By Jeremy Hallock
By James Khubiar
By Observer Staff
By Kelly Dearmore
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
In recent years, though, I've perfected a system, based on the exceedingly predictable Village Voice Pazz & Jop poll (still the one that matters most, even after voting Hole's Live Through This as the best album of 1994), that guarantees my list will be topical, diverse, tasteful, and thought-provoking. The way it works is that I just have to find the albums that fit best in 10 pre-existing slots. So follow me along, as I get this out of the way:
1. The Sassy But Artsy Empowered Black Female slot: Since neither Erykah Badu nor Missy Elliott released new albums in 1998, it's Lauryn Hill in a landslide, with The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill (Ruffhouse). The one from the Fugees with talent instead of a penis (coincidence?), Hill has made the What's Goin' On of the ski-goggles-in-Bed-Stuy set by mixing songs that work on a la-la level with relentless rap breaks and interludes that take us where most of us have never gone before: an inner-city high school. (This CD is a two-fer, as it also fills the Rap Ain't All Bad slot).
2. The Took So Long it Must Be a Masterpiece slot: Car Wheels on a Gravel Road by Lucinda Williams (Mercury).
Like Frank Sinatra and Al Michaels, Williams is finding that middle age is the best thing for her voice. Though the LP could be subtitled "To All the Bassists I've Loved Before," this is a wonderful musical map to the soul of a woman. The way to become fluent in cunnilingus, a lesbian once told me, is to eat with your ears. Any guy who wants to understand women better should listen to Lucinda Williams.
3. The Making Up for Ignoring Him When He Was Alive slot: The Final Tour by Ted Hawkins (Evidence)
This broken-down Sam Cooke with the black glove created a stunningly human mood with just a guitar and a mike (as anyone lucky enough to see him at Poor David's in 1994, just months before he died from a diabetes-related stroke, can attest), and this CD gets it all down.
4. The Don't I Look Hip? slot: You've Come a Long Way, Baby by Fatboy Slim (Astralwerks)
Is there a techno sub-genre called Deep Groove? If so, Norman "Fatboy Slim" Cook, musically repenting for his days in the Housemartins, is the king. This is gutbucket dance music to remind us that Tricky's a bore and Bjsrk dated him.
5. The I'm Not Afraid to Be Obvious slot: Mermaid Avenue by Billy Bragg & Wilco (Elektra)
My concession to old-school criticism (since neither Steve Earle nor Marshall Crenshaw made a record in '98), this record came out when I desperately needed to hear something new. I played it so much I'm now sick of it, which means it's right for the list.
6. The Vic Chesnutt Memorial Don't Understand Him So He Must Be Deep slot: XO by Elliott Smith (DreamWorks)
Woozy melodies and razor-sharp lyrics usually mix about as well as Elliott did with Celine Dion and Trisha Yearwood at last year's Academy Awards ceremony. But there's something about this album that compels you to play it from start to finish.
7. The Matador/Knitting Factory/Sleater-Kinney slot: Moon Pix by Cat Power (Matador)
This album begins with the harmonica from Springsteen's Nebraska, but then delves into a whole different Midwest of the brain. This record would smack of pretentious art-rock if it weren't so consistently mesmerizing.
8. The No Depression Concession slot: The Pine Valley Cosmonauts Salute the Majesty of Bob Wills (Bloodshot)
This sounds like the best hoot night ever, with Chicago (Jon Langford, Robbie Fulks, Sally Timms) battling Austin (Jimmie Dale Gilmore, Alejandro Escovedo) for the rights to hoist the Texas Playboys flag.
9. The Bet I'm the Only Critic With This One slot: You Am I's #4 Record by You Am I (BMG)
The Brian Wilson genuflection gang (Richard Davies, High Llamas, R.E.M.) misses the point by playing up Wilson's grand air and avoiding the pulsebeat, but this raucously tuneful album by the Australian collage-rockers throws just enough classic fluff on the
sound to keep it interesting. The melodies cut through.
10. The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion slot: Welcome Back, Zoobombs by Zoobombs (Reel Time)
Tokyo's Zoobombs are often tagged--OK, by me--as the "Jon Spencer Brues Exprosion," and the imitators best the originals in very much the same way that Japan's '50s rock-and-roll revivalists make ours look like truck drivers with ducktails. Like Spencer, Zoobombs dabble in funk and rap, but they leave out the drippy East Village cynicism. Then, when they go the full-on guitar-band route, they hit it gleefully, like altar boys drunk on church wine.