A “year in review” column would be most appropriate at this juncture, but nothing sounds less appealing to write. Oh the boredom-laced agony of trying to catalogue a year’s worth of releases just to wring out a top ten. If you buy new music on a regular basis, you know the quandary-your top ten albums of 2003 are invariably your personal favorites rather than any strategically realized “best.” Who, neurotic rock critics excluded, has time to excavate the hundreds upon hundreds of albums that dropped this year just to unearth a precious few greats?
Personally, the most significant musical finding of this past year was the vast continent of dance punk, what some deem disco punk, a genre that mingles closely with electroclash. Spare me the Cure and Gang of Four references please. Regardless of how long ago dance punk officially began, it is on its pogo-riding, head-bopping, hand-clapping beats I plant my flag, and on its repetitive, often vapid, oversexed and underthought lyrics I stand, arms outstretched, and shout, “Here I am, and I am here to dance!” In a quieter voice I add, “Even if it’s only in my kitchen.”
A year’s worth of kudos to Peaches, the Faint, Junior Senior, the Rapture, Stereo Total, Electrocute, and those bands to whom they owe debts of influence-Pulp, Depeche Mode, the Violent Femmes, Blur. 2003 was the year I realized that not only do I love 80s music, I love the music that idolizes, embodies, and builds on the pop punk sound of the early me-decade. Punk didn’t die in 1981-it imploded. Its bright, exclusive star became a black hole, sucking in other influences rather than isolating itself from them. Hence the pop punk of Blondie, the art punk of the Talking Heads, and the folk punk of the Smiths. And now here we are twenty years later in the midst of a disco punk revolution made even more revolutionary by computerized electronica, and christened electroclash.
But even if we can relinquish our desire for a “best of,” there’s still a nagging desire for a “best.” So, to quell curiousity, here it is-the White Stripes’ “Elephant.” I know that’s a safe choice, but it’s my truth nonetheless. Rare is an album on which all the tracks are good, on which no skipping is necessary. The counter-arguments, “ugh, they were trying to be so British on that album,” and “it’s no better than any of their other albums,” can be easily squelched by “so what?” and “yes it is, fool.”
Better backing for my claim? “Seven Nation Army,” the leading track, can get stuck in your head for days and still not be annoying. “There’s No Home for You Here” has an orchestral element that borderlines on the choir-like, a sound that countless other bands have tried to pull off or perfect, but never come so close. Plus, it manages to be heartless (“girl go away”) in a very charming way. “I Just Don’t Know What to Do With Myself” has lyrics fit for an emo anthem, but instead of sinking under its own weight is given wings with a melodic pop-punk back beat and addictively riffed chorus. “Ball and Biscuit” is a modern blues masterpiece, a track that sounds as spur-of-the-moment as it was, written in the studio and effectively rocked within an inch of its life by Mr. White. Then of course there’s the cry to battle of “be like the squirrel, girl, be like the squirrel!” The whole time I’m singing along to the “ohhh-oh-oh-oh-oh” part, I’m considering just how squirrel-like I can be. Brilliant.
What is not brilliant is how “ohhh-oh-oh-oh-oh” looks written out. It certainly loses some of its oomph.
I don’t care if it makes me mainstream-I love Jack White like a little brother and I’m not afraid to admit it. Of course there were other stellar albums released this year in all genres. My Morning Jacket, Al Green, the Decemberists, Outkast, Basement Jaxx, Floetry, etc, but let this not be a grocery list of greatness. Surely we can all just fill our discmen with our favorites and call it a “best of” day.
Live music is live art. Be a part of it now, over winter break, and next semester. Till then…