1: LCD Soundsystem – American Dream
I’ll be honest, ranking the best albums of the year can be kind of an arbitrary process. (Shocking, I know!) I employ no failsafe algorithms to ensure each record is assigned its proper numerical spot in the top 10, I just go on gut feeling. Is the latest soft-rock opus by the War on Drugs really one notch better than the first full-length collaboration by country siblings Shelby Lynne and Allison Moorer? Ask me again in a few months and I may tell you a different answer. But there was no dithering over my #1 choice for the best album of 2017. American Dream, the fourth release by hipster Brooklyn act LCD Soundsystem, practically wallops you over the head with its greatness. It’s the first LCD recording since 2011, when ringleader James Murphy announced the band’s “retirement.” Coaxed by hero and colleague David Bowie—the two joined forces on Bowie’s brilliant final album, Blackstar—Murphy got the gang back together and American Dream is an exhilarating example of second-wind success. It’s got most everything longtime fans want: witty, incisive lyrics, groovy electro beats that stretch into epic club jams, and the usual Rolodex of cool musical references — here you’ll hear echoes of Talking Heads, Gang of Four, Joy Division, and of course, Bowie himself. But there’s a newfound maturity to the work. Gone are tossed-off novelties like “Drunk Girls” from 2011’s This Is Happening. The expansive compositions on American Dream flow and evolve more seamlessly than on previous efforts, and the lyrics are more complex. The breathtaking “tonite” skewers the current state of pop culture, calling out “these bullying children of the fabulous, raffling off limited edition shoes.” But it also manages to be astutely self-aware as Murphy, now 47, frets over his advancing age. “I’m a reminder, a hobbled veteran of the disc shop inquisition,” he sings/raps, “sent to parry the cocksure mem-stick filth with mine own late-era middle-aged ramblings.” Modest as those sentiments are, that’s some bravura writing there. The emotional highlight is the final track, “black screen,” a dreamy tribute to Murphy’s relationship with Bowie— “You fell between a friend and a father”—that musically recalls Bowie’s legendary Berlin sessions with Brian Eno. Ambitious, whip-smart, hilarious but also surprisingly poignant in parts, American Dream is not only far and away the best album of 2017, it’s one for the ages.
- 10: Grizzly Bear — Painted Ruins
- 9: Moses Sumney — Aromanticism
- 8: The xx — I See You
- 7: Real Estate — In Mind
- 6: Waxahatchee — Out in the Storm
- 5: Shelby Lynne & Allison Moorer — Not Dark Yet
- 4: The War on Drugs — A Deeper Understanding
- 3: Robyn Hitchcock — Robyn Hitchcock
- 2: Iron & Wine — Beast Epic
- The Top 10 Albums of 2016
Here is perhaps the most misleading album title of last year. Beast Epic may refer to the literary genre in which animals take on human voices, but music fans would be forgiven for thinking they’re about to slog through a bombastic heavy metal concept album – it’s a wonder Iron Maiden didn’t get to the name first. Fortunately, the sixth solo release by indie-folk hero Sam Beam, a.k.a. Iron & Wine, is succinct, stripped down, and simply gorgeous. (The homey embroidered cover image is a much more fitting indication of the contents within.) After dabbling in electronics and studio embellishments on his most recent albums, Beam circles back to the intimate, unadorned sound of his earliest recordings. Close your eyes and it may seem as if he is playing right in your living room. You hear the strings of his acoustic guitar creak and its hollow body reverberate as he raps out a laid-back tempo. Muted percussion, keyboards and strings are used sparingly for accompaniment. Beam’s formidable talents as a songwriter shine brightest in this natural state. His lyrics here are full-hearted meditations on the human condition and the wonders of nature, studded with the occasional barbed observation. “Jesus and his trophy wives are praying for the suicides and orphans,” he sneers on “The Truest Stars We Know.” A cozy masterpiece, Beast Epic ranks with 2007’s The Shepherd’s Dog as Beam’s finest work.
Some of the most interesting acts in pop music today– 
Separately, sisters Shelby Lynne and Allison Moorer have forged enduring careers in country music— Moorer has released 10 albums, Lynne 15. But they haven’t gotten around to recording together in earnest until now. Their first full-length collaboration is a superb collection of covers that runs the gamut from comfort-zone picks by Merle Haggard and the Louvin Brothers to surprising curveballs by Nick Cave, the Killers, and Nirvana. In a close race, the cover to beat is the Bob Dylan-penned title track. Taken from the 1997 late-career masterpiece Time Out of Mind, Dylan’s hushed ode to creeping mortality is handled with tender loving care by the siblings and an ace backing band that includes Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers’ keyboardist Benmont Tench. The most unexpected cover, Nirvana’s “Lithium,” is also the one that doesn’t quite work. While Lynne and Moorer get points for thinking outside the box, the comparatively tame country arrangement lacks the grunge trio’s dynamic punch and Kurt Cobain’s singular genius-stoner delivery. The one original song here, “Is It Too Much,” written by Lynne, is a haunting meditation on the weight of pain and loss that is wrested from the gloom by the sisters’ rapturous harmonizing. Here’s hoping for many more collaborations to come.
Katie Crutchfield, the creative force behind Waxahatchee, steps on the gas for her fourth full-length outing. While the Alabama native’s early work mined an introspective indie-folk vein and 2015’s promising Ivy Tripp toyed with various styles and tempos, Out in the Storm flat-out rocks. It recalls the dynamic ‘90s grunge-pop of Belly and the Breeders. Collectively a rumination on the dissolution and aftermath of an unhealthy relationship, the songs crackle with raw emotion. “I’d never be a girl you’d like or trust or respect,” Crutchfield laments on the bitter “Brass Beam.” If Crutchfield’s lyrical confessions can be at times uncomfortably intimate, the alt-rock riffs are so buoyant that it’s possible to tune out the heartache and just pogo around the living room. But the pain is impossible to ignore on “Fade” the gorgeous ballad that ends Out in the Storm. Here we find the protagonist post-breakup, battle-scarred but ultimately wiser. “I poured everything out/It never would be enough,” Crutchfield acknowledges mournfully. It’s an apt moment of closure on this electrifying album.
If you heard me talk, you probably wouldn’t be able to guess right away where I’m from. I was born in Texas and throughout my childhood my family moved all over the American South, from Florida, back to Texas, to Florida again, then to Tennessee and finally to Georgia, where some of my relatives still live. By rights the words I utter should be as drenched in drawl as those of that Clampett clan who loaded up the truck and moved to Beverly—Hills, that is. (Swimming pools. Yada-yada.) Yet due to a fluke of nature, or perhaps congenital obstinance, I’ve resisted the Dixie diction and speak in a voice that is only fleetingly Southern, meaning a twangy syllable might slip out when I’m angry or tipsy, but of course I’m hardly ever either. (Insert winky emoji here.) The rest of the time, it is rather featureless. I asked my spouse to describe my voice and he deemed it “sonorous, uninflected, middle-American.” Notice he didn’t add “irresistibly sexy” and “almost frighteningly macho,” but that’s a topic for another, more private discussion between us. I’m confident in the assertion that, compared to many people from my native region, I have gone through most of my life pretty much accent-free.
When it comes to getting from point A to some faraway point B, I’m an avowed overland man. I get no kicks in a plane, what with fares ballooning in inverse proportion to shrinking seat size and leg room, and airline meals, never Michelin Star-worthy to begin with, now so inadequate that you count yourself lucky if you’re served a lukewarm pizza pocket in a cardboard sleeve. With ships, ferries and other waterborne craft, my fascination is strong but my sea legs and stomach are weak. But take me there on terra firma, via steel wheels or rubber tires, and I’m one happy pilgrim. Some may find the incremental nature of land travel, the steady procession of miles/kilometres one after the other after the other, to be about as exciting as a PowerPoint presentation on navel lint. I find it can be soothing under the right circumstances, traffic jams and jabbering fellow travellers notwithstanding. The opportunity to take in vivid, varied scenery at one’s leisure while allowing the mind precious time to roam, free from distraction, is better stress therapy than a thousand fidget spinners. 
Here I am, 11 months into my first year as a resident of the United Kingdom—how time flies! —and so far in this blog series, I’ve covered various and sundry aspects of my nascent British life, including, most recently, battling 
It’s a question 
dugoutdiscs 