Dirk’s been buggin’ me to write more blog entries, so instead of subjecting to you to more of my caustic stream of consciousness rants, I figured I’d review some of 2009’s better music releases.

To start with, there were a lot of great re-releases of various things last year. My particular favorite was Magic Sam’s “West side Soul” put out by obscure German label Six Spices. I have to thank WMSE’s Blues Drive for introducing me to this. Magic Sam was an unsung hero of Chicago’s blues scene. Think Otis Rush, but rawer and more informed by Bo Diddley and John Lee Hooker style rhythm. I won’t say any more, just listen to it.

Next on the list I’m including, because of all the hype, Chicago favorites Wilco. Now I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t somewhat tickled by the album cover which, upon close inspection, turns out to be a scene in front of Mader’s in downtown Milwaukee.  Now for the music.  All in all,  Wilco(the album) is decent.  It’s too bad that the song that seems to get the most airplay (Jeff Tweedy’s duet with Feist) is the worst cut on the record.  The songwriting is of a caliber Wilco fans have come to expect, but they seem too concise.  Especially in light of the fact that there are so many talented musicians in the band.  In particular, guitar god Nels Cline just isn’t allowed the breathing room that he got on “Sky Blue Sky”,  and thus the listener is deprived of similar goose-bump inducing solos.

Now I’d like to include a band that just doesn’t get enough kudos, in my opinion: The Gourds.  At first glance the Gourds always seem like good time hick band, but a well read hick band.  Don’t be fooled, this is americana at it’s best and on their latest album “Haymaker”, they deliver the goods again.  Fans that crave the darkness of “Thems Good Beebles”  will be perennially disappointed by the Gourd’s increasingly rocking and toe-tapping direction.  But who wants to dwell in darkness, especially during a year as shitty as 2009 was.  Pound for pound, I got the most listening pleasure out of “Haymaker” last year.  The Gourds sound like what they are: a band that’s been playing together for a long time and enjoying every second of it.

This time I’ll kill two birds with one stone, because both of these artists were giants of the early nineties indie  guitar-rock scene.  You might have guessed it, Dinosaur Jr’s “Farm” and Built to Spill’s “There is No Enemy”.  Both records are great listens and solid efforts.  J Mascis continues to pump out his brooding yet catchy brand of grunge rock on “Farm” and evens shares vocal duties with bassist Lou Barlow, which helps to make it more interesting.  “There is No Enemy” was released fairly quietly, but is a pleasant recovery from 2006’s not so stellar “You in Reverse”.   Doug Martsch continues the sunnier trajectory on this one, but much more tastefully.  Neither artist has decided to re-invent themselves this time around.   Overall, both albums are filled with tracks that sound like they could have been pasted onto previous efforts. Both good listens, but nothing new here.

Speaking of artists who continue to put out great records without a sonic makeover every time, check out Magnolia Electric Co.’s latest “Josephine” (on Secretly Canadian).  Jason Molina has worked solo, as Songs Ohia and with Magnolia Electric without ever really changing his sound, and on “Josephine” we are reminded why he really doesn’t have to.  Each subsequent album seems to lay in the  ‘best yet’ category, and this one is no exception.  Molina proves that awesome songwriting and a timeless sound is the only formula needed to please the ears.  These songs seem genuinely pulled from the root of experience and simultaneously sound jubilant and melancholy.

Now that we’re chilled and relaxed by the old time favorites and songwriters, how about an auditory assault from instrumental post-rock titans Mono.  Their latest “Hymn to the Immortal Wind” is epic as ever as these Japanese noise-makers continue to explore the loud/quiet dynamic sans vocals.  Expect even more orchestral stuff on this one, though I’m not sure they really need it.  This is not meant to be memorable or as background music for your afternoon tea.  Listened to from start to finish, Mono demands all of your attention and will leave the listener exhausted.  Though they are primarily known for colon-blowing crescendos, Mono really shines during the quiet parts this time around. However, if you are new to instrumental rock, this might not be the best introduction.

If your just looking for some decent indie-pop, you can’t go wrong with Say Hi’s (previously Say Hi To Your Mom) “Oohs and Ahhs.”   Though relocated from New York to Seattle and with a revised band name, Eric Elbogen and company continue to make catchy, sometimes witty bedroom pop about relationships and daily minutia. I had the opportunity to see SHTYM’s only Milwaukee appearance several years back in a friend’s basement, and Elbogen is just what he seems: a shy awkward guy singing songs about being a shy awkward guy.  “Oohs and Ahhs” is a little more up-tempo than previous albums and certainly less experimental, but if you just need some accessible three-minute tunes to sing along to in your car, this is what the doctor ordered.  Most of your friends probably never heard of it either so you are allowed to be a snob about it.

So now you want to dig a little deeper into the do-it-yourself indie genre, then check out “March of the Zapotec & Realpeople Holland” by Beirut.  Beirut AKA Zachary Condon is a high school dropout, 24 years old, and putting us all to shame.  On Zapotec, Condon continues the odyssey he started on his last 2 albums, by exploring regional folk music and inserting the vibe into his own brand of pop.  This time he’s in Oaxaca Mexico.  The sounds he picks up though, are less latin and more archaic brass band (of the kind you might expect to hear in eastern Europe).  If you haven’t heard Beirut, new listeners might be put off by Condon’s strange warbley vocals.  Bare with it and you will be rewarded. The “Realpeople Holland” side is just as rewarding by giving electronic music a surprising warmth. This is the album that made me a fan, and I  can’t wait for next one.

If Beirut is too polished for you, try some trashy Chicano garage rock.  Namely “Dracula Boots” by Kid Congo and the Pink Monkey Birds (on In the Red).  I have to admit that I never heard of Kid Congo (of Gun Club fame), but the cover of this album intrigued me enough to check it out, and I’m glad I did.  Expect mostly instrumental grooves, restrained guitar playing, humid organ sounds, and lots of reverb.  When Kid Congo does sing it’s more as an accent to the music or in some cases just a spoken narration.  From the picture on the sleeve it looks like this was recording in a high-school gymnasium, and the garage vibe is accentuated by things like purposely featuring a wah-wah pedal squeak as percussion.  This one is best played after midnight on a hot summer night when the AC doesn’t work, there’s no more beer, and you just can’t sleep.

Finally, for the one I anticipated the most in 2009: Polvo’s “In Prism”.  For those that buy vinyl these discs are strangely set for 45 rpm, so make sure to play it at the right speed.  Even though they all have day jobs now, the guys from Polvo thankfully got together again to make some of the coolest music in the western world.  For people my age that might have missed this band the first time around, this album is particularly special.  The sound is definitely beefed up on this one as well as more uniform.  It seems unfair to compare this to their efforts in the nineties because the scene is so much different, but don’t expect as much noodling and gone are the sitar interludes.  The songs are louder and more compressed but in a good way.  Polvo have always been off the radar for most people and I imagine their cult following will only deify them more as mainstream American taste goes from bad to worse.

What is it about time that never really allows us to exist in the moment. Maybe there never really is a ‘now’, just a seesawing rememberance and anticipation of other events. But this suggests a linear sort of inertia, which certainly doesn’t jive with a festival dedicated to resurrecting the spirit of archaic white-man’s blues. And why is it that such a tradition is kept alive in the dense hovel of urban decay, where the heady sophistication of today’s metro and metroette threaten to garrotte it completely with so many condos, boutiques, and music discovered in volvo commercials. It isn’t dead yet, but once in a while it needs to retreat to a more pastoral setting where, ironically, the young locals seem to be affirmed afficianados of gangster rap. So once again a formidable army of posers came to Algoma to sing songs about a time and place we’d never experience first hand, not in jest but in reverence. Upon arrival we were greeted with a newly erected stage (completed with a level no less) and a regiment of pesky but ultimately friendly black flies (presumably still feeding on the detritus of the previous year’s revelry). So the music started and those most competent to judge it (namely the offspring of the various bands) decided it was good and began to dance, dervish-like, with an innocent unawareness of self. The more free-spirited of the ‘adults’ joined in too, but most of us knew that we had bitten too far into the apple and were content just to watch the spectacle and appreciate that these tiny satyrs had the uncanny ability to take something at face value, free of all outside influence. Free of the baggage filled jet we call ‘growing up’. No, the masks we wear are so much more than a thin greasepaint mustache. And each year we return more hideous and encrusted than before. Bejeweled and painted with the various conquests, failures, rationalizations, and fears that have haunted us for the last 365 days. For some these deposits turn into wisdom, but for most it’s just senescence. But what is a party, but a chance to momentarily forget all of these dismal musings and temporarily become a child again. One condender claimed that, “a party is a place where you can do whatever you want” and preceded to assert that right. Another more sober player disagreed. We thought that it would come to blows, but thankfully it dissolved into nothing more than a cheerily repeated catch-phrase for the remainder of the weekend. the Dionysian and Apollonian impulses were well balanced, and even without the threat of a looming police-state the crowd agreed to abide by the golden rule. Even when a trailer-hitch turned up missing and we were prepared to assume the worst of our fellow man, it turned out to be sheer forgetfulness. As usual, the good times pass by much quicker than the bad ones and the weekend was over. We woke from this soporific dream and slothfully prepared to return home. But in a way we were leaving it as well, because home is nothing more than a space that can be shared with the other inhabitors of this oversized geode we call earth, within an atmosphere of trust and goodwill. And even when the star that guides us there poops out and drains the car battery dead, we can be assured that wherever we smell fresh coffee and hear the murmer of early morning banter, there will be a neighbor that can help to guide us in the right direction.