It had the makings of just another year. Annual archetypes were hollowed out anew, trends awaited the spark of resuscitation, and disappointments and surprises alike were handicapped by the legions of obsessives.
The year saw its share of bands that altered their attack and, as a result, alienated factions of their fan bases while attracting new recruits: Sleater-Kinney unleashed a veritable eruption of shock, while the Mars Volta found a way to become possibly the most impenetrable band with a single on the Billboard Hot 100. There was the annual attempt at an indie junta, this time spearheaded by label-less Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, but perhaps drowned out by louder indie bands like the Hold Steady, who continued to embrace a polemic of classic rock populism.
It was a year rife with prolificacy, indulgence, and Bob Pollard emulation: Ryan Adams released three albums between May and December; Michelle Shocked dropped three all at once; Bright Eyes issued two distinctly separate records, one “acoustic” and one “electronic”; and metal bizarro System of a Down split a double album into two independent releases.
The obligatory long-delayed album was finally released: Fiona Apple’s Extraordinary Machine, after years of recording, speculation, emancipation campaigns, and re-recording, made its way to the store shelves in an entirely new form. There were artistic resurgences by old warhorses like Paul McCartney and Neil Diamond, a sudden end to a 12-year silence by Kate Bush, and less publicized resurfacings by fringe figures like Bettye LaVette.
There were collaborations (DJ Danger Mouse and MF Doom as Dangerdoom, for instance) fit for a music geek’s wet dream and one band in particular, LCD Soundsystem, that was a danceable manifestation of music snobbery. It was an exceptionally bounteous year for reissues and box sets, marked by massive collections of Ray Charles, Talking Heads, the Band, and Bruce Springsteen. The year’s unofficial archival king was Bob Dylan, whose legacy was treated to a Martin Scorsese film and two-disc soundtrack, a live album, and no less than four books.
We were even witnesses to (some, unfortunately, being violated by) a scandal perpetrated by the music industry itself. As if its control of roughly 20% of the world music market weren’t enough, Sony BMG distributed CDs with embedded, infectious rootkit software, essentially ushering corporate extortion into the realm of “acceptable”. Some would say that’s what you get when buying a Trey Anastasio solo album, but we like to think that all music lovers should be allowed to live without fear of corporate molestation.
The weirdest moments of 2005 were when it felt like the second coming of 2004: weren’t we just discussing critically acclaimed albums by Kanye West, Franz Ferdinand, and Animal Collective, like, 12 months ago? In our accelerated effort to progress through the year, this kind of tangential déjà vu downshifted our perspective into slower motions. We took stock of how far the musical landscape had come (if at all) in mere months.
Surrounded by all this familiar upheaval of possibility, PopMatters’ music staff was smitten by an eclectic array of releases, including albums by a Sri Lankan civil war refugee, a songwriter with a penchant for whistling and pizzicato violin, a man with a hauntingly sexless voice, and an ambitious optimist with a fetish for state histories. As it turns out, we were most blown away by a motley crew of Canadians with a cavernous stockroom of pop confections in its head and the deceptive appearance of a next-door neighbor.
These year-end lists, rituals of taste by those who like to think themselves tastemakers, become something more than authoritative personal biases when collected, tabulated, and condensed. PopMatters’ lists, celebrating the year’s top albums, reissues, and some select genre highlights, exemplify this kind of communal wisdom. Beyond that, they’re proof that 2005 happened, that we were here, that we sifted through the good and bad, the remarkable and decidedly less so, and wished to present our definitive findings to the equally curious and hungry.
It was just another year, yet it differed from any other year. Here’s why. – Zeth Lundy
50. Vashti Bunyan – Lookaftering (DiCristina/Fat Cat)
In the mid-1990s, a fledgling Devendra Banhart wrote to wayward folk queen Vashti Bunyan, asking if he should continue writing music. Bunyan responded that he must. Ironic, since at the time she didn’t even own a copy of Just Another Diamond Day, the lost 1960s classic that brought him to her counsel. But then, Bunyan is a kindred soul, the embodiment of the wandering spirit that Banhart’s music so brazenly embraces. “I wanted to be the one with road dust on my boots…and a band of wayward children, with their fathers left behind,” she declares on Lookaftering, her long-awaited sophomore record.
This floating folk opus is a masterful examination of that desire, and its application, a collection of dreamy folk ballads rife with sage-like ruminations on life’s passage. There’s a reason artists like Devendra Banhart, Joanna Newsom, and Max Richter flocked to Bunyan’s side as she recorded it. This is the record they each dream of making when their own long journeys come to an end. – Andrew Phillips
49. Seu Jorge – The Life Aquatic Studio Sessions (Hollywood)
I’m a Wes Anderson nut. However, there was and remains one reason why I love The Life Aquatic: Seu Jorge. Sure, the idea of troubadour transitions threatened a repeat of the maligned Farrelly-Richman There’s Something About Mary collabo, and Brazilian takes on Bowie sound positively café cliché on paper. But the lanky grace, weathered baritone, and calloused caress ensured the idea was in good hands. Jorge uncovered newfound majesty in a master’s most significant works, and, thankfully for the film, breathed pathos into an otherwise tortured exercise. The studio sessions can some of the starboard charm of the star’s on-camera performances, but the disc is a welcome feature for a genius moment in both cinema and music. – Dan Nishimoto
48. Thelonious Monk Quartet with John Coltrane – At Carnegie Hall (Blue Note)
This has been a year for uncovering lost jazz gems. Still, the crown jewel is this Grade-A recording of a 1957 Carnegie Hall concert by Thelonious Monk’s working trio with the surging talent of Coltrane’s tenor saxophone. Following Trane’s extended residency with Monk at New York’s Five Spot, this is the only high fidelity recording of the two giants playing together in complete comfort and relaxation. The quirky opening duet, “Monk’s Mood”, is perfection; you hold your breath and dread the band breaking the mood.
Yet when they do, Trane and Monk launch into rippling glory. Much of Trane’s 1950s output was in his scalar “sheets of sound” style, but Monk inspires him to play with a steely melodicism. Monk dances and quips on piano while drummer Shadow Wilson is the Arthur Rubinstein of brushes. The result is more than a historical finding; it’s the best music of the year. – Will Layman
47. Doves – Some Cities (Capitol)
From its opening drum kicks and squealing, spiraling guitar riffs, Doves’ Some Cities announces itself as a swaggering rock ‘n’ roll masterpiece. Over three records, Doves have crafted a signature sound awash in moody atmospherics, ringing guitar anthems, and driving dance-friendly beats. I have no clue why they haven’t stormed the tepid waters of American radio. “Black and White Town” is easily one of the year’s most memorable singles. Not since the Jam’s “Town Called Malice” has an English band conjured Detroit Soul so well.
With Some Cities, Doves have expanded their palette creating a record grand and epic in its sweep, balancing the rousing rockers of “Walk in the Fire” and “Sky Starts Falling” with brooding ghostly songs like “The Storm” and “Someday Soon”. Lead singer Jimi Goodwin’s rough and rugged voice howls the question, “When is it our, our turn?” The answer should be right now. – Timothy Merello
46. The Go-Betweens – Oceans Apart (Yep Roc)
The Go-Betweens’ 2000 reunion was a good thing, no question. Their comeback album was pleasant; the follow-up had moments. But not until Oceans Apart did Grant McClennan and Robert Forster recapture the gifts of wit and melody that had made them such a perfect band in the first place. It’s probably because both men are having fun. McClennan outfits his wordbending ballads with keyboards and sonorous backup vocals. Forster makes his more foreboding songs catchy again, winking at Talking Heads in “Here Comes a City” and tapping a xylophone in “Born to a Family”. People who’d seen the hype about this great 1980s band but never got what made them great: Here it is. – David Weigel
45. The Mendoza Line – Full of Light and Full of Fire (Misra)
If the Mendoza Line tried to emulate its idols on previous albums, they would become one of those idols for a future generation of songwriters with Full of Light and Full of Fire. The band’s seventh full-length LP is destined to be an obscure classic, an album that brilliantly captures and depicts the loneliness and resentment of present-day America. While they specialize in literate drinking songs on previous efforts, the Mendoza Line sound downright literary this time, offering poignant stories with dynamic narrators the listener cares about.
Musically, the band blends new wave, country, punk, folk, and classic rock with ease. More importantly, while a genre hopper, the entire album is focused: the riffs are tight and the vocals impassioned. This isn’t indie music; this is American music. It’s also an album people will refer to years from now as an example of how it’s done. – Michael Franco
44. The National – Alligator (Beggars Banquet)
Unassuming enough to serve as background music, but catchy enough to require several consecutive listens, Alligator was the diamond in the rough of 2005. It was the soundtrack to my unemployed New York months and futile house arrest job hunt. But whenever “Friend of Mine” came blasting through my speaker, I jacked up the volume to introduce myself to my new neighbors, yelling the “I’m getting nervous” chorus trailed by its signature 1950s doo wop “na na na na’s” and the last thing I felt was worried.
The National is the split personality of a venomous 2:00am drunk message and the bouquet of flowers that predictably awaits on your doorstep the following morning. Chock full of non-sequitur lyrics like “I am a birthday candle in a circle of black girls” that may distract the unappreciative ear, this was the album that made all the sense in the world to me when I didn’t have any of the answers. – Eddie Ciminelli
43. The Magic Numbers – The Magic Numbers (Heavenly)
All the rage in Britain, this debut album from the duo of brother-sister pairs deftly mixes sunny 1960s California harmonies and folky guitar jangle with the epic melancholy of today’s British rock. The mood? A bright Sunday afternoon in early October, right before the leaves begin to fall off the trees. Though Romeo Stodart leads the band, the real stars here are Angela Gannon’s aching, supple vocals; the forceful, snaky bass lines of Romeo’s sister Michele; and, most of all, the record’s gorgeous arrangements.
Some have dismissed the Magic Numbers as lightweight or lyrically inane, but their work is hard to resist because it displays such a well-constructed balance between musical extremes, moving gracefully from rough to smooth, loud to soft, and fast to slow. The Stodarts, who co-produced the record with Craig Silvey, clearly possess an impressive knack for musical dynamics. – Jordan Kessler
42. Akron/Family – Akron/Family (Young God)
It might be a desire to return to the simpler things that has fueled the folk revival amongst the indie rockers, but nobody told Akron/Family. The Akron/Family approach to songwriting is one of building from the formless mass and adding elements to elements until a song happens. If a sound or element can be added to make the song better, it will be. As a result, we get the Family’s eponymous debut, an album that features long stretches of a cappella, tinkly synth noises, rocking chairs, and thunderclaps.
Sure, there are drums, guitars, and the lovely broken vocals of Ryan Vanderhoof, but the “other” that Akron/Family brings to the table makes it unique. “I’ll Be on the Water” is bar-none the most beautiful folk song that was released this year, and very little can approach “Shoes” for fun and freedom in musical form. Michael Gira was wise in signing them to his label; now he gets to be a part of the evolution of one of the few bands for whom the possibilities truly seem endless. – Mike Schiller
41. Jamie Lidell – Multiply (Warp)
From harrowing electronic noise ballistics to Wonder-esque groove-daddy soul-funk, Jamie Lidell has made the most transgressive and immodest moves in the latest era of the acclaimed Warp label. While so many IDM artists have gone in for intense demonic attacks, Lidell’s latest record is intense funkadelic pranks: he sings (a little like Jamiroquai!) with a pleasantly infectious stupidity about the labors of love, the need for sex, the joys of being a pop star, and he does it all with the edgeless joy of a true radical.
After his early work, Lidell doesn’t need to prove to anyone that he’s got the chops to break your ears. For now, he’s planning to seduce. The production of his recycled post-Google R&B is synthetic and green. This is music to help grow plastic plants. Fatboy Slim steals his funk, Lidell makes his fresh, and it still sounds more classic, and there’s less irony. Less appropriation and more dedication. Although I have no guesses as to what Lidell plans to do next, I think his growing legions of fans would like him to make the dog-ass do the dance a little longer. What he needs is a Bootsy Collins and an Indian headdress made out of rubber, 12 strippers with touchpads, and he’s the biggest rock star since Peter Gabriel.
Lidell was always a collagist; his new work has the kaleidoscopic pink flush of a Dearraindrop installation. Multiply is nuts at a squirrel party. You want this winter to last forever, he’s so clever, he makes the snow melt. This is fuck music for those kids who haven’t done it since they started listening to Autechre. Put your head back in your pants and listen to something sickly sweet. – Lee Henderson