Albums that set the mood
Looking back over this list, I did a search for the word
“mood.” It originally appeared eight times, and I cut seven of them. Whether that repetition results from the actual music released this year ormy interpretation of it based on a nine-month confinement, who’s to say. But amid the trying offerings provided by this most unusual year, a silver lining emerged in the form of unfettered listening time. So many of my favorite recordings are those that didn’t seek to entertain for three or four minutes at a time, but rather to create a, sigh, mood that sustained for 40 minutes or so and then enticed a repeat play.
“Punisher,” Phoebe Bridgers: Bridgers understands contrasts like a visual artist, and that understanding lends her songs an extraordinary depth. Her whispery voice glides so gently that a heartbreaking line and a punchline arrive with the same emphasis (or lack thereof), forcing you to actually listen to the song to glean fromit all that is there. Sure, “Kyoto” soars compared to the other songs here; it’s a legitimate pop confection. But she’s still canny with silence and sound, making use of the former to emphasize more nuanced dramatic peaks throughout.
“Lamentations,” William
Basinski: This may serve as the best point of entry for those unfamiliar with Houston native Basinski’s work. His famed “Disintegration Loop” recordings were long ambient pieces, but here he offers a dozen that unfold with a variety of textures and tones that don’t come near approaching song form, but perhaps they’re close enough to make some converts. Basinski’s electronic loops exude a feeling of modernity while also tying back to the meditative repetition of plainsong, making it feel likemusic unmoored from time.
“Moon Piano,” Laraaji: I’ve largelymissed 40 years ofmusic by this artist because the “new age” tag felt so repellent. My loss. Here he works through 10 spacious and somber pieces in a Brooklyn, N.Y., church on piano unaccompanied but forminor sounds on the periphery — such as shuffling feet, murmured conversations and some street noise. The connection between opener “Prana Light” and closer “Trance Gaze Pt. 2” is such that this album begs to be looped and repeated over and over as it’s an atmosphere as much as it is a performance.
“Mordechai,” Khruangbin: A distinctive vibe is crucial to get
ting noticed. But a distinctive vibe can also become an anvil around the ankle as the world of indie rock moves on to the next thing. Houston’s Khruangbin has evolved like one of its songs, slowly and beautifully. Trying to pinpoint the crate-digging references to global locales is a harmless exercise, but one that distracts from the joys of actually surrendering to this record. It offers mood in bundles if you are paying partial attention and sends outmoments of thematic and musical complexity if you lean in and listen closely. A perfect record to escape into during a year void of travel.
“Idiot Prayer: Alone at Alexandra Palace,” Nick Cave: Look elsewhere for documentation of the feral post-punk Cave. Here he takes 22 songs from his deep songbook and presents them with just voice and piano. Songs from his haunting recent albums “Ghosteen” and “The Skeleton Tree” are presented without too dramatic a change. And songs such as “Palaces of Montezuma” — originally recorded with his loud Grinderman side project — are transformed. I’ve long preferred Cave the balladeer to Cave the wolf, so this feels like
a private recital, including an unadorned and aching “The Ship Song” that is now definitive.
“Women in Music, Part III,”
HAIM: Influence-on-the-sleeve recordings often undermine their reason for being. Not the case here. Little lyrical moments call to mind Jackson Browne (a repeated “these days” refrain), the Animals (stated frustration about being understood) and particularly Joni Mitchell (a “Both Sides Now” citation in “I Know Alone,” the whole vibe of “Man From the Magazine”). But these points of reference are like the far-flung stylistic sounds on this assured set of songs: little components assigned to a grand, larger vision. This is smart, meticulous music in which the three Haim sisters understand that the best summer songs have a dark underside. So they wait till the sun goes down to prune the thistly stems of love, life and Los Angeles.
“Silver Ladder,” Mary Lattimore: There is precious little harp in my musical diet, which says less about the harp itself — which predates me by some 5,000 years — than it does about my limited listening habits. With Slowdive’s Neil Halstead, Lattimore
has made a fascinating contemporary instrumental album that immerses the sharp attack of the harp’s struck strings with a slower decay from some electronics, synths and guitars. That bright/dark duality lends the album the feeling of a journey from dusk until dawn, a gorgeous path that feels dusted with a little hope.
“Exotica,” Fat Tony: For years, I’ve referred to him as “Houston rapper Fat Tony,” but with this record the folly in that descriptor becomes evident. Tony was and is a writer and storyteller first. Previous albums found him perfecting an almost verité approach to creating his narratives. Here he takes a bigger swing with fully realized characters acting out scenes in thoughtful narratives. The stories can entertain for three minutes, but the resonance in the stories — about major struggles and minor triumphs — lingers.
“Neon Skyline,” Andy Shauf: Shauf is slippery, and I can’t quite triangulate Shauf easily using familiar names. There’s some inexplicable quality about his music that reminds me of Harry Nilsson, as both put a playful bounce in the instrumentation of their songs. But Shauf’s voice is more understated and melancholy and less grand and manic than Nilsson’s. He’s also something of a magician as a writer. As with his perfect 2016 album, “The Party,” this one is set in one place (a diner) during a set time (a late night) with a narrative that connects the songs. In this sense, he reminds me of filmmaker Richard Linklater, creating numerous micro-meditations within a finite period.
“Countless Branches,” Bill Fay: This is the third recording from British singer-songwriter
Fay in the past eight years, a brisk clip when you consider he spent decades as a groundskeeper after his first two — released in 1970 and 1971— failed to findmuch of an audience. This is the sparest of the resurrection albums. For the most part, it’s just Fay and his piano with light embellishment in the form of a guitar, cello or harmonium. The songs are hymnlike contemplations of solitude and nature, with sporadic disappointment at the squandered potential wonder of it all with a little hope and a little resignation: “Ain’t no sea defenses, no sea wall, we’re all in the hands of time changing us all.”
A fewhonorablementions
• For years, I was waiting for Taylor Swift to make her “Tapestry.” “Folklore” and “Evermore” aren’t that, exactly, but they do represent a more nuanced approach to writing and to themusic that will sustain her when mainstreampop is no longer a viable avenue. Both are gently lush and beautiful recordings.
• I had admired Katie Crutchfield’s work as Waxahatchee, but “St. Cloud” feels like the work of an artist who absolutely found her voice. There’s a vulnerability and defiance in the words and her voice that recalls Loretta Lynn.
• “Pardon My French” — released by the Jahari Massamba Unit (Karriem Riggins on drums, Madlib on everything else) — sneaked out in late November, and I just found it two weeks ago. It’s a wonderful headphone album operating in a fresh space between jazz, hip-hop and ambient.
• I still don’t know how Mike Hadras, as Perfume Genius, pulled together themusic for “Set My Heart on Fire Immediately,” which opens with a song in which he plays an old-school crooner. It then morphs into another that finds a grungy, glammy groove. Then a pop song about longing. Varied as they are, themusic’s vibes never sound disjointed on this remarkable record.