2009 Better-Late-Than-Nevers Round-Up

Ten songs from year-end lists I’ve been motoring to this past month:

“Make Her Say,” Kid Cudi (w/ Kanye West and Common): An indomitably sexy number. As the Lady Gaga coda goes, “He’s got me like nobody.” And it ain’t his (or their) rap(s), I assure you. Although, I will concede Kanye wins the prize here with lines ab her legality and using his medulla oblongata. And how out of touch I am, turns out this jam was nominated for a Grammy!

“Lasso,” Phoenix: “Where would you go tied up to a lasso?” Not very far, presumably. But what these guys lack in sense they make up for in energy and songcraft. Wolfgang Amadeus is one of the few albums on year-end lists that makes sense to me. Pop fans tantalized by a few Of Montreal songs but disappointed by their albums ought to click with this immediately. ELO fans won't be disappointed, either.

“Lust For Life,” Girls: A clanging guitar riff stays around too long before a nasally voice busts out about how he “wished he had a boyfriend” but “he’s fucked in the head.” When he says he wished he had a "father" or a “beach house” his voice dips low as if showing us the self-importance he thought these distinctions might give him. It’s Jonathan Richman’s gay nephew from San Francisco. Over a whole album these guys suffer from Violent Femmes Syndrome: annoying affectation substituting for songs. For one ditty, though, it’s a messy comin’ out party. They might be giants, or at least legends in their own minds.

“If Life Exists (?),” Jeffrey Lewis & The Junkyard: A junkyard of psychadelic acoustica swirled into some mantric grace: “But it’s hard to get too bored when you pick the right two chords and you keep on strumming as if you don’t know what’s comin’.” It’s Kimya Dawson and the Moldy Peaches’ cousin from NYC. He does comics too.

“Cruel Intentions,” Simian Mobile Disco (w/ Beth Ditto of The Gossip): Relaxed, sultry groove. Southern-fried guitar licks. Could be one of the Weather Girls (remember “It’s Raining Men”?) singing; only older, slightly diminished: “Call me up/we’ll hang out.” Retro disco, anyone?

“My Love,” The-Dream (w/ Mariah Carey): Self-proclaimed (and repeatedly!) “radio killah,” for The-Dream, it’s all in the mix: an economical (i.e., gangsta lean) orchestral lushness. It’s not just the falsetto but this canned-whip-cream electricity (auto-tune?) that gives the music its vibe. Unfortunately, the slow jams don’t always come w/ songs; no fries w/ that coke. Not the case, here, though. Mariah’s bit is minimal but full of gusto: “Tell me what they know about my love.”

“Imma Star (Everywhere We Are),” Jeremih: More influence of The-Dream: icy synths, hey-ho thugamuffin chorus, strutting tempos, bling fantasy, Jeremih’s “got the game on a slipknot.”

“Living Without Your Love,” Walter Jones: More retro disco even though I found this one on a comp called Future Disco. Truly, if I were told this had come from a ‘70s Chic album I would have believed it. Still, there is a spare and elegant quality to this—what I’ll hazard to call a feminine quality— that is lacking in most contemporary club music. Or so what I hear of it via the Rcrd Lbl freebies I get sent everyday.

“Now We Can See,” The Thermals: Sometimes the Thermals have this kinetic spirit that is hard to pin down but undeniable. And then sometimes the Thermals sound too three-chord rock basic. Same band, but one you like, one you're hohum ab. The spirit here is conveyed in a chorus that goes: “oh-way-ah-oh-ho,” over and over. Very nice. They no longer have the disease but still need the fix.

“Drop,” Rich Boy: In your face club-rap: a slow grind (crunk? screw? I dunno), but it’s got a beat that cracks with chain-gang intensity and a mesmerizing backtrack of looped female gibberish. “You forgot to bring your gun so you got to use your heart now,” Rich Boy barks, “...Now, drop.” Meaning, I think, what we used to mean by saying, “get down.” As in down and dirty. It's the kind of song that demands your attention, whether you like it or not. And it depends on the "not" like any real gansta or punk. As the jam fades, a zany non sequitur is tossed out, “Kobe, karaoke comin’ thru!” Gotta love ‘it.