Skoop On Somebody Love Ballads Rare

1. Skoop On Somebody Love Ballads Rare Guitar

'What kind of world is it in which a bratty Seattle-area band can sign with a major label, go into the studio, and instead of playing the usual recycled Led Zeppelin riffs common to many Northwest rockers, pound out a hook-filled mix of alternative rock and metal? And stuff each song with lyrics about '20s-generation malaise and deranged loners? And wrap it in a gorgeous (if somewhat twisted) album cover depicting a completely adorable baby underwater, grasping at a dollar bill on a fish hook? And actually get the whole quirky, infectious shebang into the Billboard top five, selling over a million albums in a little over a month?

A pretty good world, + actually.' – David Browne. 'Rock & roll – whatever that archaic phrase means in the '90s – simply doesn't get more vital and intense than this: seething anger over sexual discrimination and Republicanism, melancholy over the shooting death of a friend, sadness over friendships gone astray, and fantasies sexual and otherwise, all set to layers of sonic blitz from our leading underground guitar band. Sonic Youth, who've been playing so-called alternative rock since long before it had a name, are still insolent brats. (In that photo tucked behind the package's see-through CD tray, just what are those people doing with those stuffed animals?) But Dirty reveals, finally, an unexpected and welcome depth and emotional range that broaden with each listening. Whether unleashing coiled-up guitars that literally sound like they're burning rubber, or settling back into billowy ripples of feedback, the band explores the connection between beauty and ugliness, as well as the crucial difference between hiding behind cynicism and actually blurting out one's emotions. Alternative rock grows up-or, at least, just enough to count.'

– David Browne. 'You're bound to make a clanky, discordant racket when you're stumbling around in the dark and groping for a direction. And if those sounds were recorded for posterity, they might resemble this magnificent blip and grind through the heads of pop's most self-examining arena band. With Bono keeping his Cliffs of Dover yelp in check, Zooropa scales down U2's anthemic-apostles side. In its place are electronic grunts, mantras, and melodies that, on first listen, seem half finished. Beneath the surface, though, those dark, bumpy songs dwell obsessively on the disconnection between people – and, in a large sense, on rock & roll's murky role in a year that saw classic rockers and grungesters alike providing the entertainment at inaugural balls. Where does the concept of four men with guitars fit in?

And should they even bother? U2 doesn't answer those questions, but their attempt to make sense of their place in pop and the world at large is downright heroic.' – David Browne. 'From Elvis to Kurt Cobain, the greatest rockers have used music to reinvent themselves. Rock empowers them, and with it, they transcend their own roughshod upbringings and inspire us along the way-if they can beat the odds, maybe we can too. Smart-ass Beck isn't in their league, at least not yet, but that spirit exists in him as well. Beck's '90s twist is that he becomes a different person on every song, from sweet-and-naive folkie to sardonic white rapper to gnarled scuzz rocker.

Sometimes he does it all within the same tune, as on his cheeky, impossibly hooky hit 'Loser.' The most sonically inventive album of the year, Mellow Gold (one of three albums he released in 1994!) perfectly captures the manic, channel-surfing essence of contemporary pop. And his attitude-ambivalent toward rock, toward fame, toward intimacy, toward his own McJob – is entirely '90s too. I still don't know what 'get crazy with the Cheese Whiz' means, and I don't care.' – David Browne. 'With Osborne, many easy comparisons come to mind: Sheryl Crow with soul, Bonnie Raitt with longing in more than just her heart.

Yet none of those analogies do justice to this Kentucky-born hip-shaker's remarkable debut. First, there is the voice: rich with a brick-oven smokiness, powerful yet never show-offy, a deeply spiritual and sexual instrument that can leap from an after-glow purr to a head-thrown-back wail. The music that accompanies her is just as stick-to-the-ribs earthy, dipped in roadhouse soul, folkish hymns, barroom rock, and blues, without sounding like House of Blues nostalgia.

The only things shaky about Relish are the junkies, prostitutes, suicidal depressives, and sinners who populate Osborne's songs. But one listen to her comforting, uplifting voice and you know they'll eventually be okay too.' – David Browne. 'Maybe it was the hollowness of so much American alternative rock and rap; maybe it was something in the tea. But for the first time since Boy George sprang for eyeliner and a dress, the British pop scene came astonishingly alive in the past year. England's newest hitmakers, led by Oasis and Pulp, are schooled in U.K. Rock history, yet there's nothing quaint about the sardonic fop rock of Pulp's Different Class or the brawny song-craft of Oasis' late-1995 ( What's the Story) Morning Glory?

Carousing dandies like Pulp's Jarvis Cocker and Oasis' Liam Gallagher also know that rock stars should be larger than life; their Union Jerk high jinks were refreshing after years of fame-shy American alt-rockers. The British Reinvasion didn't end there, either, as proven by trip-hop, drums-and-bass, jungle, or whatever term the British press coined this week for all those heady, space-age samba club beats. The intoxicating soundtrack to Trainspotting features snippets of these styles.

Skoop On Somebody Love Ballads Rare Guitar

But for a larger serving of the music that will be heard in cars crossing that bridge to the 21st century, dive into the work of DJ-mixers like L.T.J. Bukem, Tricky, and Underworld, whose Second Toughest in the Infants fused throbbing techno with heavenly pop and contemplative singing. Together, this consortium of musicians and remixers has created music whose very chaos – gorgeous synthesizer washes atop sandpaper-scratch rhythms – evokes the everyday clatter that surrounds us. London's calling, and once again, we're more than happy to take the call.' – David Browne. 'Contemplating the world around him through squinty eyes, Thom Yorke, lead singer and songwriter of Radiohead, would rather tune himself out.

In his songs, all he sees are cynical politicians and excessively regimented lifestyles, and he'd prefer to wait for aliens to scoop him up for an intergalactic ride. Weary of the draining intensity of modern life, Yorke is in search of 'no alarms and no surprises,' as he sings in one of his cryptic lyrics, and he's looking for a higher ground, a fresh start. On Radiohead's most ambitious album, he's found it. When we first heard from them some four years ago, Radiohead were egregious grunge clones – and from England at that. Three albums on, they've come into their own on this subtly resplendent opus. Wafting, swelling, and subsiding in billowy bursts, the songs aren't rock or electronica, but a celestial place somewhere in between.

As each song segues gracefully into the next, OK Computer becomes a cohesive album – remember those? – with Yorke's frail sigh, which glides to a falsetto before inevitably crashing down, providing the glue. No other piece of music this year so eloquently captured fin de siecle wariness, the gnawing sense that a new, scary, and potentially enlightening world may be only two years away. Until the UFOs arrive, the sullen grandeur of OK Computer will have to suffice for Yorke, and the rest of us, too.' – David Browne. 'While her cohorts in the Fugees made do with recycling other people's hits, Lauryn Hill opted for a different and far loftier goal: to create one of the most forceful statements ever by a woman in pop. With The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill, most of which she wrote and produced herself, the 23-year-old accomplished exactly that.

Hill is one stern puppy, using her songs to lecture the music business, African-American men and women, even anyone who attempted to talk her out of having a child. But the music constantly resists her dourness. This is an album of dazzling, free-flowing eclecticism: The rap is lean and taut, the reggae sways like the coolest island breeze, and the love rhapsodies swoon, thanks to the funky elegance of her own multitracked harmonies. The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill is unflinchingly intense in every aspect, yet it's informed by a love of music, a love of the healing power of the human voice, and a sense of self-respect that transcends the cliches of hip-hop and contemporary R&B. Compared with Hill, most of today's dressed-up divas sound like they should be the ones returning to school.) Even if you wouldn't want to be trapped next to Hill at a party, her first solo missive sets the standard for a new breed of pop. It's music without borders, a truly world beat.'

– David Browne. 'Unless you count (a) the ascent of straight-outta-fraternities white rappers or (b) the augmentation of breasts, 1999 wasn't much of a year for innovation or breakthroughs. Precious little stood up and announced itself the way Nirvana, Dr. Dre, or Lauryn Hill, to name just a few, did in the past decade.

Instead, we had to settle for craft and record-making skills, and in that respect, the past year was a pretty sensational one. Choose Shania or Ricky if you must, but in the realm of pop entertainment, I'll opt for this British bad boy, whose debut American album (cobbled together from two British releases) is an all-you-can-hum smorgasbord.

From Euro-pop truffles (' Millennium,' 'No Regrets') to rueful pub rock (' Win Some Lose Some,' 'Old Before I Die') to stadium-friendly ballads (' Angels,' 'Strong') that would have easily fit onto old, pre-schlock Elton John albums, The Ego Has Landed takes a broad, internationalist view of pop. Starting with its title, it's hard to recall a more roguishly appealing record this year. And unlike most of his competition for Top 40 radio play, Williams has a genuine rough-edged personality – a last-call-of-the-night feistiness revealed in his hard-bloke's-night delivery, unrepentant-layabout lyrics (including one of the year's smartest couplets: 'Every morning when I wake up/I look like Kiss but without the makeup'), and stage persona, which can best be described as a laddie-culture version of James Bond. Williams' pop rivals may have outsold him in the colonies, but no matter; he's a true backstreet boy.' – David Browne.

'Peter Gabriel was prescient when he signed this sulker-songwriter to his label several years ago. The characters in Arthur's songs are a generally shell-shocked lot, reeling from romantic turmoil and staring at photos of former lovers: 'There's just too much time to kill between all my mistakes,' Arthur sings, in the bedraggled voice of a weary busker. But with his tape loops, roughshod rhythms, and foggy, static-drenched tracks, the Ohio-born, New York-based Arthur is a troubadour very much of the electronic age, and both his delicately shambolic melodies and piercing lyrics are as gripping as any this year. ('Now Jesus he came down here just to die for all my sins/I need him to come back here and die for me again' is one of many sharp lines.) Arthur's inky mop and pale visage – he's a leftover scarecrow from the grunge era – make him look as if he just woke up, but his music is charged with emotion. Digesting his second album is like listening to someone successfully overcome depression with music. These sad songs say so much.'

– David Browne. 'Petulant, frustrated, trendily dissolute, and clothed straight out of a '60s mod-rock fashion show, Strokes lead singer Julian Casablancas may be the most cocksure rogue since Oasis' Liam Gallagher. If that seems like a throwback, you're right. So is the first album from this New York City band – a start-to-finish cannonball of jabbing songs, ragged guitars, muffled singing, and punching-bag rhythms that manages to be both revivalist and completely unfusty. Unlike so much of what passes for current rock, particularly the downtrodden nu-metallists, Is This It feels raw, spontaneous, and unquestionably alive.

It starts groggily, with the ennui-drenched title song; by the time it ends (a brisk 35 perfect minutes later) with 'Take It or Leave It,' the band is fully awake, and so are you. In a year that offered much terrific music but little in the way of innovation, the Strokes (who've already been through a gauntlet of hype and backlash) give hope that something new, even if it is steeped in something old and borrowed, is around the bend.' – David Browne. 'To understand The Streets, first think of young Brit Mike Skinner – a.k.a. The band's one and only member – as an archetypal singer-songwriter, the kind who keeps to himself and makes music on his own. Now, imagine him creating that music on a computer and blending U.K.

Garage, reggae, and soundtrack scores. Then toss in a rude-boy accent derived from punk; a riveting delivery that's somewhere between hip-hop rhyming and BBC editorializing; and an indolent attitude symbolic of a generation that grew up with rap, PCs, videogames, and various illicit substances. Add it up, and what you have is a mesmerizing, do-it-yourself missive from the youth-culture front lines, an album that grabs you by the lapels and never loosens its grip. Taking potshots at his government and homeland culture, obnoxious pub crawlers, and occasionally himself, Skinner is bemused, disrespectful, funny, affecting, and very human. In spirit and voice, if not sound, Original Pirate Material is a punk album, but with a crucial difference.

As much as Skinner tries to act as if he doesn't care, he really does – about music, life, his friends' heroin habits, and, to paraphrase one of his songs, pushing things forward.' – David Browne. 'An extended mixtape of the year's most vital music – i.e., the list you're about to read, comprising discs, singles, and album cuts – must start here. Elephant is where Jack White becomes a star – a modern-day Clockwork Orange droog with a guitar.

But it's also where he transforms himself into a one-man repository of American music at its most untamed and poetic. From the wire-brush rawness of White's six-string attack to his excursions into hillbilly duets, yowling power ballads, uneasy-listening folk, and unhinged blues vamps with his drummer and ex-wife, Meg, Elephant thrashes about without ever losing its nerve, verve, or focus. If 'garage rock' once seemed the pithiest way to describe the White Stripes, this volcanic album establishes that the term, with all its connotations and stylistic limitations, is no longer sufficient. For two people – especially one whose percussive chops are clearly limited – they create an avalanche as forceful as just about any other band in pop: 'Seven Nation Army' and 'There's No Home for You Here' sound like the work of an ensemble. Beyond liberating themselves from genre restrictions, the Stripes also manage to accomplish something that seems unimaginable at a time when rock has devolved into either retro-nostalgia conservatism or ugly, brutal aggression: They remind us how volatile, unpredictable, raggedly beautiful, and exuberantly alive the music used to, can, and should be.'

– David Browne. 'Jay-Z, meet the Beatles: Only in the age of accelerating technology could someone have thought to pinch rhymes from the rapper's Black Album and synch them up to random riffs, refrains, and snippets from the White Album. The someone in question is DJ Danger Mouse, a.k.a. Brian Burton, and the result could have been a novelty worth one listen at most—the sound of an iPod with seriously crossed internal wires. Yet far from being a wack job, The Grey Album — a free download before the Beatles' reps not surprisingly put a halt to it — is the ultimate artistic validation of technology and the mash-up. Even such praise, though, doesn't hint at its ingenious merging of two generations: the hypnotic blend of 'Long, Long, Long' and 'Public Service Announcement,' the 'Hova!'

Shout-outs in 'Encore' newly buttressed by the guitar snarls of 'Glass Onion,' the childhood recollections of 'December 4th' merged with 'Mother Nature's Son.' (The album would have been the perfect capper to Jay-Z's retirement, had he actually retired.) Rock and rap have tangled with each other for over a decade, but rarely this seamlessly.

The astonishing thing about The Grey Album is that despite its mad-scientist origins, it feels more organic than so much other music released this year. It's an experiment even a Luddite — never mind a rap or Beatle hater — could love.' – David Browne. ' 'I seem to you to seek a new disaster every day,' Apple tells us up front, in the first song.

She's right, of course: We've known for practically a decade that she's a handful, and the torturous creation of her third album is a multipart Behind the Music in itself. But Apple can't be reduced to a pop-loon caricature; she's deceptively complex, and never more so than on this intoxicating journey to the center of her brain. Yes, she sounds slighted, hurt, confused, and irate in songs that lash out at the men who let her down and at her own gullibility. But some well-placed, wryly delivered lines here and there show she's also in touch with — even amused by —her mood swings, drama-queen tendencies, and over-reactions. (She's well on her way to becoming the Nina Simone of her generation.) Those complexities extend to her music. Though anchored to her vampy piano, Apple is a mad scientist at heart. The original, shelved Extraordinary Machine — leaked on the Internet earlier in the year—was overcooked.

But on this officially released remake, she's learned how to add tension and whimsy with judicious use of clangy musical chaos. Many twentysomething, self-consciously loopy alt-chanteuses have followed in her wake, but very few match Apple's artistry and defiant soul. For all its melodrama, Extraordinary Machine never sounds like the work of a defeated spirit; it's the most paradoxically uplifting music of the year.' – David Browne.

'From suicide and necrophilia to feng shui and meteorology, no topic is too out-there for Gnarls Barkley's brilliant debut. In fact, the far-flung inspirations of producer Brian 'Danger Mouse' Burton and potbellied ex-Goodie Mob rapper/singer Thomas 'Cee-Lo' Callaway helped make their genre-defying St. Elsewhere an unlikely platinum crossover hit. Their other secret weapons: superbly produced electro-techno-hip-hop beats, imaginative lyrics, and a seductive delivery that rests somewhere between quirk and pop. Encased in a trippy psychedelic soul setting, 'Crazy,' the pair's ubiquitous first single, finds Cee-Lo contemplating his mental health with romantic eloquence: 'I remember when I lost my mind/There was something so pleasant about that place/Even your emotions have an echo in so much space.' Their excellent cover of Violent Femmes' 'Gone Daddy Gone' is another highlight — to kids, it sounds like a fun Sesame Street sing-along tune; to 25-year-old Gap shoppers, it's cool alt-rock; and for fortysomething soccer dads, it's a nostalgic throwback to the '80s. For all its eccentric flair, however, the album never loses its soulful spirit.

Not unlike Moby's similarly unconventional 1999 CD Play, St. Elsewhere is endowed with a timeless panache that suggests it will sound as fresh and innovative 10 years from now as it does today.' – EW's 2006 Best Music list was compiled by Clark Collis, Gilbert Cruz, Ryan Dombal, Michael Endelman, Leah Greenblatt, Sean Howe, Whitney Pastorek, Simon Vozick-Levinson, Margeaux Watson. 'Here's the rarest magic act of all — making art that unites the personal and the political without getting bogged down in the polemical. Springsteen pulled off that hat trick with his latest, a protest album that boils down to this sentiment: America has lost its course. Lest the ruminative journey prove a tough sell, the Boss — recently predisposed to crafting quiet, character-filled little solo records like 2005's Devils & Dust — raucously regrouped his E Street Band for the ride. Familiar touchstones recur, but the group has never given us anything quite like the brittle multiguitar attack that drives 'Radio Nowhere,' a lonely call to action from the wasteland, and 'Gypsy Biker,' an explosive elegy for a dead soldier (and 2007's most moving song).

Throughout, they erect a wall of sound that combines sad, Spectorian pop with angry garage rock — a thick mix that's big enough to rage against the dying of the American light and blow wind on a few fading embers of middle age. For every number that expresses societal disappointment, like the pre-Patriot Act nostalgia of 'Long Walk Home,' Springsteen lets the accusatory finger crook back in a hauntingly personal lament such as 'Your Own Worst Enemy,' where weighed down by sins unknown, the singer sees his real foe in a store-window reflection. The Grammy-nominating committee snubbed this exhilarating achievement for Album of the Year, but perhaps that's only fitting: Magic is an album-of-the-decade contender.'

– Chris Willman. 'If every generation gets the pop icon it deserves, we must have wrought some crazy karmic algorithm to earn a star like Kanye West.

Rarely has mainstream entertainment felt as out-there and immediate as it does in the form of this one man — a raw-nerved virtuoso whose psyche seems to funnel directly into the blazing narratives he sets to beats. His fifth studio album's volcanic lead single, 'Power,' rides in on the proggy wallop of King Crimson's '21st Century Schizoid Man.' And what follows is nothing if not a 21st-century schizoid ride, on which our mercurial captain is by turns furious and contrite, swaggering and painfully unguarded. But nearly always, he is brilliant — from the subterranean fame-sick blues of 'Gorgeous' to the Rihanna-assisted drum-line scorcher 'All of the Lights' and tormented Swiftgate postmortem 'Runaway.' The man with so many enemies, both real and perceived, does of course still have some very notable friends; they're all over MBDTF, most vividly on 'Monster,' the sonic Godzilla that finds West trading savage verses with Jay-Z, Rick Ross, and a spectacularly unhinged Nicki Minaj. But this Fantasy, in the end, is West's alone: a dense, dazzling rap masterpiece — and a thrown gauntlet to all those who forgot, in the wild media rumpus, just how singular his talent is.'

– Leah Greenblatt. 'Pity Adele's ex-boyfriend. This year, we all got over him together, thanks to this powerhouse retro-soul breakthrough, which made us feel the pain of Adele's split from her first real love — right down to what it felt like to hear that he married another woman. The best revenge? The album sold 13 million copies internationally and resonated for everyone who'd ever gotten dumped. Channeling Northern soul, Motown, and '70s piano ballads, even having her way with an alt-rock band (on a gorgeous cover of the Cure's 'Lovesong'), the 23-year-old songstress was the great uniter of 2011.

She was beloved as much by wonky record-collectors as she was by your mom, who probably heard her music at Starbucks and felt emotions that you don't want to know about. Often backed by little more than a piano, Adele's enormous voice, which coos and wails and sometimes cracks, makes the album so wrenching that even Saturday Night Live recognized it as a universal trigger for ladies looking for a good cry: In one sketch, Kristen Wiig played 'Someone Like You' to help her mourn the tragic death of her parakeet. Funny, yes, but also true: This is music with so much heart, it hurts. And at a time when digitally tweaked vocals are everywhere, 21 features a rare thing: a singer who can seriously sing, belting out love songs inspired by another time on an album that feels genuinely timeless.' – Melissa Maerz. ' 'Whoever you are, wherever you are, I'm starting to think we're a lot alike.' Frank Ocean wrote that on his Tumblr, right before revealing that he'd once fallen for another man.

Of course, his confession generated attention because it was groundbreaking — a hip-hop star of his stature had never admitted to same-sex love. But his words have also become a mantra for a new generation of R&B fans — those who believe in a bigger kind of love, not just the type that requires 1,200-thread-count sheets. Channel Orange feels like the bravest act of vulnerability in recent memory. Whether Ocean is imagining what it's like to raise a kid with no money ('Making less than minimum wage/Still inside our parents' homes') or thinking about the loneliness drug addicts must feel ('Your family stopped inviting you to things/Won't let you hold their infant'), his empathy runs so deep, it hurts.

Even his visionary twist on avant electro, which draws inspiration from 'Bennie and the Jets,' Stevie Wonder, and boom-bap beats, offers a lesson for everyone from indie rockers to hip-hop diehards: We all connect to the same heartfelt music. If that's not love, what is?' – Melissa Maerz. 'He can't be serious. That's what all the late-night hosts and lists of 'craziest Kanye quotes' told us about Kanye West in 2013. And sure, he's the one who said that thing about being a god, and that other thing about hurrying up with his damn massage.

But like any human (even one who raps, 'No sports bra/Let's keep it bouncing'), Kanye's got every right to be serious. Asserting that freedom on Yeezus, he exposes the rage of a wildly ambitious artist confounded by the wily shape of racism today. He smashes the atoms of his fears, ego, and sex drive together for tracks like 'Black Skinhead,' featuring rhymes about 'coon s -' and a beat decidedly free of Under Armour. (It ended up soundtracking a popular TV spot for smartphones.) Mostly, his sound obsession runs riot, from the blown-speaker fuzz of 'On Sight' to the abundance of dancehall singers and samples to 'Blood on the Leaves,' with its unflinching appropriation of Nina Simone's 'Strange Fruit.' The overriding message: Listen closely.

Kanye will never validate anyone's celebrity worship. On Yeezus, though, he throws down serious thunderbolts.'

– Nick Catucci. 'Music has always had its share of self-styled weirdos and willful eccentrics — how can we forget when they won't stop reminding us how unique they are?

But actual space oddities, like comets, don't enter our orbit nearly as often. Vincent was born in the most ordinary place (Tulsa, Okla.) under the most ordinary name (Annie Clark), someone should cross-check her DNA; there's real Zappa freakiness and Ziggy Stardust glitter in that bloodline. The songs here stomp and slither and squiggle like electrified molecules under a mad studio scientist's microscope. Which isn't to say that St. Vincent isn't pretty.

In fact, it's gorgeous: a wild gyre of beautifully crystallized ballads ('Prince Johnny,' 'I Prefer Your Love'), galloping synth rave-ups ('Rattlesnake,' 'Regret'), and full-on art-funk frenzies ('Huey Newton,' 'Birth in Reverse'). 'I want all of your mind, Give me all of it,' she demands on the sly social-media indictment 'Digital Witness.'

Let her have it.' — Leah Greenblatt.