The 40 Best Albums of 2007
40 - 31
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30 - 21
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20 - 11
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10 - 2
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NUMBER 1 |
Under the Blacklight
Plenty of bands blow their first major-label advance on cars, Jacuzzis, and cars with Jacuzzis in them; Rilo Kiley blew theirs hiring Dr. Dre and Fiona Apple knob-twiddler Mike Elizondo, who helped trick out their relentlessly crafty tunes with tasty traces of sleek mid-'80s R&B, big-band Nashville blues, and dreamy Fleetwood Mac-style coke rock. A storyteller with a diarist's penchant for self-incrimination, frontwoman Jenny Lewis uses the sonic flash to flesh out her songs, which zoom in on the classic Hollywood three-way between money, power, and sex. MIKAEL WOOD
Retox
It takes a smart band to do metal this gloriously dumb; the flamboyant Norwegian cult heroes who answer the musical question "What Is Rock?" with the lyric "Rock is the possibility of choking on your own vomit in the back of a rapist's van" surely deserve a MacArthur grant. Now in their third decade of inflicting the ear-bleeding, self-aware, Alice Cooperish riff rock that Art Brut merely winks at from a safe, ironic distance, Turbonegro are wise enough to know the dick jokes ("Stroke the Shaft") and the groaner puns ("Hell Toupee") are funnier when the songs can be taken seriously. STEVE KANDELL
Maths + English
U.K. grime's early-2000s sound -- a flurry of bass grrrr, scuttling death-drums, chintzy synths, and pirate-radio jabber -- never felt like a trend with Dizzee Rascal. And on his pointed third album, the MC/producer is still bristling with off-kilter beats and moods. "There's a world outside of the ghetto / And I want you to see it," he muses on the ethereal opener. He tangles council-estate police panic with noise-guitar gnarl on "Sirens," while "Pussyole (Old Skool)" boasts a nimble dancefloor skip. Angry, hopeful, and playful, Maths contains dizzying multitudes. CHARLES AARON
Living With the Living
Confronted with a world spinning off its axis, Fugazi's most artic ulate heirs deliver their London Calling, experimenting with everything from anthemic calls to resistance ("The Sons of Cain") to jaunty Celtic storytelling ("A Bottle of Buckie") to sweetly swinging pop ("Colleen") to frantic art punk that shouts down military cowardice ("Bomb. Repeat.Bomb"). Leo can be verbose, but he's never less than wholehearted, balancing topical specificity with raw emotion. And the Pharmacists tear into complicated melodies with the verve of true believers. JOE GROSS
With Lasers
Mixing last-century guitar riffs with trashy beats, anachronistic samples, and filthy lyrics, this Brazilian baile-funk trio are about as pretentious as Punky Brewster (both dig neon stretch pants). Why fuss with obscure tracks when the beat from Tone-Loc's "Wild Thing" still sounds dope? Tastemaking DJ Diplo discovered the group via their MySpace page in 2005, and his production on their debut LP is chirpy and cheap, full of half-raps and schoolyard chants. It's high-fun low art, guaranteed to make even your cheesiest dance moves look awesome. AMANDA PETRUSICH
In Defense of the Genre
Don't let the title fool you -- Say Anything frontman Max Bemis doesn't just spend 27 (!) tracks justifying the existence of the E-word. Rather, he channels his manic-depressive spirit to build up, knock down, praise, and light ablaze the predominant rock sound of the moment. In Defense of the Genre also acts as a state-of-the-union manifesto for arrested-development twentysomethings trying to come to grips with complicated relationships ("Shiksa [Girlfriend]") and the struggle against cynicism ("Plea"). Self-important? Sure. But smart, nonetheless. KYLE ANDERSON
Fur and Gold
Not content to be merely a Björk manqué or a weirdo hippie chick, Natasha Khan channels her England-via-Narnia sensibilities through guitars, violins, and enough found percussion to give Tom Waits some ideas. Using fairy-tale imagery (magical horses, wizards) to talk about her own personal hang-ups (patriarchy, commitment), she never comes across as dishonest or cowardly. Rather, this is the sound of a young woman taking control of her own mythology, one zither riff at a time. K.A.
The Wildhearts
The seventh studio album from these British pop-metal lifers is their most contentious yet, best exemplified by "The Sweetest Song," a foul-mouthed kiss-off that starts out as a hard core anthem before revealing a disarmingly angelic na-na-na-na chorus. Much of The Wildhearts is an equally unexpected mix of hopeless romanticism and relationship-weary nihilism, with nearly every song either a death threat, a love letter, or both: It's like a Fountains of Wayne album ghostwritten by GG Allin -- though at least that record would've had a shot at a Stateside release. BRIAN RAFTERY
Baby 81
A lucky 13 tracks and not a single dud among them -- this may well be the year's best bargain. Initially dubbed a Jesus and Mary Chain knockoff, the Los Angeles-based trio have finally found their druggy groove, four albums into a clove-smoke-choked career. On their most sophisticated set yet, the bloozegaze anthems are coated in an insidiously infectious pop veneer. From the mesmeric "Berlin" to the levee-breaking "666 Conducer," it's time to raise a glass (drop a tab?) to the new classic rock. DOUG BROD
Plague Park
While his Wolf Parade coleader, Spencer Krug, floods the market with side projects, Dan Boeckner only needs the one -- a homegrown affair that finds his wife Alexei backing his rich, vaguely Elvisy vocals and fuzzed out guitars with sequencers and drum loops. But lest that description evoke cold, tossed-off self-indulgence, songs like "Cannot Get, Started" and "Sing! Captain" are every bit as earthy and exultant as the ones Boeckner churns out in his day job, if not more so. He doesn't just invite you into his basement, he hands you a pillow and a big mug of tea. S.K.
40 - 31
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30 - 21
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20 - 11
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10 - 2
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NUMBER 1 |
