Ben Sisario, ostensibly feeling a little cheeky, got one in just under the buzzer for ’08. His “2008 Sounded Like…” post will make some of you laugh, and probably make others see red. Here’s just a taste:

Read the full list at Ben’s blog, Crimes Against Music →

Ben Kweller, World Tour 2006-2007
Delicious Design League, 2006.

Surely of late you’ve noticed all those crazy-low-priced Amazon download deals, where you can get a (usually new) album for about $3-$5? Apparently, Amazon taking a huge hit on those discounts– news has trickled out that they’re paying the artist/label the full ($9.99) share of the sale, even though the sale price is much lower. Now, why would they do that? To attempt to wrestle away market share from iTunes, that’s why.

Kraftwerk, Northern Germay, 1981. Via Ookami Dou’s Flickr.

There are so, so many things that I love about Midnite Vultures, but chief among them is the way Beck twists familiar “sexy” language from mainstream pop music in ways that make the implied physicality seem very awkward and weird. For example, in the context of “Milk and Honey,” the line “she’s alright, touching my body,” somehow feels clammy and uncomfortable. Similarly, the line “touch my ass if you’re qualified” in “Get Real Paid” triggers thoughts that are both neurotic and erotic. The music is genuinely fun and sexy, but the album’s pervasive self-awareness mirrors the effect of living in a post-modern culture in which sexuality is warped — in good and bad ways — by the perceived expectations of pop songs, fiction, and pornography. Most interestingly, the record nudges at the notion that in this mindset, the line separating creativity and a total lack of imagination can be incredibly thin and ambiguous.

The older Beck gets, the more his music begins to sound like the equivalent of a thousand yard stare. Or really, in the case of Modern Guilt, a billion lightyear stare out into the expanse of the universe. He’s always been aloof and unknowable, but in recent years, his work has felt aesthetically sterile and emotionally blank, even as he deals with increasingly dark subject matter. Read more at Fluxblog →

[Buy it from Amazon.]

Should song reviews come with spoiler warnings? I feel as though describing exactly what happens in the second half of this song may ruin the experience somewhat, but at the same time, I feel like there’s no way I could adequately describe its movement, and the specific blend of emotions it evokes. I probably don’t have the skill necessary to do it, but more than that, I don’t have the desire. This is an astonishing, gorgeous piece of music, and I don’t want my useless, futile words to get in the way of your pleasure.

Buy it from Amazon.

Andrew Daly’s character monologues do not break any formal ground, but somehow his best bits have an unusual charge that leaves the work feeling rather bold, new, and distinct. Daly’s performances are exceptionally controlled, and often benefit greatly from a presentation that removes the visual component and focuses the audience’s attention entirely on his vocal mannerisms. He truly sounds like a different person from track to track on his debut album Nine Sweaters, whether he’s portraying an unusually horny old man, a philandering futurist, an abrasive party-starter, or broad caricatures of French, Irish, and Southern Californian stereotypes. The bits mostly start with a familiar archetype or scenario, but the structure of Daly’s routines inevitably follow down some horribly dark path, and the most hilarious moments come when his characters are forced to reckon with the twists of the narrative on their own skewed terms. Even when you’re anticipating the turns, Daly’s verbal prowess and impeccable timing allow for genuine surprises, particularly when he shows himself willing to go much further with his premise than originally expected without compromising the integrity of his character’s reality. This is certainly the case for “Sing-along With Skip McCabe,” a sketch in which a seemingly wholesome singer tells an unfortunate story that inadvertently highlights his warped, ruthless ambition.

Buy a physical copy from A Special Thing, or a digital copy from Amazon.