Dave’s Top Ten Albums of 2011

This year we’re going to do something a little different with our year-end music lists with both Nick Burd and myself each presenting our own set of picks. This is great because I feel that my oppressively totalitarian view on music can be a little stifling and it will do the site some good to have another voice shine a light on a few albums that I probably categorically dismissed. Obviously my list will be running today and Nick’s will run on Monday; so hope you like a decidedly rockist perspective, because that’s the only weapon in my arsenal.

As I look back on all the music I listened to this year, I have to grudgingly admit that 2011 wasn’t nearly as stellar a year for music as 2010 was. I hate phrasing it that way because it seems that every year at least one critic drags out that tired old lead in as if to say, “Hey, I did the best I could with the material I was given, so if you don’t like my picks, don’t blame me; blame the music.” Well, that’s not entirely the case here. 2010 was a ridiculously good year for music. If 2011 pales in comparison, it’s only because there was nothing on par with albums like The Monitor and Halcyon Digest. But the music released this year was certainly nothing to scoff at. Bottom line, any year in which a Radiohead album is easily the most forgettable release of the year bodes well for everyone else.

A$AP Rocky – LiveLoveA$AP

A$AP Rocky’s debut arrives equipped with two indispensable assets: a relatively brief runtime and a dearth of digressive interludes, two qualities that rarely go hand-in-hand with hip hop. Rocky leaves his fronting for his rhymes, only once slipping into one of those “what’s-my-name” moments that come across as a desperate maneuver from rappers. Rocky does stick pretty close to the tried-and-true thug script here, laying down rhymes about women, drugs, his rep, in addition to what a “pretty motherfucker” he is. But what Rocky perhaps lacks in lyrical innovation he more than makes up for in charismatic delivery. The production is top-notch with Clams Casino handling the lion’s share and providing something akin to Odd Future’s weirdness, but with a hint of EL-P griminess. As I mentioned, the album is fairly brief (at least by rap standards) clocking in at just under an hour, and perhaps resulting from that LiveLoveA$AP simply doesn’t sag at any moment, delivering a solid listen front to back.

Cass McCombs – Humor Risk

Earlier this year, Cass McCombs released a stark, dismal album titled Wit’s End that found the enigmatic songwriter working with spare arrangements evoking a devastating level of despair. Right from the title of his follow-up (and second album in a 9-month span) you get the sense that McCombs was seeking to exorcise the demons he conjured up on that album. In some ways that’s exactly the case and nowhere is this more apparent than on the opening number “Love Thine Enemy” with its chugging, bright electric guitar riffs. Elsewhere on the album, most notably on the track “To Every Man His Chimera,” Cass does dip back into the downtrodden ether found on Wit’s End, making Humor Risk something of an enigma. Yet it’s precisely that give and take that makes it so damn interesting. While Humor Risk does come across as a far less cohesive album than Wit’s End (which was a serious candidate to also make this year-end list), it nonetheless shows McCombs at his most accessible, taking the same brilliant knack for epically-crafted songs and giving them a little more oomph.

Toro y Moi – Underneath the Pine

Often grouped along with the chillwave movement and its spacy, droning electronics, Toro y Moi’s Chazwick Bundick does much to shake off that label with his second album Underneath the Pine. Opting for a funkier flavor, Underneath the Pine settles into danceable grooves much of the time with only the occasional foray into ethereal electronica. Lead single “New Beat” owes more to 70s funk than previous Toro y Moi releases and Bundick rises to the challenge, delivering vocals that compliment the harder edge without taking off into forced soulfulness. When Toro y Moi does fall into more subdued arrangements, the driving beat keeps it moving along at an engaging pace, inhabiting the same cosmic mold as Stereolab’s brand of space-pop. The album is almost excruciatingly brief, but the effect is bittersweet, leaving the listener wanting more, but never feeling like an unwanted house guest who refuses to leave after passive-aggressive hints turn to idle threats.

Atlas Sound – Parallax

With each Atlas Sound album Bradford Cox inches closer to conventional pop. After the airiness of Let The Blind…, he tightened up significantly with Logos, incorporating more of the crowd-pleasing style he typically reserves for his Deerhunter projects. On Parallax he leaps even further into the pop fold, constructing an album that basically stands as the missing link between his rough bedroom tapes and the lavish production of Halcyon Digest. Parallax finds Cox delving more into loungier arrangements as evidenced on such tracks as “Parallax” and “Modern Aquatic Nightsongs.” In some case, the songs trend toward straight-forward rock. However, the album is not without its fair share of experimentation as it careens from sugary pop like “Mona Lisa” to moodier pieces like “Doldrums.” While this technique does pit the album against itself in areas, Cox’s distinct vocals holds it all together, making the album simultaneously inviting and alienating.

Fucked Up – David Comes To Life

Last year I called Titus Andronicus’ The Monitor a watershed moment in the evolution of punk. This year the torch has been passed on to Fucked Up’s slow-burning David Comes To Life, an album that further illustrates how punk can maintain its grit and aggression while charging forward into exciting new sonic territories. Fucked Up attempt two things here that seldom work: a double-album and a rock opera. Detailing the life of David Eliade, a British man who works at a light-bulb factory, Fucked Up power through these 18 tracks with calculated ferocity. Think Arthur, or The Decline and Fall of the British Empire with amps cranked to 11 or The Wall had Roger Waters been taken ill with a virulent strain of strep throat. Pink Eyes’ vocals remain a love-it-or-hate-it element, but throughout the band push the boundaries of guitar rock, channeling the kind of distorted textures that made Kevin Shields so famous.

Kurt Vile – Smoke Ring For My Halo

The sound of 90s rock went through a bit of a small-scale revival in 2011; from the Pavement-inspired indie rock of Yuck, to the power pop absurdity of the Smith Westerns, there have been jangly guitars and lo-fi production aplenty. But of all the 90s-inflected guitar rock to emerge this year, no one came close to matching Kurt Vile’s Smoke Ring For My Halo in terms of craft, consistency and, above all else, subtlety. Sounding much like some long-forgotten Thurston Moore solo project, Vile keeps everything relatively mellow on this release. When he does crank things up a bit, it results in the finest cut of the album, but for the most part he lingers on gentler pieces that show off his formidable songwriting. Instead of forcing his fretwork to the forefront, he buries it in the mix, winding complex riffs subtly into the melody, making each arrangement flow ornately rather than hitting you over the head with its style. It’s the kind of album that grows on you and with each repeat listen you discover another nuanced element that makes the songwriting here endlessly fascinating.

The Weeknd – House of Balloons

When Toronto artist Abel Tesfaye dropped this R&B mixtape back in March, it drew instantaneous buzz. Much of that had to do with the mystery surrounding its production and the fact that no one knew who the fuck The Weeknd were just a week prior to the release of House of Balloons. While the enigma fueled the allure of the album, the music itself was by no means an afterthought. It was eerie and dark, slithering its way through creepy cuts about sex, drugs and depravity amid a backdrop of oddly-incorporated samples. But for all its lecherous posturing and druggy haze, House of Balloons remains a surprisingly inviting listen. Tesfaye’s vocals fall somewhere between Prince and Michael Jackson and the level of confidence exhibited on the album suggests the work of a seasoned veteran rather than an out-of-nowhere newcomer. A darker, more oppressive and ominous affair than typical R&B, House of Balloons benefits immensely from its dirty production and despite its humble origins, quickly became one of the most talked-about albums of 2011, as well as one of the best.

M83 – Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming

Veering away slightly from the Kate Bush-inspired synth-pop of Saturdays=Youth that played like the soundtrack to some long-lost John Hughes film, Anthony Gonzalez uses that sound as a jumping off point for his latest magnum opus Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming, a monstrous 22-track double-album that is as exhausting as it is magnificent. Gonzalez uses the sheer length of the album to his advantage, filling every inch of space with lush synthesizers and crisp orchestration. While the obsession with 80s pop remains intact, the songs here feel so much more inimitable, for the first time sounding like something wholly unique rather than an obtuse homage to Gonzalez’s mentors. For an album littered with unassuming pop numbers, Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming is surprisingly difficult to digest, much of that coming from the overwhelming quantity of music present. What Gonzalez has constructed here is an experience with a multitude of return investments; a pop album that begs to be poured over relentlessly rather than consumed and discarded. Not that any of M83′s previous output suggested they were merely disposable, but here it just feels so much more epic. For better or worse, this is an album that demands the listener meet it halfway, to put in as much effort as it puts out. No small task, to be sure, but well worth the effort.

John Maus – We Must Become the Pitiless Censors of Ourselves

John Maus is an artist who seems to exist outside time and space. His music is clearly indebted to the sound of 80s post-punk, especially Joy Division, but his bizarre sense of humor makes him too self-aware to be merely categorized as a revivalist. On first listen, one might confuse him with a shallow novelty act and, if not for his intense live performance which are as brave as they are baffling, sweep him aside as just another elaborate put-on. But one listen to his latest project, We Must Become the Pitiless Censors of Ourselves and any doubt that Maus takes his music lightly instantly fades. This is an intense, and intensely-rewarding, album;  dark and ominous, a sonic portrait of loneliness and isolation fueled by vintage synthesizers and Maus’ own commanding baritone. It feels like both a curious relic of some bygone era and a bold step into the future. Maus balances depressing numbers like “Keep Pushing On” and “…And The Rain” with ironically amusing entries such as “Cop Killer” and “Matter of Fact“, the latter of which features the repeated refrain “pussy is not a matter of fact.” It keeps the listener on their toes, making it harder to pin down Maus’ music or pigeonhole him as merely a facsimile of his idols. But unlike his previous album, the wildly uneven Love Is Real, Maus keeps the music taut, and despite its playful tendencies, he generates a sense of impending doom throughout.

Lykke Li – Wounded Rhymes

Wounded Rhymes came out all the way back in February but even then there was no doubt in my mind that it would remain my favorite album of the year. It’s not just that Miss Li improves upon the groundwork she laid down on her debut Youth Novels, but the way in which she does it, couching her girlish, precocious vocals in dark, thundering rhythms. The rhymes may indeed be wounded, but there’s simply nothing meek about music itself. Right from the start Lykke Li shows considerable punch, with the snarling “Youth Knows No Pain” (an ironic song to open an album called “Wounded Rhymes” with). On “Get Some” she exhibits a Mic Jagger-esque swagger, burying any preconceived notion of Lykke as some damsel in distress archetype. While she does demonstrate alternately obsessive longing and wounded pride on songs like “Jerome” and “Unrequited Love,” they feel less like some maudlin sentiment ripped from the pages of a desperate teenagers’ diary and more like the jaded adult perspective that sometimes shit just doesn’t work out. When all is said and done, the final product remains a shimmering pop album brimming with hooks and lavish production, but one that never falls victim to cliché and, more importantly, tedium.