The Tallest Man on Earth — There's No Leaving Now (2012)

Kristian Matsson's music doesn't so much have rough edges as it does rough surfaces. There's an ever-present struggle in his voice, and to a lesser extent in his playing. He seems always to be a bit beyond his comfort zone, stretching to reach a higher note or a more expansive idea. It's easy to be fooled, but that unfinished sound belies the solid structure underneath. In a sense, what makes the music so compelling is that tension between the easy, solid base and the gritty, rough-hewn surface. There is an easy confidence in the songwriting; it's music with a lot more heart than head.

If the music is dependably good, that isn't to say it's static. TMoE is breaking new ground on this album, departing from the guy-with-a-guitar sound that has comprised virtually his entire catalog up to this point. If you stop and pay attention, it's not difficult to imagine how a song like "Revelation Blues" would sound without the atmospherics, rhythm section, etc. But if you take it all at face value, the sound is quite organic.

Nothing sounds like it should be stripped bare, even if you can hear how it could be. The focal point is still Matsson's intricate picking, and that's as gorgeous as ever. If the additional instrumentation & production don't seem integral to the end product, they do add a freshness to his music. This seems like the most organic direction for TMoE's music to grow, and it's good to see him working his way into it.

Mostly, There's No Leaving Now is shot through with grace and beauty. Sometimes it's the songwriting, as on the title track. Often it's Matsson's guitar playing. Occasionally it's just the straining of his voice in fleeting moments, as in the final track. It's another masterful album, which certainly holds up to the high expectations that are resting on it.

Richard Hawley — Standing at the Sky's Edge (2012)

Richard Hawley's latest album, like one or two before it, fades in slowly. As the sound rises from nothingness, you'll be forgiven if you expect his typical reverb-laden Rickenbacker sound to wash over you. Don't get too comfortable, though—when this album comes on, it hits like a brick wall. With the opener, "She Brings the Light," Hawley is clearly in new territory, and he spends most of the rest of the album exploring it.

There's never been a real throughline in Hawley's album releases. He has always had something of a signature sound, to be sure, but his development from album to album hasn't always followed a clear course—he hasn't been consistently getting heavier, or lighter, or grander. Still, this album feels like a real departure. Beyond the wall-of-sound opening, he's working here with a lot of sonic elements that aren't familiar from his previous work. The title track's bongo interlude, for instance, or the spacey over-production of "Time Will Bring You Winter," will surprise longtime fans. The thing is that these elements work—the sound is mature, fleshed out. If this were the first Richard Hawley album you'd ever heard, you'd have to assume he'd been developing exactly this sound for quite some time.

He does momentarily return to more familiar ground for the pairing of "Seek It" and "Don't Stare at the Sun." They're not bad, but it's not the best material here. Certainly, they don't integrate seamlessly into this album—in the context of so much volume, such songs take on a quaintness that doesn't well suit them. Then again, perhaps it's that Hawley himself is moving on from such spaces, and his lack of engagement is showing. "The Wood Collier's Grave" seems to indicate the latter—simple as it is, it works beautifully, and tracks perfectly back into the crashing "Leave Your Body Behind You." Evidently, Hawley is ready for  a new sound. But if this album is any indication, he'll be just as comfortable and masterful as ever.

Anya Marina — Felony Flats (2012)

On the surface, it's easy not to take Anya Marina seriously—the wispy voice, the bottle-blond hair, the coy album cover. And musically, what she's going for isn't terribly complicated. She makes broadly palatable music, borrowing a lot from various genres. A lot depends on the execution. Her approach is a template, and with enough depth and complexity, it can really work. On this—as on her previous albums—there are moments where she pulls it off. "Believe Me I Believe" is a solid example. Her voice drifts in and out of darkly textured electronic polyrhythms, and the contrast is superb. "Heart Stops" achieves the same effect, this time setting her against a lilting bassline and a wall of guitar. Despite very little actual structure, these spaces do give the listener plenty to explore. If she could carry it off for an additional half-hour or so, it would be one hell of an album. Unfortunately, she can't, and moments like this leave one wishing.

In the end, "borrow" is the right word for what Marina is doing. She doesn't immerse herself in any of these genres; she always seems like a visitor. She dips her toes in the acrid waters of punk, grunge, etc., but always there is the sheen of a top-40 star. This formula is exactly what's landed her on buzz-making commercial spots and soundtracks, of course. Such venues exist all around the edge of the mainstream, her home turf. Marina never gets lost in her wanderings; there's always a hook around the next corner. It's easy to listen to, for sure, but after a while it takes some effort just to stay engaged.

That said, and no backhanded compliment intended, maybe it's better not to try and stay engaged. For what it is, Felony Flats is close to pitch-perfect. Marina is alluring, more than fascinating. Her music exists comfortably in the background while you're doing something more interesting, calling your attention just often enough to add to the experience. But never enough to really captivate you.

The Little Willies — For the Good Times (2012)

There's a lot to like about The Little Willies' long-awaited sophomore release. They're certainly talented, and can be an engaging listen. But the first and last word that will come to mind as you think of The Little Willies must be "fun." Incessantly, doggedly, sometimes tediously fun. Not that there's anything wrong with fun music, of course, and some of the songs here are as good as they've ever been ("If You've Got the Money I've Got the Time" comes to mind).

One might take a bit of offense to how The Willies strip mine classic songs for the extraction of this one pure resource, of course. Even related notions like rowdiness ("Fist City") or sarcasm ("Wide Open Road") are dispensed with in favor of the distilled product. When virtually every song seems to produce a certain mood, one has to wonder whether it's because every song was approached as a means to that end. After the first half hour or so, one might also start to find the whole exercise a bit monotonous.

To be fair, there are a few moments when they're not extracting every drop of bouncy joy from a tune. Some of these—say, for instance, "Permanently Lonely"—suffer from a certain lack of engagement, and do little to mitigate the overall feeling. But when Jones takes over the microphone for the album's final sequence, she ably sells a wider range of emotion. The title track, "Jolene", and "Pennies on the Floor" are all effective. Gathered as they are at the end, they help the album ride off into a convincing sunset.

To some extent, though, it's that lack of engagement which really defines the album. Like many side projects, the performers often seem unable to fully commit. It has the feel of a backyard barbecue performance, where no one's willing to be accused of taking the whole thing too seriously. There are bright spots—the aforementioned "If You've Got the Money" and the opening track, "I Worship You," are firmly in this mold, and work beautifully. But it's not enough to sustain a full album, and the overall product is inconsistent. For my part, I'll give 3 or 4 stars to a few of the songs, and be glad to hear them when they come up on shuffle play. But I doubt I'll revisit the album itself very often.

My Morning Jacket — Circuital (2011)

It was probably unwise for My Morning Jacket to begin this album with "Victory Dance". It's a very good song—inventive, intricate, well-executed. Even the rhapsody at the end isn't as jarring as it might be, because by that time you're well into the song's own world. Really, it's great stuff. You know what I'm about to say next: The problem is that "Victory Dance" sets your expectations far too high. It transitions nicely into the next song, the title track, and that one moves nicely into "The Day Is Coming". But with each subsequent entry, the songwriting gets less interesting, the structure far less intricate, and the execution less impressive. By the time we reach the "Wonderful (The Way I Feel)", which should be disappointingly bland, it turns out to be just bland. Disappointing has come and gone, unnoticed.

To be fair, there are moments of redemption scattered throughout, and things do briefly pick back up in the second half. "Outta My System" is another voyage through blandness, but "Holdin on to Black Metal" isn't. It isn't very good, either, but it does mark the turn in that direction. "First Light" and "You Wanna Freak Out" are pretty good songs. Unfortunately, they are followed by "Slow Slow Tune", really the only bad song on the album*, and the set closes with the forgettable "Movin Away". To be fairer still, the album improves with repeated listens. With ample volume, it's possible to become absorbed in the music—the sound coalesces, and it becomes greater than the sum of the parts. It does plateau at a level well below "Victory Dance", though. I'm sorry to say it, but it seems clear that MMJ will never rediscover the greasy, beautiful psychedelia that made It Still Moves... so great. This album essentially continues Evil Urges' foray through pseudo-psychedelic pop-rock, which simply isn't very fertile territory.

* As a side note, I will never comprehend any artist's urge to include a novelty song on an album. By definition, the song can only become less and less worthwhile, and it really can drag the album down a bit as it goes. In this day of digital distribution, why not pick one of the myriad other ways to 'release' a song like that?

Vieux Farka Touré — The Secret (2011)

Vieux Farka Touré's music is like a river—flowing, steady, and rhythmic. Moments of peaceful stillness ease into cascades of sound, the flow never really stopping. His most recent album is, fortunately, no exception. It begins steadily enough, and builds to a wonderful climax, one of those rare albums that finishes much stronger than it began. Touré explores some new ground, letting his music get a bet frenetic in parts ("Borei") and delving deeper into a sustained (though not overwhelming) darkness in that final stretch. In all cases, though, this fits the signature that he has been laying down in the four years since his debut album.

Seeing the list of collaborators on the album—including Derek Trucks, Dave Matthews, and John Scofield—one might reasonably fear that Touré would lose his way a bit. Not so, at all. The contribution of Derek Trucks (on "Aigna") blends reasonably well into Touré's sound. And he lays down the strongest groove of his career on "Lakkal", with the help of Ivan Neville & Eric Krasno. As accessible as his music may be to Western ears, it has never really had an American flavor. So while the influence of these musicians is easily noted, they fold in well. The same can't be said for Matthews. He is not at his best here, and his sloppy, faltering vocal style does not hold up well against the tight, exquisite mastery of Touré's music. The song ("All the Same") holds its own, but you can't help wishing for the song it might have been.

Clearly, though, the most fruitful collaboration is with John Scofield on "Gido". It's the album's strongest cut, and one of the best in Touré's catalog. It comes as the album is taking a slightly more serious turn, and it's a sound quite different from the rest of the album, but which fits perfectly where it is. Scofield and Touré develop a mutual energy that is really palpable, lingering for the rest of the set and beyond. It's an compelling, powerful finish, and one that leaves you wishing it could go on much, much longer.

Fleet Foxes — Helplessness Blues (2011)

There is a rich tradition of musicians, in response to sudden success, reacting with violent opposition to the prospect. Think Nirvana or, more recently, M.I.A.—making music which goes drastically against their newfound fans' expectations, challenging them to prove their devotion. There is an equally rich tradition of artists losing themselves to their own whims, convinced that every inspiration they have is critically important, and trying dutifully to transmit them all to the world at large. Think Guns 'N' Roses, Smashing Pumpkins, or U2. Upon first listening to Helplessness Blues, I assumed it was the former. What other explanation for the decision to begin such an eagerly awaited album with such a thoroughly mediocre song? It might also explain that saxophone breaking in and destroying "The Shrine/An Argument", an otherwise beautiful tune. On the other hand, song titles with slashes in them are an easy indicator that a band has gone the other way, and there are two such songs here. Then too, Pecknold's lyrics are clumsily pretentious more often than they have been on previous releases. In the title track, for instance:

I was raised up believing
I was somehow unique
Like a snowflake distinct among snowflakes
Unique in each way you can see

And now after some thinking
I'd say I'd rather be
A functioning cog in some great machinery
Serving something beyond me

Aside from the triteness of the sentiment itself, we see here a songwriter who can't be bothered with artifices like poetry or challenges like the creation of new metaphors. These are the opening verses of the title track, and the production is such that nothing obscures these lyrics. So it turns out that Fleet Foxes are in that second group of musicians. They may alienate all their fans along the way, but what they're really trying to do is let the world see how important they are.

In spite of all that, it's not a bad album. A few of these indulgences do pay off—"The Plains/Bitter Dancer", in particular. The songs blend together at first, but with repeated listens the cream begins to rise. Certainly they are all an improvement over that middling opener, "Montezuma". Still, the dynamism of their previous work is missing. The scene changes in those slash-titled songs just aren't as compelling as they were in "Mykonos" and "Ragged Wood", and nowhere is there the intrigue of "White Winter Hymnal". If I might grant a back-handed compliment, I would say these songs are better than adequate. The harmonies are familiar and the melodies comfortable, and if Fleet Foxes don't find a lot of new ground this time around, it is still a pleasant space to spend a bit more time in.

Thao & Mirah (2011)

There are any number of adjectives one could apply to Thao & Mirah, but "constrained" would never be one of them. It may not be the throw-everything-against-the-wall aesthetic employed by producer Merrill Garbus on her latest tUnE-yArDs release, but Thao & Mirah certainly are not restricted by any arbitrary boundaries. This album is a great example of just how to make such an approach work—and really work.

The album starts off, with "Eleven", as fairly straightforward blare-pop, like a slightly more tuneful Sleigh Bells. But the song provides a foundation of kinetic energy that is maintained throughout the album as a whole. It's a bit ironic that this album is credited only to Thao & Mirah, because the hand of the producer shows through at almost every turn. Instruments, vocals, sounds, and effects are layered and juxtaposed, continuously moving toward and against each other. But in Garbus' adept hands, these elements coalesce into a structure, rather than just wildly crashing into each other like shoes in a clothes dryer.

This is not to say that the whole album has that lo-fi, distortion-laden sound. The very next song is built on a brief, almost cutesy little guitar riff. But even here, the song really opens up through the second verse, as multiple instruments begin to appear. In the end, again, we find that we've been lured into a structure of sounds piled atop each other, gradually built on that simple beginning. A song like "Little Cup", meanwhile, goes the other way. A collection of slight spare sounds—a few whispered syllabled, some light taps, a very muted drum beat—are put down as a foundation, soft as a featherbed on which Mirah lays her baby-tender vocals. The album isn't overdetermined by Garbus (other than the heavy-handed "Spaced Out Orbit", perhaps), but she is almost always quite present. "How Dare You" is perhaps the most emblematic song on the album—playful, with the duo's beautiful vocals laid over a feedback-rich beat and a flock of sound effects which could certainly sound like noise, but which take form as they flow through a musical architecture.

Thao and Mirah themselves are as creative and brilliant here as they've ever been. Catchy songs like "Rubies and Rocks" or "How Dare You" blend nicely with more down-tone moments like "Sugar and Plastic" or "Teeth". The songs seem to invent themselves one at a time, never tied to one approach or aesthetic, but coming together into an organic whole. However much they grab you on your first listen, this is an album that bears up well under repeated exposure.

Kele Goodwin — Hymns (2010)

Upon hearing Kele Goodwin, it's hard not to think of Nick Drake. And if you don't pay close attention, it's easy to keep that impression. The music is consistently placid, Goodwin's voice a series of graceful, hushed ripples. But those, of course, are just surface features. These waters run deep, and abound with complexity and life. Where Drake's lyrics are confessional, Goodwin's are self-reflexive. While Drake contemplates his own psyche, Goodwin gazes into a profound, enigmatic world. "There are sails meant never to raise / Never to know the winds," he sings in the title track, "Leaving our ship alone and adrift / Thinking only of where it has been." Not that his music is never personal, of course. But even in a tune about lost love, like "Red String", we find ourselves not in the closed space of a confession booth but somewhere rather more expansive: "The water was dark, but the sunbeam shone bright / And as I dove, day turned to night / The key it sparkled and caught my eye / I grabbed hold and swam towards the sky."

As for Goodwin's singing style, while it does immediately recall Drake, his approach reminds me more of João Gilberto. The vocals are steady and economical, with a cultivated, careful attempt to rein in excess vibrato. He indulges in a bit, just enough to make the songs compelling, but certainly he's at pains to keep from breaking free. The simplicity of the music is also a bit deceptive. The drone underlying many of the songs actually seems to simplify the already sparse guitar. That single, hovering note acts as a base, from which the melody doesn't far depart. The effect is ironically purifying.

The songs themselves are each little myths, filled with talismans & icons, populated by a protagonist with his eyes cast deep into both the past and the future. For mythologists from Lévi-Strauss to Barthes, a defining quality of myth is elements in opposition to each other. We find such elements strewn throughout these songs. Unwanted "paper tears" are saved for ages and fashioned into "warships with fire in their sails." "There's evil in every eye / but love in every face." A key recovered from deep in the sea is immediately thrown back in. Even the simple regrowth of a fallen leaf is imbued with life-sized significance.

If Kele Goodwin's music is not overly dynamic, it is also not the narrow, self-absorbed sort that too often accompanies such an aesthetic. It is music which rewards patient attention.

Diana Jones — High Atmosphere (2011)

A few years ago, after enjoying albums from Noah & The Whale and Thao Nguyen, I made myself a promise not to ignore any artist based solely on their singing voice. That commitment has continued to pay off, not least because it's allowed me to appreciate one of the great songwriters alive today. Diana Jones is often noted for her unique, throaty delivery, and it's not immediately to everyone's taste. It's not so apparent on her most recent album, which may help her find a wider fanbase. What doubtless can't hurt is something that hasn't changed: her skill for writing and performing gripping, beautiful songs. All but one of the songs on High Atmosphere is written (or co-written) by Jones, and virtually all are real gems. The album starts strong, with the anthemic title track, an excellent example of her ability to create instantly classic material—original songs that you'd swear had been handed down for generations. Not that there is anything retro about this music. This isn't neo-country; it's Country. Pure, and deceptively simple.

You might understandably fear that she couldn't sustain the level of the opening track, but fortunately, you'd be wrong. It is immediately followed by "I Don't Know"—the kind of wistful, longing tune that you might expect from Alison Krauss or even Patsy Cline. From there the album paces along beautifully. It's less melancholy than her previous album, though it certainly has its dark moments. But as is always the case with Diana Jones' music, what keeps these songs afloat is the intense grace of the artist herself. Few songs could be sadder than "My Love Is Gone", for example, but the beauty and strength of Jones' presence keeps it from ever sinking. Then too, the quality of the songwriting itself rarely falters. Not everyone can pull off a song as straightforward as "Poverty", nor one as full of insinuation and irony as "Sister". Jones accomplishes both with apparent effortlessness.

It's not as if the album were completely flawless, of course. Truly, though, it is as close to perfect as any in recent memory. Beyond that, it's worth noting that High Atmosphere is the third in a string of very strong releases from the same artist. You'll forgive me, then, if I don't bother mentioning any faults, easy as they are to overlook. This will be one of the two or three best albums of the year, I'm certain. If I'm wrong about that, it's going to be a very good year.

Iron & Wine — Kiss Each Other Clean (2011)

You have to respect Sam Beam's ability to keep re-creating his sound and yet always keep it his. From the iconic home-made beginnings through numerous albums, experimental EPs, collaborations, covers, and beyond, Iron & Wine sounds like Iron & Wine. Given the spare effectiveness of that debut, and the apparently not-too-distant sojourn of Our Endless Numbered Days, you might certainly have expected his sound to stagnate. But since at least 2005 (and further back, if you really listen), Beam has been systematically expanding his scope. While each new release has covered wholly new ground, though, they have maintained a certain distinctive sound, and have been consistently compelling. Not so this time.

Kiss Each Other Clean does explore new ground, while simultaneously maintaining the Iron & Wine throughline. It is not, however, a compelling listen. The songs are good enough—accessible without being saccharine, complex without getting caught up in their own structure, diverse without falling away from each other. But none are great. What they don't do is last. Beam's music has always been gripping. You couldn't help but get caught up in songs like "Upward Over the Mountain", "Each Coming Night", "Jezebel", and "Resurrection Fern". They absorb you as you listen, and linger long after their sounds have gone. Nor was it ever limited to such slow, simple songs—"Freedom Hangs like Heaven" and "History of Lovers" are equally powerful. There is no equivalent on Kiss Each Other Clean. These are songs worth listening to, but hardly worth remembering. Even the best, "Walking Far from Home", begins to fade from memory before it has even ended. "Boy with a Coin", sadly, this is not. A few of the songs do improve a bit with repeated listens, which is fine. Others, however, do not. And none ever seem to rise far above the mean.

I'm inclined to chalk this all up to indulgence. Beam is playing with a lot of sounds, structures, and effects here, "experimenting" in the way that high-schoolers do with sex & drugs. But like most such partakers, he can get carried away, and it does distract attention from more significant pursuits. I'm hopeful that he'll come through it all right and find his way back to what he does so well. It's not his best album, but I don't think it's the end of anything. Sam Beam has a lot more to give, and I'll be anticipating the next album just as eagerly as if this one hadn't happened.