spoon is a band that faces the similar, ahem, challenge as the New Pornographers and the Pernice Brothers. And for better or worse Spoon made another Spoon album. For worse: it kept me from rushing out to buy it because I knew what to expect. For better: it’s a great Spoon album.  Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga is one of my favorite albums of the year, though that doesn’t change the fact that Spoon albums have become different from each other only by degrees. The band is in danger of painting themselves into a corner—sounding like no one else but sounding like themselves too often. Songs like the excellent "The Ghost of You Lingers" hint that there might be a truly challenging album inside Britt Daniels; I hope he commits it to tape some time soon.

[Related, I liked a lot of what Green Pea-ness had to say about the album. In fact I like a lot of what’s being written at that blog, though it seems to have gone into hibernation as soon as I discovered it. Here’s hoping new posts come along soon.]

The Byrds, The Notorious Byrd Brothers and Sweetheart of the Rodeo
I first got into the Byrds a few years ago, and have been casually picking up the rest of their albums as they appeared in the used bin at Amoeba. After a long period of finding only miscellaneous collections of repackaged singles, I hit upon The Notorious Byrd Brothers and Sweetheart of the Rodeo within just a couple weeks. Now that casual interest has become a full-blown obsession.

The Byrds' evolution from folkies to country-rock fusionists on Sweetheart is no secret. Much has been said about the lasting influence of that album. But in the context of the Byrds’ own evolution in sound, apart from their effect on future generations of alt-country bands, I find The Notorious Byrd Brothers to be a much more interesting album. Unlike their previous albums, there is no standout track, no obvious single that anchors the rest of the record. Rather, the whole album moves from track to track very fluidly, in a way that sets an overall mood more so than previous efforts. So the peaks are not as high, but the album works much better as a piece in itself. It’s not just a collection of songs.

Previously I gave you “Draft Morning,” probably my favorite song on the album. Today, give "Change is Now" a try. It's a song that is usually considered to be foreshadowing of where the band was headed with Sweetheart of the Rodeo. In fact I think the country elements on Notorious are a more interesting type of country fusion, in that it fused country elements with the Byrds sound more subtly than on Sweetheart. Sweetheart is a great album, but it is such a break from the previous records that it’s hard to love it coming from the perspective of being a Byrds fan—as opposed to coming to the album as a fan of Gram Parsons, or looking for the roots of alt-country, or in any other way into the the album that doesn’t put the pre-Sweetheart Byrds first. Parsons's voice and songwriting are so distinct from Roger McGuinn’s or Chris Hillman’s that many of the songs feel wedged in. He just doesn't feel like a Byrd; when he sings lead, no one is singing harmony. And what is a Byrds song without harmonies? Perhaps unsurprisingly then, my favorite songs turned out to be the Dylan covers:  “You Ain’t Going Nowhere” and "Nothing was Delivered."

Elvis Costello, Imperial Bedroom
I’ve long been under the impression that I should love Elvis Costello. I have My Aim is True, which I like, and I have a greatest hits package, which I like. Like, not love. In both cases I’ve found Costello to be fantastic song by song, but too many in a row just tires me out. I assumed I just had the “wrong” album to really make it click for me. So a friend of mine gave me This Year’s Model and Imperial Bedroom to try out. Like a magnet, I was pulled to This Year’s Model; something about Costello’s oeuvre has bred me to believe that the earlier the album the better, that you just can’t go wrong with the 70s stuff. But the same thing happened. Track by track: like it; like it; like it; like it. Album? Exhausted by the middle somewhere. I set it aside and was about to accept Costello for what he obviously was: someone I liked on shuffle, on mixes.

But there was Imperial Bedroom, with its awful early-80s album cover, timidly asking to be given its own fair shake. I put it on my iPod and listened to it straight through on a long walk. Suddenly, the key turned in the lock.

Maybe “suddenly” isn’t the right word: my first listen was tentative enjoyment. There are some screamingly 80s moments on this album—check that fretless bass on “Shabby Doll,” for instance—but at any rate this was a different Elvis, one that encouraged me to keep coming back to it. Many long walks later, Imperial Bedroom has become one of my favorite discoveries of the year. Like Andrew Bird’s Armchair Apochrypha, the album was a grower. On first listen I immediately loved the first two songs; on the next listen I loved the third song; and so on. I don’t love the entire album—I had to deselect “Long Honeymoon,” “Almost Blue,” and “Town Crier” in order for the album to have the kind of momentum that suits me. Those few tracks aside, I’ve been singing “Tears Before Bedtime” (which I gave you before) “Pidgin English,” and "The Loved Ones" regularly for two months now.

The best part about Imperial Bedroom is that it’s allowed me to return to This Year’s Model and My Aim is True and find a way to appreciate them in a way I wasn’t able to before. I’ve found my point of entry: I needed to find the Elvis that was a confident songwriter, able to uncurl his lip and knock the attitude down a notch or two. The songs on Imperial Bedroom are really allowed to speak for themselves. That’s not to say the earlier songs aren’t confidently done; but there is a certain sheen to that early stuff—was it merely his youth?— that kept me at arms length.

David Bowie, Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust
Though Ziggy Stardust didn’t have quite as profound an effect on me as Imperial Bedroom, it did provide a nearly identical epiphany for Bowie as I had for Costello. Previously I had Hunky Dory and a greatest hits album. Same as Elvis: I liked all of it but didn’t feel any sense of urgency in picking up more Bowie albums. The same friend that proffered the Costello records threw in Ziggy Stardust as a bonus—an album I’ve always meant to get and just never got around to. That’s the problem with so many “blind spot” albums—they feel so familiar, it’s difficult to put the money on the counter when you’re at the record store looking for something new. But like I said last week, something about hearing a classic album in the order as it was intended opens new doors. I saw Bowie in a new light, not least because Ziggy opens with the fucking epic "Five Years"—a song so dramatic you’d think it more fitting as a closer. Instead it sets the tone for an album that, while never getting as dramatic as that opening song, is still full of daring material. (Incidentally, in the context of the other albums I’m listening to concurrently with this one, this whole album just makes Roger McGuinn’s “Space Odyssey,” the closing track on The Notorious Byrd Brothers, look like pathetic amateur tripe. Truly one of the worst Byrds songs recorded.)

The Beatles, Help! and Magical Mystery Tour
You might have gathered from my post last week that, among other things, I’ve recently picked up a couple Beatles albums. Yes indeed. Both Help! and Magical Mystery Tour illustrate one point I was trying to make in that post—the idea of understanding a band not only through an album but through a discography. Help!, for one, captures the band in transition from their Chuck Berry-inspired early albums to all those that came later, when the influences of their contemporaries started filtering in. The title track, "I Need You," and  "Another Girl" are all straightforward pop, but both Lennon and McCartney also contributed songs that went for emotional notes never before hit on a Beatles album, Lennon with “You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away” and McCartney, of course, with “Yesterday.” They give Help! a depth that simply didn’t exist on prior albums.

Meanwhile Magical Mystery Tour is a curious album for showing how much better the band was getting, yet also showing how tiresome their absurdity was becoming.  Magical Mystery Tour is, to these ears, better than Sgt. Peppers, yet it suffers for coming second. Lennon in particular turns in some terrific work. "Blue Jay Way" was the surprise on the record for me—a rare Beatles song I’d never heard before, and one that is equal parts earworm and experiment.

Those are my best purchases of the last few months; what were yours? Let me know what's been keeping you occupied this summer.

Tomorrow, the rest of July–September; Wednesday, the worst of the bunch and the best of the year so far; Thursday, a look at what's coming out before the year is over.