Cate Le Bon's 'Pompeii' and reflections from year-end-list season

No. 1257: Cate Le Bon - Pompeii

This week, and by extension this whole month, is year-end list season. Treble just published our list of the best albums of the year (which is pretty much just correct, these are fantastic albums!) and I hope you take the time to read it, if you’re reading this. I like writing about the best music of the year, and I like listening to the best music of the year, and while I somewhat agree that the idea of ranking everything into a hierarchy is sort of trivial and pointless, well, so is everything we do as humans other than to feed, love and take care of each other, so you know, let the listing commence! But really what I love most about it is that it’s an opportunity for me to catch up on music I hadn’t heard throughout the year, to find new favorites, to catch up on what I missed. That’s what makes it fun and worthwhile. And for us on the editorial side? Well, we’re just sharing what we love. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s more than that. After reading Meet Me in the Bathroom recently, it’s wild to hear how in 2001 Spin and Rolling Stone were hyper-fixated on tastemaking and not being behind on what’s “next” or whatever. That’s a laughable conceit, because on some level, isn’t that a media creation? (And a fool’s errand, but I digress…) I guess now it’s usually TikTok, but even that’s sometimes the rediscovery of something old (Mountain Goats, Duster, etc.). But at the end of the day, why not just advocate for what’s interesting and what moves you? Then again, we kind of just do whatever the fuck we want and haven’t taken over Times Square. (Yet.)

But the flipside is the beginning of the year, when nothing’s quite emerged yet and there’s nothing but an empty queue to be filled with new music. I love that time of year, too. It’s always a mad rush to try and hear what’ll be the first great album of the year. I’m not quite sure what it was this year—who can remember that far back? But I do recall in 2022, Cate Le Bon released one of the first great records of the year. (In February? So maybe not THAT early, but early enough.) 

This was when I was sort of rediscovering her and realizing her music was amazing, despite the fact that I hadn’t been paying as much attention as I should have. Her album Reward was rightly acclaimed, a kind of amorphous art-pop record with odd rhythmic exercises and beautiful ballads. I bought it right around when I turned 40. I actually ordered it from Mexican Summer. I looked in a local shop while in San Diego, but no dice. While we were there, the city was much colder than I was expecting it to be and we were freezing when we went from the airport to our Airbnb. We moved to Richmond where we were told it snowed more often, but that hadn’t happened as of yet and it wasn’t yet cold enough. Once we returned, we actually had a few days of honest-to-god snow and it was exciting as hell for this West Coast kid. Just seeing it on the ground, piling up on the sidewalk and nearby roofs, it was neat!

Pompeii showed up after we moved into our new house, and included a signed lithograph, which is cool!, but mostly I was just excited to hear one of the best art-pop records of the year, which remained near the top of my list up to the end of 2022. Compared to her previous record it’s a little more Berlin-era Bowie, a little more post-punk in parts, like on the stellar single “Remembering Me,” or the synth sexiness of “French Boys” or “Cry Me Old Trouble.” And the opener “Dirt on the Bed” seems to be building itself in real time, from fragments of metallic percussion, saxophone and guitar riffs. This is a playful album but maybe less intentionally odd than its predecessor, but nonetheless one that’ll get plenty of repeat spins in this house. Ideally when there’s some snow on the ground. Rating: 9.2

Listen: “Remembering Me”

No. 1258: Morphine - Cure for Pain

By my count I’ve been listening to Morphine for a little under 30 years — my brother introduced me to them when he was in college, and then I heard “Honey White” on a magazine compilation a year or so later, and then eventually seeing the video for “Early to Bed” on 120 Minutes sealed it and I bought Like Swimming, and excellent and perhaps their most underrated album. 

But Cure for Pain is the one that’s almost certainly their most celebrated. Maybe that’s changed over time, what with The Night (their best imo) becoming increasingly appreciated more than 20 years after its release and, sadly, frontman Mark Sandman’s death shortly before it surfaced. But Cure for Pain is essentially the album you play for someone if they want to know what Morphine’s all about. Which is basically a rock power trio, but instead of guitar, there’s a saxophone. Sometimes two: Dana Colley would, a little like jazz saxophonist Rahsaan Roland Kirk, play two at once so he could make power chords. Which is just astonishingly badass. And this album is the leanest and most direct application of that sound, pretty much all three-minute bangers like “Buena,” once viewed by Meadow Soprano on The Sopranos, though not on the same episode where she was singing along to The Corrs. (Confusing music supervision on that show!) 

This was reissued with a bonus disc of outtakes and compilation material, which is part of the reason that I was enticed to pick this up when I did. Chief among them is “Mile High,” a song featured on the soundtrack to Things to Do in Denver When You’re Dead, a movie I never saw and nobody remembers, but the song rules, in part because it also features trumpet and just in general goes pretty hard. That said, Cure for Pain is pretty hard to beat as a whole. It’s a little like listening to an album by The Clash or The Damned before they started to mess with the formula; you know what’s coming next is definitely game-changing, but even here, they’ve got it just about perfect. Rating: 9.3

Listen: “Mile High”

No. 1259: Lambchop - Nixon

I have, on a few occasions, made a list of my favorite songs of all time. Perhaps I’m due to give it another go—the last time I did something like that I was in my thirties and it was probably about eight or nine years ago. But I could probably also, given the clarity of heartspace, make a more concise but still definitive list of songs that maybe don’t comprise all of my favorite songs of all time, but the ones that on first listen shifted something in my understanding of how and what a song could be, that altered my perception in some way and made me feel something I’d never felt before. A “eureka” moment in listening, if you will.

I don’t know everything that’d be on that list, but one entry would be Lambchop’s “Up With People.” I heard the song in a live version on a Merge Records compilation in the early 2000s and what struck me about it was that it was constantly changing, a kind of folk-lounge song one moment, a feedback-laden indie rock song the next, a gospel song after that. And the progression doesn’t actually change that much, it’s a neat trick! It’s all of these things, an absolute masterpiece of a song, the kind of thing that you often didn’t hear “indie” bands make in the late ‘90s unless they got a chance to play with some major label money. But here was this huge arrangement, this colossal, soaring piece of soulful majesty. What a goddamn song. 

I bought Nixon on CD on the strength of that song alone, and the rest of the album is great, but in mostly entirely different ways. Supposedly a concept album of sorts about the younger days of Richard Nixon, though I’m a little adrift at how these songs tie to the disgraced former president, especially considering it ends with a take on the traditional folk tune “The Butcher Boy.” But that’s all sort of beside the point—it’s more about the thematic threads that tie together, a kind of warm vintage element that sounded somewhat out of place in indie rock realms in 2000, as evidenced by a reference to the “old gold stereo” in the Bacharachian first song “The Old Gold Shoe.” Singer Kurt Wagner sings in falsetto much of the time, which he breaks out in horn-laden soul songs like “You Masculine You,” and the group retreats to their lush countrypolitan-inspired approach on “The Distance from Her to There.” Wagner’s voice is perhaps best described as an acquired taste, but some of their more recent albums have included some weird Auto-Tune experiments, so it really only gets weirder from here.

The album’s two darkest songs are at the end, “The Petrified Florist” and “The Butcher Boy,” and I remember reading at least one review that expressed some sense of disapproval at how they fit into the album (and maybe some displeasure with those two songs in general). Maybe I’m remembering it wrong, but they’re great songs regardless (Imagine that, I love the dark ones!). The latter is a noisier and driving post-punk take on a public domain folk song, the former is a slow-burning piece of chamber goth with huge horns. It’s incredible. 

“Up With People” is, naturally, still the best song, and most definitely a big reason why I bought this for a second time on vinyl for no other reason than that it was time (see also: Last week’s Deftones plunge). But I’m glad I did regardless. Rating: 9.1

Listen: “Up with People”

No. 1260: The Music Machine - Turn On…

I don’t listen to a lot of garage rock, generally speaking. I obviously love The Stooges. We’ve established that. And in terms of contemporary artists, from 2022 to 2024 I got into Ty Segall in a way that I didn’t when he first started to rise to prominence, which I didn’t necessarily see coming before, but boy will I have a lot to say about that. And in terms of early garage rock stuff, there are certain bands that stand out, like The Sonics, who were essentially the first, and the Monks, who were just weird as hell, but awesome. 

The Music Machine isn’t a groundbreaking band by any means. They’re not the Beatles or the Stones and they didn’t beat The Sonics to the punch. If they were an early punk band they’d be the Adverts instead of The Clash or The Damned. But they were a lot of fun. Like most garage rock bands, they weren’t together that long and released only two records, the second of which, The Bonniwell Music Machine, went a little more baroque. (Harpsichord, etc.) This one’s just all punk rock in its earliest stages basically. “Talk Talk,” which I’m pretty sure I first discovered through a Rocket from the Crypt cover, is their best known song, and it’s two minutes of rippin’ garage rock and burning organ. They take on a lot of popular rock songs of the time: “Hey Joe,” “Taxman,” “96 Tears,” etc. It’s party music for rowdy bikers in the ‘60s and it rules. I’m not sure why I bought it when I did, probably I was combing through a Discogs seller’s inventory and said “Sure! Why not!” Makes sense to me. See also: The next entry. Rating: 8.8

Listen: “Talk Talk”

No. 1261: Jacques Dutronc - Les Play Boys

I don’t have a ton of French records. In fact, earlier this year I went to Paris looking for a couple in particular and came up empty handed. (Specifically Jacqueline Taieb, who sort of pairs yé-yé with garage-psych sounds. One of these days I’ll track down her music on wax.) I have a little bit of Gainsbourg and like… Phoenix? But that barely counts. Jacques Dutronc is sort of a big name in French pop and rock in the ‘60s. He was married to Francoise Hardy (R.I.P.) and made a fair number of records of his own. This is his debut, which is known by three names: self-titled, Et Moi Et Moi Et Moi, and Les Play Boys. This version goes by the latter, though they’re all the same record and I’m not sure it matters one lick.

But: This is a cool ass record. Whatever it’s called. “Et Moi Et Moi Et Moi” is a garagey bit of beat music that’s wildly catchy, its lyrics kind of a satirical take on living in a bubble, but it sounds like a sing-along regardless. “Les Cactus” is another bluesy barnburner with Dutronc giving some good grunts in the chorus, while other moments ease into more traditional chanson crooning. And then there’s “La Compapadé,” which is more of a fiery tribal chant. Kind of a wild record, honestly—pop records in 1966 (barring certain exceptions) often were a hodgepodge of standards and singles that didn’t necessarily have the album experience in mind. I’m not necessarily sure this does either, but that doesn’t stop Dutronc from covering a lot of ground and really going for it. Wild stuff. Highly recommended.  Rating: 9.0

Listen: “Et Moi Et Moi Et Moi”

No. 1262: Laura Veirs - Saltbreakers

I’ve been a fan of this Laura Veirs album and its predecessor, Year of Meteors, for nearly 20 years, but it occurs to me that I haven’t heard much of her other records, other than the collaboration she did with Neko Case and k.d. lang, which is great! And she has a lot, so I might have some homework to do. But Saltbreakers is, for now and has been for years, my favorite Veirs record. I find that over the years I’ve put several of these songs on playlists, like “Don’t Lose Yourself” and “Wandering Kind,” which are both the best kind of hook-laden singer/songwriter indie rock—full-band arrangements with a singular voice at the helm. Just splendid stuff.

But I know exactly where and when I knew I loved Laura Veirs’ music, and it was on a 2006 compilation released by Kill Rock Stars called The Sound the Hare Heard. In hindsight, it’s sort of a noteworthy gathering place of mid-’00s singer/songwriter indie folk, and it’s got some pretty big names on it: Sufjan Stevens, The Decemberists’ Colin Meloy, Thao Nguyen and so on. It has a few songs I really fell in love with, like Wooden Wand’s bluesy “Bones for Doctor Swah” and Devin Davis’ stunning “When the Angels Lift Our Eyelids in the Morning.” But my favorite is an early version of Laura Veirs’ “Cast a Hook.” The compilation version is mostly just her voice and guitar, stripped down, beautiful in its simplicity. But the album version is more fleshed out with a full band arrangement. Both are breathtaking, and probably could be included in that hypothetical list I mentioned earlier where I’d file Lambchop’s “Up With People.” I imagine I heard that song on shuffle and in that moment had no choice other than to find a copy of this record for my own. The power of suggestion in my headphones is a mighty one. 

I wouldn’t say this album is perfect by any means; the backing vocals on the title track are a little sugary, and the chorus on “Drink Deep” repeats maybe a few too many times for my tastes. But then I hear a song like “Cast a Hook” and in that moment there’s nothing I’d rather be listening to. Rating: 8.9

Listen: “Cast a Hook”

No. 1263: Stars of the Lid - The Tired Sounds of Stars of the Lid

I love the minimalist drone music of Stars of the Lid, but to really listen to their music requires a lot of time and patience on my part. The Ballasted Orchestra is the one I listen to most, primarily because it’s darker and a little more ominous, whereas the records they released after that tend to lean more toward even subtler and gentler pieces. For the most part. But it’s still pretty much part of the same aesthetic. 

The Tired Sounds of Stars of the Lid is one that all my drone homies most certainly know about because it’s kind of a cult classic, and it’s a great album, but it’s about two hours long and features three discs, so there’s not really any casual way to listen to it. You sort of have to commit to it. I find that it’s rare I listen to all six sides in a sequence in a single sitting. I’m not sure I’m expected to, but it’s beautiful regardless, whether on the bright minimalism of “FAC 21” (I’m not sure if this is what it’s named for but that’s the catalog number of a Factory Records badge), the gorgeous melodicism of “Requiem for Dying Mothers,” or the eerie found-sounds patchwork of “Down 3.” Phenomenal record, but one that requires a bit of your time and attention. My advice? Give it freely. Rating: 9.2

Listen: “FAC 21”