LIST: 31 Best Albums of 2006

I am compelled by tiny voices in my head that must be obeyed lest they force me to eat anchovies and watch non-celebrity poker tournaments on cable tv. Must. Make. List...

1. Liars Drum's Not Dead You may not want Guernica hanging over your dining room table, but it's accomplishment and significance are undeniable. Long Live Liars!
2. Neko Case Fox the Confessor Nearly the very best of the year and an easy favorite. Its' the sort of album that gains momentum internally, making itself unforgetable and indespensable.
3. Band of Horses Everything All the Time I remember hearing Built to Spill for the first time and thinking that if indie rock was a church then this would be my choir... seats now shared by The Shins and Band of Horses.
4.The Hold Steady Boys & Girls in America "We had some massive highs; We had some crushing lows..." this delivers the full spectrum in a way you can feel - the buzz and the hangover all at once.
5. Califone Roots & Crowns Like The Books playing alt-country. Sophisticated urban provincialism. Red dirt glitch-pop.
6. Danielson Ships Wide eyed mayhem that might have landed them a children's television show circa 1972.
7. Man Man Six Demon Bag Think Liars interpreting Oliver Twist topless at the Moulin Rouge.
8. Mew ...and the Glass-Handed Kites Secret Machines + Queen = Secret Queens? Queen Machines? Mew! All hail the return of the prog-opera!
9. TV on the Radio Return to Cookie Mountain It's rare to find a band with a truly original sound but Cookie Mountain delivers. New, interesting and just challenging enough.
10. Destroyer Destroyer's Rubies Dan Bejar (New Pornographers) turns in an empassioned, verbose collection of song-stories whose creativity and execution make me forget how annoying I find his voice.
11. Sunset Rubdown Shut Up I Am Dreaming More Montreal noisepop, Spencer Krug (Wolf Parade) offers a consistent Bowie homage.
12. Tapes 'n Tapes The Loon Another strong offering in the aforementioned Montreal noisepop subgenre - and they're not even Canadian!
13. Rhymefest Blue Collar Spot-on realist manages to rhyme about the working man's life and hanging out with Kanye on the same album without sounding like a hypocrit.
14. Herbert Scale Tight techno and soulful performances lend human bounce to a genre saturated with overdriven / underdriven electronics as performers.
15. Ray LaMontagne Till the Sun Turns Black Indeed.
16. Glenn Kotchke Mobile Both subtle and spectacular, the versatile percusionist shows that Jim O'Rourke wasn't the only Wilco player adding atmosphere, texture and depth to the mix.
17. Arctic Monkeys Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not Remember The Strokes? Punk, dance and rock all rolled into a British accent.
18. Jenny Lewis & the Watson Twins Rabbit Fur Coat Rilo Kiley frontwoman transforms herself into an authentic country chanteuse. A lovely turn.
19. Wolfmother s/t More evidence for my theory that seventies stoner rock and prog are the most influencial forces in music today. Rrrrrrock!!!
20. Justin Timberlake FutureSex/LoveSounds First and probably last time a Teen Beat pin-up will find himself on this list. JT pulls out all the stops to steal your girl, your sister, your mom, her sister and all their friends. He didn't bring sexy back as much as he proved that his sexy grew up. In fairness, the guy should change his name to Justin Timberland.
21. Bonnie "Prince" Billy The Letting Go In a weird way this plays like a downbeat alt-country (and possibly monogamous) FutureSex/LoveSounds. Oldham at his most hairy and romantic - and at times his most accessible.
22. Secret Machines Ten Silver Drops Oddly titled for an album with only 8 tracks - this is a precipitous drop from Now Here Is Nowhere's #2 finish in '04. I blame the darker, more claustrophobic tone of its downbeat tracks.
23. M. Ward Post War Ward stretches out with a bigger band and a stellar supporting cast (Jim James of My Morning Jacket, Neko Case) without losing his reverb soaked intimacy. Somehow an added degree of focus limits his loveable quirks.
24. Flaming Lips At War With The Mystics Having championed the sci-fi concept album with Yoshimi the Flips retreat to familiar psych territory. Noisy and more varied but still sweetly odd and engaging.
25. Beck The Information Retreading last year's Guero with a more consistent if shallow groove.
26. Gnarls Barkley St. Elsewhere If Moby hadn't already cashed in Play he'd probably be looking for royalties. Still, Play sounds pretty good today and so does this.
27. The Long Winters Putting the Days to Bed Canadian trad rockers hold the bar high for smart, accessible music.
28. Centro-Matic Fort Recovery Mostly mid-tempo alt-country feedback rock with real backbone. Uncle Tupelo + Tragically Hip.
29. Bonnie "Prince" Billy & Tortoise The Brave & The Bold Strange bedfellows labor lovingly under an unusual array of covers.
30. Rye Coalition Curses Dave Grohl production makes guitar math sound big, sexy and fun.
31. Islands Return to the Sea Fey indie reincarnation of The Unicorns, a fey indie flash on the scene, balances icy atmospherics and left field pop.

WORTHY OF NOTE
Built To Spill You In Reverse Elder statesmen of the indie scene return to tighter melodies, rhythms and tone down the atmospherics / guitar solos - these are a few of my favorite things.
Charlemagne Detour Allure Full band beefs up the things Carl Johns does well. Role playing conceit beefs up the way Carl Johns is weird.
Crooked Jades World's on Fire Traditional bluegrass folkies collect / compose musings on the San Francisco quake and fire of 1906.
CSS Cansei de ser Sexy Grrly dance rock with an accent. Too many potentially sexy things cancel each other out.
The Dears Gang of Losers Oh so indie and anglophilic.
DJ BC & The Beastles Let It Beast Clever... to a point.
Drive By Truckers A Blessing and a Curse Beat up, bitter and relentless, this is American Gothic - deep fried twang rock. Best live band you're likely to see anytime soon.
Film School s/t See The Dears.
Golden Smog Another Fine Day Alt-country allstar jamboree still sounds like friends playing drunk on the weekend - Gary Louris (Jayhawks) carries most of the vocals.
Head Like a Kite Random Portraits of the Home Movie Schizophrenic collage of beats, samples, vocal manipulation and pop is actually a pleasant surprise.
Loose Fur Born Again In The USA Wilco / O'Rourke sidebar grows louder, looser, weirder.
Rhett Miller The Believer Polished and romantic Miller lays his emo on the line (across the line, in your lap), but it's been growing on me. 
People Under the Stairs Stepfather Hip hop for your BBQ.
Raconteurs Broken Boy Soldiers Jack White project featuring Brendan Benson that should have been a Brendan Benson project featuring Jack White.
Sonic Youth Rather Ripped I can't believe their still making records so consistently consistent.
The Thermals The Body, The Blood, The Machine Punk politrock lands a few of its jabs at the well connected church men who will never ever know who The Thermals are.
Walkmen A Hundred Miles Off What if Bob Dylan sang in a Louisiana tinged rock band. (See The Band The Basement Tapes)
We Are Scientists With Love and Squalor "C" student Interpol / Kills / Franz Ferdinand sound-alikes fail to make it to the front of a a crowded class. 
What Made Milwaukee Famous Trying To Never Catch Up IDM flavored indie pop from TX is still trying to catch up to the Death Cab.
Thom Yorke The Eraser Exactly what you'd expect from a Radiohead solo debut, and nothing more.

MOST OVERRATED
Mastadon Blood Mountain Hardly the artistic prog crossover some indie critics possibly seeking cred/redemption through metal tried to make it. Faster, louder, zzzzzz.
Scott Walker The Drift Like the Phantom of the Opera singing shoegaze postrock, and not in a good Nick Cave way either.
Ghostface Killah Fishscale Wu Tang + Jay-Z = Wu Z. Dense as a fist without the punch.

LIST: Kyle's Totally Shameless Twelve Days of Music Wish List, 2006

Another year, another plea to Santa... Merry Christmas everyone!

1. Grizzly Bear Yellow House
2. Espers II
3. Wolf Eyes Human Animal
4. Yo La Tengo I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass
5. David Thomas Broughton The Complete Guide to Insufficiency
6. Old Crow Medicine Show Big Iron World
7. Horse Feathers Words Are Dead
8. Tim Hecker Harmony in Ultraviolet
9. Peter Bjorn & John Writer's Block
10. Girl Talk Night Ripper
11. Fats Waller If You Got To Ask You Ain't Got It box set
12. Sufjan Stevens The Avalanche: Outtakes & Extras from the Illinois Album

REVIEW: The Hold Steady "Boys and Girls in America"

Rating: 9

Boys and Girls in America isn't the crank it up, windows down rocker it wants you to think it is. It's more complicated, less comfortable - and better - than that. Which makes The Hold Steady's newest outing a great indie rock dilemma - an amazing LP without an immediate audience. Too much regret and reflection for the kids in need of brains-off rock to score their next weekend binge, and too much... well, just too much for the literati indies or dad-rock set. Personally the whole thing makes me feel a little beat up and queasy. But it's hard not to like.

Every song is about drinking, drugs, drinking, being drunk, doing drugs, drinking, drinking, being on drugs, and drinking. At least that's the first thing you'll hear. Beneath the floor's considerable layer of spilt beer and cigarette butts sits the album's rock-solid foundation - difficult relationships rendered all the more so under the influence. And The Great American Rock Song. It's well documented ground covered by The Stones, Melloncamp, Violent Femmes and every other artist or band who loves the medium as much as the message, and this is a worthy contribution.

Musically the album plays like Thunder Road era Springsteen with plenty of power cords, sustained high-reaching anthemic gestures, working class vocals cut ragged by ambition, beer and smoke, and of course more than a little piano just in case you forgot that this is supposed to sound like Thunder Road era Springsteen. Think The National as the loudest college cover band ever. And it works. The production is immediate, big and honest. Guitars, percussion and vocals create a standing wall up front but allow enough room for organ, bass, hand-claps and other noises to elbow in throughout, adding depth and at times humor to the mix. In all the excitement there are a few missed notes and sweat stains which filter in and out creating an exciting hum in the background. Generally the pace is quick and driven making it likely that you'll spill the contents of your raised plastic cup all over the dude in front of you while rocking the devil's horns and bouncing up and down, but he's on something that prevents him from reacting harshly so it's all good.

Even as The Hold Steady seem hell bent on returning the sex and drugs (but mostly drugs) to rock-n-roll they hold up a mirror to the social and emotional risks of youthful indulgence. If the music revels in The Indestructible Age's bigger than life behavior a closer listen paints a more dire portrait of diminishing returns, lost memories and missed opportunities. These are party songs for kids who haven't been kids for fifteen years or more and are too old to party like that. And they know it. So if this is our party then we are celebrating both the indulgence and the consequence. It's like getting the buzz and the hangover all at once, a phenomenon that work-a-days and middle income newly grown-ups alike can better understand than the nineteen year old fuck-ups they used to be. Like the substances of abuse themselves, it's a little too much to take in at once.

And that's the point. Life and love and all the other stuff is hard, so we seek the occasional chemical vacation. Trouble is, weekend fugues, however fun, leave us addled and less prepared to deal with life and love and the other stuff we were trying to escape, so we seek the occasional chemical vacation... The Hold Steady sound as if they've been there and, without judgment or malice, want us to feel both sides of the experience. Life is complicated. Rock and roll is not. This lies perfectly punch-drunk in between.

REVIEW: Danielson "Ships"

Rating: 8.5

Daniel Smith sings the kind of songs and has the kind of voice that makes passive and interested listeners alike shrug and write it off to drugs and/or mental illness.  His is the serious, wide eyed, jubilant mayhem that would likely have landed him a nationally broadcast children's television show in 1972.

Ships dabbles in the melodic psych-folk and mystic rock of those same early seventies with nods to zesty modern acts like Modest Mouse and Vic Chesnutt. Sure it's weird and the guy's part of some indie rock Christian cult, but the songs are a refreshing and thoughtful balance of irreverence and vigor.  Like Neutral Milk Hotel and The Arcade Fire, this is what earnest indie weirdness sounds like, only a little weirder and a little more fun.

REVIEW: Man Man "Six Demon Bag"

Rating: 8.5

If The Decemberists are carrying the standard for literate chamber pop full of tragic Dickensian characters and anachronistic instrumentation then Man Man are those tragic Dickensian characters playing shirtless and toothless in the alley, banging on soup pots to the delight of harlots, urchins and art house rock fans everywhere.  Six Demon Bag is full of odd-ball sea shanties, guttural grinds and drunken dirges - it is relentless, inventive, inclusive, original and filthy feeling fun.  Think Liars interpreting Oliver Twist at the Moulin Rouge.

REVIEW: Rye Coalition "Curses"

Rating: 6.5

Dave Grohl is a magician.  Seriously, if he rubs any cd with the shirt he is wearing it will play KISS Destroyer from then on.

Rye Coaltion has played Fugazi-esque Math Punk meets AC/DC Guitar Stomp for ten years and four LPs, and played it pretty well.  On Curses the band falls under Grohl's production spell, tightening rhythms and racing them to the brink, doubling guitars and harmonizing shredded vocals.  Where previous Coaltion material sounded gutsy, loud, and raw Curses sounds gutsy, loud, and polished to a woozy custom bass-boat glitter.  It's a bigger, sexier sound, and it's a lot of fun, but like the acid washed jeans it came in, it wears thin.

"Clutch the Pearls" is a blatent '80s era Van Halen rip-off that manages to both revere and ridicule Eddie and co., and the album openers "Pussyfootin" and "Burn the Masters" offer real highlights for those about to rock.   In the end it's metal-lite guitar worship that seems to prove, more than anything, that Dave Grohl is on a crusade to make Rrrock bands of us all.

REVIEW: Gnarls Barkley "St. Elsewhere"

Rating: 5.5

If Moby hadn't already cashed in Play and lost himself in the world of designer tea bags he'd probably be knocking on Danger Mouse and Cee-Lo's door looking for royalties.  Nothing new here and certainly nothing interesting enough to launch it into the cross-Atlantic pop stratosphere the way it did.  Go figure.

Crazy as a single is deserving of its heavy rotation if not the endless parde of covers it has inspired (Nelly Furtado, Twilight Singers, Ray LaMontagne, The Kooks...), but the duo's own cover of The Violent Femmes Gone Daddy Gone is insultingly awful.  The earnest crooning and crisp studio beats that serve Elsewhere elsewhere only strip the jangling original of its angst, perversion and breathless, urgent appeal – the best things it has going for it.

REVIEW: We Are Scientists "With Love and Squalor"

Rating: 5.5

Interpol Kills Franz Ferdinand.  Wildly inaccurate international news headline or three bands you are most likely to think of while listening to We Are Scientists?  This trio races through a pretty tight set of twenties-something drunken regret party rockers with precision and passion.  Why they aren't more popular with artsy high school rockers or indierock frat boys I don't know.  Then again maybe they are.  How should I know.

Scientists are not as dark as Interpol but owe a debt to their bass lines and vocal phrasing.  They're not as handsomely MTV ready as The Kills but play just as tightly with the same sort of melodic guitars.  And they're not as sexy or dancefloor conscious as Franz Ferdinand but they do know the beat and aren't afraid to use it.  The strength of the first single "Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt" and its 80s soaked "oh oh oh oh oh" refrain at the end of each line could easily chatter the album to a place near the top of the decade's alt-rock subgenre barrel.  Then again, and more likely, it could be seen as an asterisk behind Interpol, The Kills and Franz Ferdinand.

REVIEW: Rhett Miller "The Believer"

Rating: 3.5

The Believer is Miller's disappointing second solo effort following up The Instigator, a glib and wholey unecessary little album still littering a dollar bin near you.  As frontman for the consistently good Old 97's Miller is the pretty face of a chugging workhorse.  His clear tenor balances the band's loose southern grit and single handedly stitches the the "alt" in front of their country.  On his own, however, Miller opts for a more refined sound lush with pop sentimentality and power chords.  All the interesting rough edges have been polished away leaving a smooth, transparent veneer through which a stream of largely trite adolescent romance-babble is sung with utter earnestness.  This is all bleeding sleeves and broken hearts with a faux literate word count tipping the lyrics to music ratio dangerously out of balance.  Still, don't feel too bad for the guy, it's better than his first solo disc for its arrangements, he's got a steady day job with Old 97's and I hear he's married to a model.

REVIEW: Liars "Drum's Not Dead"

Rating: 9.5

I'm of the opinion that art does not - can not - die. Especially in today's climate of accelerated rediscovery and post modern appropriation nothing can stay burried for too long. Blondie and The Clash first married feuding bedfellows punk and disco with startling populist effect, only to be smothered by the strata of glam, new wave, hair-metal, grunge, emo, and hip-hop (among others) in quick succession. Less than twenty short years later bands with short memories and fans with short attention spans have strip mined through the layers and dusted off the more intact remains. The hip young things forcing toes to tap while fists pump and lips curl seem too easily reassembled from the bones of their idols - Arctic Monkeys (The Clash), Yeah Yeah Yeahs (Siouxsie & the Banshees), !!! (Gang of Four), The Gossip (Blondie).

Back in 2002 the quietly noisy Brooklyn band Liars staked an early claim on the wide open plane of a dance-punk renaissance with their debut LP They Threw Us All In a Trench and Stuck a Monument on Top. Their sound at the time was a little Sex Pistols and a lot hard to pin down. They offered no explanation for obtuse lyrics, there were no unsustainable frills to the sound, and no signs of the band relenting. The lingering sense after the last high hat was one of fierce electric heat, believable urgency and bigger things to come.

About the time the charts caught up and dance punk was the rule to the exception in the indie world, Liars served up They Were Wrong So We Drowned, a radical swerve off course plunging them dangerously into the woods of weird and difficult music to listen to let alone categorize. Just like that Liars went from being a band on the cutting edge of the next big thing in popular music to left field conceptual noise artists, the kind that never becomes popular. But oh the freedom of obscurity. With expectations shrugged and a few bridges burned leaving fair weather fans behind, the band expatriated to Berlin and began work on the music that became Drum's Not Dead.

 

While Berlin has recently been associated with all things dark and techno it has also been home to some serious and seeking minds; Friedrich "Only one man understood me, and he didn't understand me" Hegel, Arthur "The two enemies of happiness are pain and boredom" Schopenhauer, and Karl "I am not a Marxist" Marx. Lou Reed and Wim Wenders lived and worked there too. It's a city still rebuilding sixty years after the punishment it suffered at the end of WWII, a place that seems to invite introspection, deconstruction and expression on a grand and existential scale. In other words, it was the perfect place to start over and get weird.

While their increasingly hip dance punk successors seem content to scavenge the pop charts of an all too recent past, Liars have been holed up in Deutschland digging deeper in search of musical bedrock, the kind of primal experience linked directly to the seeds of human creativity.

Enter Drum, evoking pre-music as if excavated from within dense earth, amended, churned and made rich again. It is sticks, stones, skin and air; elemental, significant, and darkly, organically driven. The shift in the band’s sound that started with Drowned has gained momentum, simultaneously stripping itself down to its conceptual bare bones while building a mythology of origin complete with astral seas of crystal, a place called Mt. Heart Attack and a hero appropriately named Drum.

Nearly every sound heard on the album originates or closely references percusion. From their earliest days Liars have always been propelled by their drums. Julian Gross beat out substantial and caustic fuel ignited by Angus Andrew and Aaron Hemphill's scorching guitar / bass friction heat and accelerated by harsh bursts of Andrew's vocal oxygen. Drum is anchored by great big, well, drums played with ceremoneous rigor and left to echo in the spaces they carve out, creating architecture from atmosphere. Even the bass and, on the rare occassion when it surfaces, guitar sound as if they are played by with hammers or fists, pounded and left to resonate through the pulsing sine wave of teutonic rhythms.

The reductionism at work in the way the band uses its instruments has a reverse effect on their vocals, making the band's off-tune unison chanting the lone non-percussive element to the sound. And remarkably for three guys who would likely never claim to be great singers, it works. The raw vocal disharmony paired with lyrics referencing kidnap, murder, an epic journey and soulful reassurance matches the newly primal force beneath it all but also manages to float through each song like the wind instrument it truly is. Though it easily had the potential to slide into the murk, the album is not a sludgey or dull, rather it is voluminous, dark, and singular. I can easily recommend it to fans of the Microphones or Excepter (or Radiohead if you're ready to take a chance). I'll even go ahead and call a dead heat for album of the year (so far) with Band of Horses.

NEWS: EDITORIAL: What if...

I've been invited to participate in what must have been a very serious conversation between two friends, Marc who I know best as a brother-in-law but with whom I share several experiences not directly related to my sister / his wife, and Ryno who I know as Marc's friend and an enthusiastic fan of things.  I don't know how it started but at some point the question was asked, If you locked Ryan Adams, the Flaming Lips and Modest Mouse in a room together who do you think would write the strangest song and/or live through the experience?  It's a scenario I can imagine playing out over and over with different players - what about Sufjan Stevens, Stephen Malkmus and Beck?  Billy Corgan, Jack White and Willie Nelson?  It's enough to deserve this, the new What If... segment of The Eighth Nerve.  Special guests and I will create and answer musical "what if..." scenarios and post the results here for your entertainment.  Sounds like fun, let's begin...

If you locked Ryan Adams, the Flaming Lips and Modest Mouse in a room together who do you think would write the strangest song and/or live through the experience?

Kyle

I am writing this in response to the question as originally posed, but under the assumption that by The Flaming Lips and Modest Mouse you meant Wayne Coyne and Isaac Brock, each band’s respective leader / songwriter / chief lunatic.  Further, I move that the scenario be altered, striking Adams in favor of the White Stripes’ Jack White. *  I know he and Wayne have some history together, what with the fiber optic Jesus thing and all, but ultimately this would not change the end result of Isaac Brock attempting to murder and, in one possible permutation, partially eat the other artists while Wayne Coyne would consistently turn in the strangest songs in spite of or perhaps because of the bloody ordeal of becoming almost dead.  Still, I’ll stick to the original format of Adams, Coyne and Brock in a room.

Here’s how I see it going down.

After introductions and a brief exchange of pleasantries it becomes apparent that Adams is drunk and or high and or asleep.  He falls onto the room’s only couch and begins strumming a guitar and absently mumbling the words to Duran Duran’s “Rio.”  Brock is visibly upset because he believed he was attending to a cookbook signing with free finger food and, so thinking, didn’t take his meds - they dull the appetite.  Disappointed, chemically unstable and hungry he quickly downs the Hostess Donettes and an Amstel lite found in the room’s mini fridge.  He paces and issues stage-whispered expletives at someone named Nicky.

Coyne sits on a wooden chair near the table, relaxed.

Adams never writes a note.  He sleeps for a solid eight hours, in the course of which he has dreams about (1) unsuccessfully wooing Mrs. Brady from the Brady Bunch as portrayed by George Wendt who sits behind the stove drinking a mug of beer with a fish in it while wearing a bathing cap, making no attempt to disguise his voice, (2) being trapped in the body of a cartoon mole with a hard hat, thick glasses and a pick who has been hired by the MTA to widen Boston’s Ted Williams tunnel by two inches on either side, only then he changes into a woman with an umbrella but no shoes, and (3) Doritos.  He wakes up, pisses in the corner and has his arms summarily removed by Isaac Brock, who uses them to beat Wayne Coyne to within inches of his life.

A lot happened during the eight hours Adams slept.  Let me back up.

Once the donuts and beer have had a chance to take the edge off, Brock takes a guitar from beside the couch, detunes it, retunes it, shuffles into a corner and stands there facing the wall picking the same two notes on the fifth and sixth strings over and over again.  He pauses from time to time - mumbles, shouts, paces – always returning to the corner.  This goes on for about three hours.  He takes a break and drinks two more Amstels, offers one to Wayne and tries to engage him in a conversation about hockey.  Wayne smiles but remains silent save polite one word answers.  He looks like a young, bearded Tom Wolfe in a white suit, neatly pressed shirt and spats.  Brock shrugs it off, trades up to a blonde 1968 telecaster and heads back to the corner.  He gets a little louder, looser, jamming at length and eventually hammering out a solid chorus.  After an hour of work on the bridge Coyne interjects that he likes that part right there, yeah that. Maybe it could use full choral accompaniment or a descending cascade of chimes at the end, but I’m just spit-ballin’ here, sorry.  I’ll leave you alone.  Brock pretends not to have heard, switching now to air-drumming and air-bass, filling in the rhythm parts and banging his head until drenched in sweat.  Words come quickly, sketched hard into a yellow legal pad, crossed out, moved with jabbing arrows and arced lines.  He finishes the six-pack in between pages and ends sitting on the floor, shoulders pressed into the corner, exhausted and droopy eyed.  He stares at Wayne.  “Chimes” is all he says, then he just sits.

When Adams wakes up and moves to relieve himself it is to the absolute core-shaking terror of Brock who honestly had no idea there was another person in the room besides Wayne and him.  His terrified state quickly turns to rage when Adams chooses to piss in the corner where Isaac is still sitting.  Unfortunately for him, Wayne cannot hide his amusement at the absurdity of the situation and an irrepressible laugh cancels out his plea of “oh no, no, that’s so horrible.”  Brock looses it, blacks out and when he comes to he is in jail.  As the fog lifts he wonders anew when the cookbook signing will be.

As for who would write the strangest song, The Flaming Lips “Nearly Killed By The Hand Of Ryan Adams, Not By Ryan Himself But By His Severed Arm” nearly wrote itself.  It is memorable for its understated use of avian imagery, choral swells, sixty-three minute run time and, of course, chimes.  Modest Mouse was able to turn in “Mexican Air Travel” which sounds pretty much like anything else they’ve made over the past five years, ending in a two-minute wall of keening feedback followed by the plaintive refrain “I can not read… you can not read… I can not read… anything… anymore.”

Ryan Adams will be missed, but plans to release several albums of new material, B-sides, covers and rarities over the next few months, most of which could qualify as a little sad but hardly strange.

* Jack White would also have taken over the couch but stayed awake, composed the first act of his opera “Safe” about the 1937-38 governor of Ohio, split the Amstel with Brock and shared in a lively conversation with both artists about hockey.   He would, however, stumble over Brock on his way to the mini fridge, insult the significantly shorter man for somehow managing to get his stubby little legs in the way even though they’re barely long enough to qualify him as an adult.  Brock would initiate hand-to-hand violence and, after taking a few solid shots, overwhelm White with insane ferocity and rabbit punches.  No charges would be pressed but the White Stripes would have to cancel appearances at several summer festivals to avoid Brock.  Musically, The White Stripes “Safe” is a flop and its marquee aria “We Will Build a Park for Lovers Here” follows pretty established lines.  “Mexican Air Travel” would again finish second to The Flaming Lips “Remembering A Conversation About Hockey Before The Ugliness Between Jack And Isaac Began.”

REVIEW: Arctic Monkeys "Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not"

Rating: 7

I must address this, though I feel like I'm swatting at it like someone trying to eat a sandwich while surrounded by a cloud of tiny stinging flies. So much myspace-turned-industry buzz led up to the release of Whatever People Say... that the whir of media gnats is all I've been able to hear. So far the hype has landed these Monkey blokes a gig on SNL and some heavy rotation for "I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor" everywhere from die-hard college radio to Old Navy's in-store play list. 'Cuz nuthin' says baggy-ass low-rise boot-cut denim like disaffected British dance punk. Right?

The media is what it is. In this case and many others it is a swarm meant to draw attention and quickly dismantle. Whether the gadflies have gathered around a tasty morsel or a steaming carcass is for us to decide. I smell no rotting flesh, though there is the familiar and lingering odor of impending redundancy about this act. Remember The Strokes?

Half a decade ago Is This It rode "Last Night" to super-hero status, prompting otherwise intelligent people to proclaim the band the New Saviors of Rock, resurrecting a classic form from its premature grave. The fact that this assumes Rock suffered a death that never happened is irrelevant. I still count the album among my favorites, but Room on Fire indicated a stagnant talent pool, and First Impressions of Earth is a punch drunk attempt to reinvent their sound or risk confirming the obvious answer to the question stated by their first album... Is This It? Maybe so. My prediction: Arctic Monkeys will begrudgingly revel in the success of Whatever People Say..., wring every last penny from its blow-up sales and international tour, then respond with a sophomore album that either (a) snubs their success and turns off fair weather fans (maybe their largest base right now) while galvanizing indie-philes behind a truly original voice in "real" punk rock ala The Walkmen, or (b) snubs their success and turns off fair weather fans while disappointing indie-philes with empty punkish noise that tries too hard while breaking no new ground ala - well, The Strokes.

What's that saying our president so stupidly bungled? "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me." Anyone of a certain age and musical taste can be forgiven for expecting great things from The Strokes, and for ultimately being disappointed. Arctic Monkeys are operating in the shadow of apprehension created by Room on Fire. Plus, bands out to make The Clash look like the most important group from England since 1965 have been sprouting up like spring flowers since the decade began, so I can't get too excited about Whatever People Say... until I decide if this is another participant in this week’s passing fancy or not.

I realize this isn't much to go on as far as a review goes. Sounds like The Clash, lots of energy, accessible British punk with a beat you could dance to if you long for the return of the pogoing mosh pit, The Strokes, etc. In the end the album's title negates all opinions. Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not. Sure. In that case, Arctic Monkeys suck and they'll be probably be around forever.