The Best Fit Fifty: Albums of 2011

Philadelphia’s The War On Drugs hold the perfect balance of classic rock and spaced-out indie rock. Members Kurt Vile, Charlie Hall and Kyle Lloyd departed the band at the end of 2008, leaving founding singer and guitarist Adam Granduciel to recruit drummer Mike Zanghi and bassist/guitar player Dave Hartley. Yet somehow, 2011’s *Slave Ambient* sounds a lot like 2008’s *Wagonwheel Blues*. “Best Night” sets the tone like *Nebraska*-era Springsteen as accompanied by the musicians who played on Spiritualized’s *Songs in A & E*. Throughout *Slave Ambient* there’s also a prevalent lean on Krautrock-inspired repetitions, immediately noticeable during the first song’s end jam and in the hypnotic “It’s Your Destiny.” The consecutive pulsing speeds up on “Your Love Is Calling My Name” where Granduciel’s nasal-toned croons recall a young Tom Petty under driving indie-rock oscillations braided together with some dream-pop ambience. Fans of the band’s previous penchant for anthemic epics will feel right at home with the uplifting “Come to the City.”

Philadelphia’s The War on Drugs, the vehicle of Adam Granduciel — frontman, rambler, shaman, pied piper guitarist and apparent arranger-extraordinaire, returns with 'Slave Ambient'. On their debut, the life-affirming 'Wagonwheel Blues', and the follow-up EP, 'Future Weather', The War on Drugs seemed obsessed with disparate ideas, with building uncompromised rock monuments from pieces that may have seemed like odd pairs. Folk-rock marathons come damaged by drum machines. Electronic and instrumental reprises precede songs they’ve yet to play, and Dr. Seuss becomes lyrical motivation for bold futuristic visions. Now, Granduciel has done it again, better than before: 'Slave Ambient', their proper second album, is a brilliant 47-minute sprawl of rock ’n’ roll, conceptualized with a sense of adventure and captured with seasons of bravado.

When The Weeknd’s debut mixtape, *House of Balloons*, dropped in 2011, it was clear, even then, that something had shifted. This was a divergent kind of R&B that hinged on atmospherics over vocal prowess—an almost soulless quality in a genre built around soul. At the time, The Weeknd was largely anonymous, hiding in the shadows of his own music, the aloofness only adding to the allure. He was no one and yet everyone, as his raw, bruised candor resonated with fans suffering the effects of overexposure and contradicting desires to both feel and be numb simultaneously. He was a decent enough singer (his falsetto often drew comparisons to Michael Jackson), but it was the one-two punch of the nocturnal sound and indulgent lyrics—the darkness, the dysfunction, the hazy synth-bath of it all—that gave it staying power. When he says, “Trust me, girl, you wanna be high for this,” as he declares on the opening track, it\'s hard to tell whether it\'s an invitation or a warning, but it landed on ears that were all too happy to oblige. *House of Balloons*, here now in its original form with all samples restored, introduces the sentiment that has underscored nearly all of The Weeknd\'s music that\'s followed: a blurring of the lines between love and addiction, between having a good time and being consumed by it. In multi-part songs such as “House of Balloons/Glass Table Girls” and “The Party & The After Party,” a night\'s zenith and nadir are never too far apart; his audience, like his women, are held captive by the mercurial nature of his moods. A line like “Bring your love, baby, I could bring my shame/Bring the drugs, baby, I could bring my pain,” from lead single “Wicked Games,” serves as a kind of mission statement for the mixtape\'s (and, perhaps, the singer himself\'s) central tension. In the exchange of affection and substances, there exists an emotional transference wherein power is gained by feeling the least. The Weeknd taps into our id-driven urges for pleasure and domination and rewards them again and again. Cruelty somehow becomes sexy in this world where detachment—from everything—is the only goal; the music that he’s created as a soundtrack continues to leave its audience equally insatiable. As the years go by, *House of Balloons* has become increasingly timeless. It remains as much an exercise in mythmaking (and star-making) for The Weeknd as a testament to our own pathological impulses, sending us barreling towards destruction and ecstasy all at once.

Toronto trio Austra works with a simple synth/drum/bass palette, rooted in the ‘80s sounds farmed both by commercial bands like Depeche Mode and a number of artists in the 4AD stable. Katie Stelmanis’ remarkable, lightly tremeloed voice has an ethereal quality, with a dark spirit and a lost-soul plaintiveness that is sturdier than, say, Cocteau Twins’ Elizabeth Fraser. (The band has covered Roy Orbison’s “Crying,” a tune well suited to Stelmanis’ voice.) Synths are the core of Austra’s sound — they gurgle and purr (albeit, darkly and often fuzzily) when in dance mode, glide and glisten and glare in atmospherics mode; the crisp, skeletal drums of Maya Postepski and Dorian Wolf’s understated bass are the sturdy armature around which the tunes swirl. A song like “Beat and the Pulse” puts the band clearly in the electronica arena — it’s quiet, cool, slightly foreboding and sensual. But tracks like “Lose It” belie an ear for pop-dom, with a trilling, sing-along chorus and appealing — dare we say “happy” — dance beat. If you are utterly enchanted with Stelmanis’ (classically trained) voice, seek out her previous solo work.

It’s fitting that *Eye Contact* — the fifth studio album from Gang Gang Dance — found a home on the esteemed 4AD label; after all, some of the imprint’s earliest signings were purveyors of the sort of mystical/global amalgam favored by Gang Gang Dance. After the Brooklyn quartet injected their own unique brand of experimental music with a tougher street vibe — highlighting the electronic over the organic on 2009’s *Saint Dymphna* — here the band polishes the edges to a softer finish, each track flowing easily to the next in a mix of down-tempo beats, Bollywood melodies and Middle Eastern-inflected rhythms. The epic opener “Glass Jar” is a fantastic intro to the journey ahead, morphing from a fluttering, primordial space-trip to a climactic landing, a splash-down against an intense palette of sunset color and galactic promise. One of the most muscular tracks, the breathless “MindKilla,” has been given the remix treatment by his royal highness, Lee Scratch Perry, and is well worth seeking out.

Woods continue their consistent run of memorable releases with *Sun and Shade*. Loosely intertwined, country-fried acoustic and electric guitars, expressive percussion, and Jeremy Earl’s distinctive high-pitched quiver are mixed with gentle tape loops and sunny psychedelic textures to create a sound that encompasses both indie slacker and Deadhead sensibilities. The concise “Any Other Day,” “Be All Be Easy,” and “Say Goodbye” achieve a jangly, sun-burnt glow, and “Pushing Onlys,” “Hand It Out,” and “Who Do I Think I Am?” are the kind of superbly-crafted melodic pop tunes that Woods are able to pull out of the haze with disarming ease. “Out of the Eye” and the vaguely Middle Eastern-leaning “Sol y Sombra” sound like something the Byrds and the Velvet Underground would create if they shared a rehearsal space. Interjecting these meandering, mesmerizing jams into the set is an interesting risk that pays off by showcasing both sides of the band. Woods cover a lot of sonic territory on *Sun and Shade*, and the way in which they make the familiar sound mysterious is simply thrilling.

"Woods is a two-headed dog asleep on the porch & a butterfly on the windowsill... a Janus, a Gemini & a screen door. The sun won't fade & the earworms will not leave, but the jams go on TOO long for the girl in the back who wonders if her friends are at another bar. Still, the ballads always make her cry. Woods is up there relaying the Woods-feel: Folk-rock, fuzz, tambourines, tapes & raw lunch pulled straight from the yard. Pop songs & other things: Sun & Shade." -Glenn Donaldson "Loose, shuffling, and tuneful, the abridged Woods experience sounds more like Wowee Zowee than Workingman's Dead, but it hits just the right contradictory note of tight arrangements and breathing-room playing to get that back-porch, weird America vibe."- Pitchfork

On their sophomore album, Bon Iver add just a touch of color to their stark indie folk, while retaining every bit of its intimacy. The haunting chill of solitude continues to cling to Justin Vernon\'s every word, even when his lilting falsetto radiates warmth over a rich bed of acoustic guitar, synths, and horns. The drama exudes from every little sound—the soft, pattering snare guiding \"Perth,\" the delicate whirrs of sax on \"Holocene,\" and the big, gleaming synths on \'80s-esque noir jam \"Beth / Rest.\"

Bon Iver, Bon Iver is Justin Vernon returning to former haunts with a new spirit. The reprises are there – solitude, quietude, hope and desperation compressed – but always a rhythm arises, a pulse vivified by gratitude and grace notes. The winter, the legend, has faded to just that, and this is the new momentary present. The icicles have dropped, rising up again as grass.

You’d never guess the guys in Austin’s Pure X are skaters; the trio turns out quiet, hazy mood rock that is psychedelic and pastoral, and picturing them shredding in a concrete ditch just doesn’t come easily. The music is so loose and flowing that Pleasure was recorded live, without overdubs, in the studio. There’s a decidedly stoner influence to this music, especially in the guitar work, which sets them apart from other lo-fi, reverb-drenched outfits of the moment. Guitarist/vocalist Nate Grace might have been exposed to Galaxy 500 or Spaceman 3 in the womb; his drones, shrouded in distortion and neon, circle and hover, tethered to Austin Youngblood’s simple, solid drumming and Jesse Jenkins’ languid bass. A few songs, like “Easy” and “Dry Ice,” are fueled with more potent energy, with melodies that evoke the Jesus and Mary Chain. Grace’s fondness for effects and feedback suit the music just fine, those washes of texture and color complementing his voice when it reaches for a vulnerable falsetto or a sweet, wraith-like wail. “Heavy Air” is a spellbinding opener, with Grace’s guitar spooling out single, slow burning notes forever, as if he’s reluctant to let them go.

Any honey flowing through Lykke Li\'s coy pop fully hardened on this dark and doomy follow-up to her 2008 debut album. The Swedish singer/songwriter traps the loss of youth and love in a warped wall of sound that echoes vintage girl-group pop on big, gushing torch songs like \"Unrequited Love\" and \"Sadness Is a Blessing.\" But she comes into her own when harnessing her womanly power, with big, booming percussion on the tribal-esque thriller \"Get Some.\"

The work of Grizzly Bear’s Chris Taylor in collaboration with Twin Shadow’s George Lewis, Jr. as Cant is a musically adventurous trip into quirky rhythms, manipulated instrumentation and wild and wooly vocals. Though Taylor’s musical work with Grizzly Bear and Department of Eagles, and, especially, his production work with Dirty Projectors, Morning Benders and Twin Shadow suggests he’s capable of a complex and varied album, hearing *Dreams Come True* is still an unexpected pleasure. “The Edge” is the closest Taylor comes to a sedate, accessible ballad. “Bang” is an experimental meditative piece one might expect from Robert Wyatt. “Brokencollar” is a brief instrumental break that sounds like someone stayed at the party beyond its end. The material was written and recorded in a week and a half in a bedroom connected to the former recording studio where Grizzly Bear recorded *Veckatimest*. Yet, at times, it reaches for the stars. The title track emulates a rocket blast. “Rises Silent” trips out with stumbling beats and textures that sound like they’re transmitting from another galaxy. Heady, weird stuff.

The serene Dan Graham cover photo is no misdirection: this is some relaxing music. The Garden State’s pre-eminent chillout band gets deeply mellow on their second album, but they never drown in a bottomless sea of reverb. Instead, Real Estate’s swirling guitars and wispy vocals strike just the right balance of sharpness and haziness, as on the gorgeous “Out of Tune” and the sparkling “Wonder Years.” *Days* perfectly conjures those sun-soaked July afternoons when you’ve got nowhere to go and nothing to do.

The former leader of the Texas cult-indie-Americana band Lift To Experience, Josh T. Pearson has an unusual musical vision. His songs drift beyond the breaking point until they are well past the country, folk and blues that initially inspired them. Pearson creates lonesome extended works that defy categorization. There’s a self-exorcism going on here that’s as naked and obsessive as the obsessions he sings about. Recorded in two nights in a Berlin studio, *Last of the Country Gentlemen* is a stirring masterwork. “Thou Art Loosed,” the three-minute intro, features singing that escapes into a wordless moan, into the ether of the big sky country. “Sweetheart I Ain’t Your Christ” chases its desperation for over 11 minutes. “Woman When I Raised Hell” adds a longing violin to address his alcoholism. Every song demands and deserves its excessive length. For the silences are every bit as shattering as the lyrics.

M83’s cinematic tendencies come to a head on French musician Anthony Gonzalez\'s sixth album. Zola Jesus’ turn on “Intro” sets the scene like a cliff dive filmed in sparkling slow motion, and “Midnight City” amps up the synth-pop drama with soaring vocals and volleys of electronic drums. “Reunion” revisits the ringing guitars of ‘80s soundtrack staples from bands like Simple Minds, and from there Gonzalez glides across ambient interludes, bright digital keys, and stadium-sized New Wave. It’s the perfect marriage of indie aesthetics and blockbuster production.

At a super young age of 18 years old, Braids self recorded their debut album in Canada. The result is "Native Speaker", with strong shoegaze, pop, electronic, and a bit experimental overtones it sets the mood for a beautiful landscape helping it stand out in today's Pop world. BRAIDS’ was formed by four best friends in their last year of High School in Calgary, Alberta. Convincing one another to skip university, they stayed in the garage all year and practiced obsessively, even while their fingers froze during the cold prairie winters. Then, at only 18 years old, they took the bold step of moving across the country together to Montreal, where they began crafting their self recorded/self produced debut album Native Speaker.

Vancouver’s Dan Bejar has always been a sly kind of agitator, tearing apart the conventions of indie rock from the inside out. *Kaputt* turns the sloppy proclamations of his earlier albums on their head, opting for streamlined yacht-club funk in the vein of Steely Dan and \'80s Roxy Music. Though the music is soft and leisurely, Bejar’s lyrics remain serrated: “Hey, mystic prince of the purlieu at night/I heard your record, it’s alright,” he sings on “Savage Night at the Opera,” half-whispering with witty contempt.

The noise-lovin’ What’s Your Rupture? label brings us the guitar ... er, eruptions of Denmark’s youthful (teenaged) Iceage, with a U.S. debut entitled *New Brigade*. Fans of tough, abrasive punk — with a tolerance for undercurrents of noise, no wave and thrash — will want to put headphones on and clear the room of breakable items; songs like “New Brigade,” “Total Drench,” and “You’re Blessed” are fueled by semi-automatic drum parts and sparking guitars that throw enough heat to melt a Danish winter. Other tunes, like “White Rune” and “Collapse” hint at the earliest jolts of England’s great post-punk band Wire, tapping into the tangled roots of noise and art-damaged punk. Singer Elias Rønnenfelt intones the lyrics in English, barking in a flat, brooding expression of dissatisfaction, and there is a vortex of visceral, emotional energy at the music’s core. “Broken Bone” and “Eyes” pulse with raw energy, landing like a Fugazi punch wrapped in shoegazing softness; did original punk ever feel this good when it landed square in your gut? We think not. These kids are something to watch.

Berlin-based pianist Nils Frahm is already a firebrand in the modern classical world. As announced by Drowned In Sound, he finally returns on October 10th 2011 with the successor to his highly acclaimed solo piano works 'Wintermusik' and 'The Bells'. Nils Frahm invites you to put on your headphones and dive into a world of microscopic and delicate sounds. 'FELT' creates its own personal microcosm, offering a refuge of tender and honest beauty.

Julianna Barwick's Asthmatic Kitty Records debut, The Magic Place, is a nine-piece full-length album of magic and solace, bursting joy and healing tones. Julianna's mostly-a-capella music is built from her voice multi-tracked through a loop station. There's more backing instrumentation on this one than on previous albums but it's the vocals—soaring high in reverb-drenched, wordless harmonies—that matter most here. It's the layered fragments and pieces that become an intricate pattern through technology; it's the sound of a rising thing, a big group harmony as a splash of sunlight through a car window, a sound that feels like hope and ascendance and patience and intimacy. Her inspiration here is the a capella church hymns she grew up singing; the way a roomful of diverse voices can join together to fill up a space. Says Julianna about her church singin' days, “You could really hear all the layers, harmonies, rounds, the men and the women, the claps... everything. Some of those hymns are so beautiful.” Like Sigur Rós's ethereal glossolalia, there's a very particular joy in listening to Julianna's music. Free of the constraints of narrative and traceable language, it's the same joy in giving yourself over to opera in a foreign language, of letting go of your pesky rational mind and allowing the feeling to come through in the voices and performance. The title track is next, a reverb-y beauty queen that soars to Promethean heights and builds its own kind of safe haven in the clouds. Even the gaps between songs are essential to the album's listening experience—a sigh between stories or silence-as-drone, each second important. The New York Times called the pauses between Julianna's songs, “the small pleasure of a chance to breathe between the greater pleasures of not wanting to have to.” Meet The Magic Place. It's a great place to be...