The Kills’ “Dead Road 7” is stuck in my head. And now I know, all too painfully, how ridiculous the lyrics are. Any remedies are welcome.

Trent Reznor (pre-NIN) performing “Eyes Without a Face” (via Rex

If, like me, you purchased Use Your Illusion I & II on the day they were released and listened to them as many times as humanly possible (particularly “Get in the Ring,” which, many moons ago, was my favorite track), and if, like me, you are unashamed to confess that you still listen to Guns ‘N’ Roses from time to time (while remaining simultaneously disappointed in Velvet Revolver), then OPTR has dug up the apposite “Where Are They Now?” feature on one Axl Rose. Rose claims that, “People will hear music this year.” But we’ve been hearing that now for ten years. Most interestingly though, Rose is reading Philip K. Dick and watching movies.

There are drafts here that you won’t see. I wrote a very long-winded post in response to recent concerns about the Silly Weekly Rag Edited by Tanenhaus Currently Masquerading as Significant Thought. But why beat a dead horse when Brother MAO has responded so well? I also composed a number of top ten lists which are utterly ridiculous and riddled with mock enmity. But you won’t see that either.

What you will see, however, is the following top ten list of music. Mr. Ewins pushed me over the edge. If anything, what motivates this list is the chance to knock Elbow’s Leaders of the Free World from its overrated perch. So in the end, there’s some fury, albeit of minor import, in place that drives the culture-craving beast.

In alphabetical order:

Kate Bush, Aerial — She came back to us, all spiffily produced with deep drum machines and vaguely Enya-like with her passive-aggressive wailing. But I enjoyed this album, in a way that suggests that I am mellowing faster than the wrinkles form on my face. Let’s face it. “Somewhere in Heaven” is applicable to Sunday morning bedroom situations involving two people and drowsy randiness just before doing the New York Times crossword, existing as a compromise point between total capitulation to Lilith Fair nausea and something that at least grooves convincingly. Kate Bush has become this decade’s answer to Sade. But I would contend that this is not as bad as it sounds.

Clap Your Hand Say Yeah Yeah, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah Yeah — The Arcade Fire of 2005. I suspect that between Clap and Arcade, we will see the end of disco-thump indie rock before the end of 2006. At the present time, however, we can enjoy “The Skin of My Country Teeth”‘s unapologetically adenoidal bounce, the Cure-inspired “Over and Over Again,” “Details of the War,” which really shouldn’t be as moving as it ends up (but strikes one of the strangest moments of poignancy seen in pop music this year at about the 2:12 mark).

Doves, Some Cities — The tunes are unapologetically percussive (“Black and White Town,” the reverberating clang of “Almost Forgot Myself”) and this time around, the lads are feeling a mite experimental (the broken sample in “The Storm,” the lonely piano rag “Shadows of Salford”), perhaps trying to maintain a little leverage over Grandaddy. In fact, if anything, Doves goes more over-the-top with the reverb (“Ambition”) than any of their previous work. But it’s a risk that works.

The Hold Steady, Separation Sunday — It was Tito who clued me into these guys. If you haven’t figured out already, I have a soft spot for eccentric vocalists. Craig Finn, no mere ruffian, is a revelation. It takes a strange sort of commitment to come across as a philosophical drunk and even greater abilities to pull off this archetype so convincingly. My favorite track is probably “Cattle and the Creeping Things,” which spells out the Hold Steady’s secret. Let Finn do his thing, however discordant it might sound, and keep the rhythm section pitch-perfect. The rest will follow.

I Am Kloot, Gods and Monsters — Vocalist/guitarist John Bramwell has a thick Manchester dialect and a vocal range that is about as flexible as a martinet-eyed bureaucrat examining an application form. The tunes are sparse and sound as if they were produced with about five mikes to spread around three people. Yet there is an undeniable earnestness to I Am Kloot, who with this album seem to want to move beyond singing about bars and sitting around, into more ambitious territory. The problem (and the great fun of listening to this album) is that they don’t seem to know where to go. But they are sure doing their damnedest to do more with what they have. Witness the jazzy “Strange Without You” and the effort at a straightforward ballad, “I Believe,” a genre that Bramwell is sadly ill-equipped to tackle.

LCD Soundsystem, LCD Soundsystem — When I first listened to Gorillaz’ Demon Days, thoroughly grooving to the droll “Kids with Guns” and the standout track “Dare,” I thought to myself that Damon Albarn had at long last atoned for the lackluster final Blur album and produced the dance album of the year. Then I dumped the two-disc LCD Soundsystem album onto the machine and realize that, unfortunately, Albarn & Company weren’t t even close. Like last year’s fantastic offering from The Go! Team (and The Avalanches from a few years ago), this is an album that tries its hand in multiple electronica genres and pulls them all off. “Tribulations” takes you back, both lyrically and stylistically, to awkward high school dances with Depeche Mode playing in the back. The fuzz of “Thrills” is strangely irresistable. As it turns out, vocalist James Murphy is both a self-deprecatory music freak (“Disco Infiltrator”‘s Fifth Dimension-style falsettos) and a cultural satirist (“Losing My Edge”). He offers not one, but two versions of a tune called “Yeah,” in which the lyrics are (loosely paraphrased) “Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah hey hey hey yeah.” This is the kind of album both aware of its influences and willing to expand on its sound — the very antithesis of Madonna’s unexpectedly silly Confessions on a Dance Floor.

The Magic Numbers, The Magic Numbers: Don’t be deceived by the sunny indie pop that opens the album “Mornings Eleven.” The Magic Numbers don’t take themselves entirely seriously (“Long Legs”) and their optimism soon shifts into jangly snark (“Love Me Like You”). “I See You, You See Me” suggests a Paul Heaton-led band that hasn’t yet stooped to put out a desperate album of cover tunes to resuscitate a flagging career. “Don’t Give Up the Fight” would be a tune I’d probably hate if it were anyone else, but it demonstrates that singer Romeo is a strange centrifugal force for this band. Granted, there’s nothing more than cheery pop tunes here. But I suspect that the band will pull the rug out from under us with the next one.

Maximo Park, A Certain Trigger — An interesting mix of psuedo-emo and British pop, with undeniable energy and nice mid-song shifts (“Postcards of a Painting” is a standout track), all anchored by Paul Smith’s distinctive vocals. “I Want You to Stay” starts off sounding like a Bloc Party knockoff, but the minute that the synths come in at the second verse, you know you’re in an almost unplaceable territory. (In fact, who knew that “Limassol”‘s obnoxious opening synths yielded a rocking tune, let alone the punky refrain?)

My Morning Jacket, Z — Everyone and his mother has ranked this album at the top. And, hell, I’ll do likewise. Because every tune got stuck in my head at some point. Comparisons to Radiohead have been made. And, yes, Jim James isn’t Neil Young. Really. Before hearing this album, I had genuinely thought My Morning Jacket were a bunch of wusses. But what works here so well is the tone. The crazed obsession with the snare on “It Beats 4 U” to suggest not only the palpitations of James’ heart, but the uncertainty of his convictions. In fact (and you can call bullshit on me if you want), it might almost serve as a metaphor for expressing pure emotion in contemporary art. Think about it. We’ve been riddled with irony and rage and My Bloody Valentine-style noise which must serve as some kind of distinction. But beauty in and of itself is often declared war on. “What a Wonderful Man” is certainly an ironic tale about blindly following a leader, but here’s the kicker: it is utterly sincere in its convictions. “Into the Woods,” with its dreamy timbre and its baby in the blender, represents a kind of savage purity that represents the firm commitment of the subconscious. Oh fuck the deconstructionism here. It’s a good album, this. Give it a whirl.

Sufjan Stevens, Illinois — That Stevens. He writes some longass songs with longass titles and hits various moments of lunacy and poignance. But then you knew that. What you didn’t know is that every music geek worth his salt will put this album on their best of the year list, because Apollo told him to. There is no other explanation, except “You came to take us /All things go all things go / To recreate us / All things go all things go / We had our mindset / All things go all things go / You had to find it / All things go all things go.”

Honorable Mention: M.I.A., Arular; Antony and the Johnsons, I Am a Bird; Okkervil River, Black Sheep Boy; Gorillaz, Demon Days; The Decemberists, Picaresque; Wolf Parade, Apologies to the Queen Mary; Architecture in Helsinki, In Case We Die; The National, Alligator; Fiona Apple, Extraordinary Machine; Buck 65, This Right Here is Buck 65; Beck, Guero; Of Montreal, Sunlandic Twins.

Sorry, But I Just Don’t See What the Fuss is About: The Editors, The Back Room; Elbow, Leaders of the Free World; Isolee, Wearemonster; Andrew Bird, The Magnificent Production of Eggs; Eels, Blinking Lights and Other Revelations; The New Pornographers, Twin Cinema; Neil Diamond, 12 Songs; Franz Ferdinand, You Could Have It So Much Better.

Why I never knew about the Yeastie Girlz until now is a mystery I’ll never know (perhaps because the late 1980s Gilman St. scene was before my time), but one thing is certain: Although they made their name briefly in 1988 with a mere single, Ovary Action, their voices are needed now more than ever. (And if not, will someone else please step up to the challenge, perhaps responding to Caitlin Flanagan’s articles? And, no, Peaches doesn’t really count.)

To get a sense of how marvelous these no-nonsense sistahz preach, check out “You Suck” (a collaboration with Consolidated), which spells out the gender divide in explicit and quite necessary detail.

Members of the late and great local indie band Beulah are still alive and kicking, or at least reporting news from former members as it comes in. And in Miles Kurosky’s case, there are some very interesting developments. It seems that Kurosky had major reconstructive surgery on his shoulder and is unable to play his guitar let alone lift his arm in any way. But that hasn’t stopped Kurosky from composing songs a cappella while rehabilitating. Kurosky will apparently be traveling to Arizona next month to make a record, regardless of whether he can play the guitar or not. I’m hoping there’s a happy ending to this tale and that Kurosky does indeed cut an album.

It’s criminal that it’s taken me this long to stumble across the covers of the appropriately named Richard Cheese. Anyone audacious enough to record a cheery lounge version of Nirvana’s “Rape Me” (“This one’s for the ladies!”) has my immediate respect. That cover (along with covers of Garbage’s “Only Happy When It Rains,” the Red Hot Chilli Peppers’ “Suck My Kiss,” and even the Dead Kennedys’ “Holiday in Cambodia”) appears on Cheese’s first album Lounge Against the Machine. It’s difficult to say whether Cheese is reacting to the doom and gloom embedded within indie pop or he’s celebrating the declasse environment of lounge. Either way, Cheese’s music is cheery, unapologetically politically incorrect and genuinely goofy — provided you can live with own ethical conscience while enjoying his music.

Jeff is, quite bravely, quitting smoking. Having started and stopped many times myself and knowing the terrible feelings of nicotine withdrawal and the resultant brain fog, and wanting to see Jeff live on this planet a few extra years, I fully support his decision. Those who would rail against smoking, generally not having smoked themselves, usually have no concept of what quitting smoking entails. But to give you a sense of what it feels like, it involves the entire body screaming at all hours of the day, “I want a cigarette,” and the mind using all of its powers to resist these far from petty impulses. It involves escaping out of routines that were once thought casual but are now discovered to be terribly ingrained and deadly reminders of the previous smoking state (a cigarette after a meal, a cigarette after work, the like) and, if you’re a writer who smokes, it takes considerable time for the brain to adjust to the now nicotine-less environment. Little accident that quitting smoking is often described by methadone patients as “more addictive than heroin.”

Former smokers are often expected to go up against these far from comfy impulses alone, sometimes with the support of friends and family who may not fully comprehend what the smoker is in for. Current society, which is remarkably olfactory and teeth-conscious in the American theatre, would dictate that a certain “tough love” policy should exist. For smokers are often considered to be rapacious addicts who do not even possess beating ventricles. They must, as they snap their head like Gollum at the sight of the Ring, endure other people who smoke cigarettes and the persistent threat of addiction, not permitting themselves to cave into the impulse of “just one.” Even when they have applied patches and nicotine gum.

It seems amusing to me that all of the so-called antismoking PSAs and the like not only fail to understand the problem from the smoker’s perspective, but are punitive in their intent. They give the smoker messages of disapproval, disinterring grainy video images of Yul Brynner telling people not to smoke as he is dying of cancer or, at the more grotesque end of the spectrum, a woman who inserts a cigarette into her tracheotomy opening. I would suggest that a smoker, perhaps silently humiliated by these images, is more inclined to rebel against these disapproving commercials, lighting up rather than staying off the butts, simply because the tone of these commercials transforms smoking into some grisly and over-the-top visual, rather than the commonplace activity that it is. These commercials fail to convey reality to their intended audience. Outside of any bar, you will find habitues firing up their Marlboro Lights with sequential brio. The addiction is treated like a sad, intensely personal thing (it is that and much more) that the recovering smoker can only effect their recovery with a bootstraps mentality that has much in common with the cruel way American government treats the working poor.

Not one of these commercials points out the positive results of not smoking, such as the return of taste and smell after three days. Nor do they note that breathing improves, that sex is better and that a lover’s smell transforms from pleasant to divine. Nor do they point out that the five dollars or so put into cigarettes a day adds up to $1,825/year — truly a colossal savings if the now recovering smoker were to put the money they would spend on cigarettes into a jar. I would suggest that advertisements striking these hopeful notes would perform greater good among the populace at large.

But to get back to Jeff, I’m happy that he’s found another mechanism to contend with the terrible withdrawal he’s no doubt feeling right now. He’s putting together a song list of songs that concern the last cigarette and the like. If you have some ideas, do indeed help the man out.

It’s taken me several listens of Franz Ferdinand’s You Could Have It So Much Better to figure out why it rubbed me the wrong way — what Trent Reznor recently suggested, “All the cool people say they’re good, but it sounds like I’m getting bullshitted by somebody.”

The strange thing was that I didn’t really get this sense with the first album. I rocked out to “Take Me On” and “Michael” as much as the next guy. But with this “Do You Want To” hit single, which is essentially “My Sharona” with a droning drumbeat on repeat, I have to ask: what’s so revolutionary about keeping the signal in the center and then expanding it out to the left and right? These guys have nothing on Pink Floyd’s directional pyrotechnics (or, hell, even Of Montreal’s) and I strongly suspect that anyone listening to this song stoned would be extremely disappointed.

I think I’ve figured out what’s wrong. Franz Ferdinand is Johnny Cash sped up, with a little bit of stark tempo changes for the hipsters in “What You Want” and “Evil and a Heathen”‘s roadhouse feel, in case you weren’t convinced of their streetcred. Alex Kapranos, like Cash, has no voice to speak of. Every one of these songs could be effortlessly growled by someone almost immediately after a lengthy throat surgery session. The unfortunate thing with Franz Ferdinand is that the speed comes at the expense of the soul.

The sterterous snares (louder than Lars Ulrich’s overleveled drums on the Metallica albums; that’s saying something) and the predictable bass work (seemingly unaware of anything other than eighth notes that subscribe strictly to a rhythm line that is not so much meant to be discovered, but is intended as a predictable trope to be memorized and mindlessly danced to) bury whatever melodic inventiveness lies at the root of the songs. This production choice is particularly irksome with “This Boy,” in which some interesting guitar work on the hard left and right channels is buried by a repetitive bass line and drums that are not so much played, but banged in a masupiral-like manner. In fact, I’ll go on record here and suggest that, of all the music released in 2005, Franz Ferdinand’s “This Boy” is probably the worst song anyone could ever fuck to.

But back to Cash. Everyone knows that Johnny Cash is not meant to be sped up, because the idea of a tempo restricted by a savage and langourous feel is one of the things that made Johnny Cash the great performer that he was. It was this quality that allowed him to stretch out his limitations and tap into the audiences at San Quentin and Folsom Prison. Cash’s self-imposed approach, I suspect, was instantly identifiable to the prisoners. It allowed Cash to tap into some rugged outlaw quality that eludes Franz Ferdinand. (Okay, Kapranos, so you went down on a guy and you’re happy to MDMA your sentiments. That doesn’t make you brash or daring. It makes you no different from just about any asshole at a club on a Saturday night.)

The question now is how long will this repetitive Johnny Cash homage will keep these Glasgow interlopers off the dole? There is no question in my mind that Franz Ferdinand is capable of good stuff, but this album is nothing more than a lackluster collection of forced fun and it makes me long for Pavement’s purity or the Fantomas’ bizarre playfulness.

Of course, if Franz Ferdinand’s management wanted to throw the band into a state penitentiary just to see how long that might last, that might be a quick fix too.

So here’s the big question: is Eggstone, one of the most underrated pop bands from the 90s (and, yes, I have a weakness for Swedish pop), recording another album years after Ca Chaufee en Suede? Well, this website has a demo that sounds conspiciously like the Eggstone I know, recorded in 2005.

(And if you need a reason why Eggstone deserves a revival, here’s a few sample tracks: “Against the Sun”, “Go Back” and the exceptionally sweet “Water.”)

So what’s the word, Mr. Sunding, are you just a producer now or are you still a songwriter?

Maximo Park: a little bit of XTC, a little bit of emo, a little bit of Westerberg. As indie revival bands go, I like these guys a lot more than Bloc Party.

Either I’ve lost my edge (in the way immortalized by LCD Soundsystem) or I’ll just have to confess that the new Depeche Mode album, Playing the Angel, is actually quite good. (However, I suspect that all this is because I really like the flangy synth voice used for the “bing-bing-bing-burrrrrrr” on the single “Precious” and I’m dying to know what keyboard was used.)

[UPDATE: And speaking of music, Quiddity’s got the skinny on how to stream the new Annie album. Good stuff, Annie — if, like me, you like goofy Norwegian dance music.]

Bookish reports that singer-songwriter Sufjan Stevens is now writing 50 songs for 50 states.

There are no words to describe this. (via MeFi)

“You Got the Touch”

There is a particular “Hey!” that has been sampled an insurmountable number of times. It is a female voice. And the “Hey!” in question can be found on Prodigy’s “Firestarter,” Felix da Housecat’s “Watching Cars Go By” and the Art of Noise’s “Close (To the Edit).”

The question I have, if anyone is willing to answer this, is whether the “Hey!” originated from the Art of Noise or from some other source. Further, why this particular “Hey!” over all other heys.

I know that I am not entirely insane here, for this blog post and this review identifies the exact same “Hey!” I suspect that this “Hey!” means something more than a tribute to the Art of Noise. Anyone have any ideas?

A breather: The new Gorillaz album, Demon Days, is pretty damn happening by the way. Better than I was expecting. Tha album’s subtext is suitably unsure about the world that we now occupy, but it doesn’t squander its ability to rock and groove (“Kids with Guns” and “Dare” are standout tracks) or use aural experimentalism to suggest larger issues (the opening of “O Green World” sounds like there are wild beasts caught within a machine). There’s even a cameo appearance by Dennis Hopper. The tone reminds me very much of Sly and the Family Stone’s There’s a Riot Goin’ On.