Top 21 Albums of 2010

You can go wherever your tribe gathers — let’s say the coffee shop that feels more like home than the place where you keep your bed and clothes — and tap into Win Butler’s pent-up energy of “Ready to Start” or experience the kinetic thrill of “Month of May.” You can pretend Régine Chassagne’s singing just to you when “Sprawl II (Mountains Be­yond Mountains)” shuffles its way into your earbuds. You can ride the arty, anthemic wave of “Rococo” with a few thousand strangers at an amphitheater. You can customize your nostalgia with “The Wilderness Downtown,” the Google Maps-enhanced video for “We Used to Wait.” Arcade Fire’s magic works beautifully in any of those contexts, and this year they raised the bar on several counts. But for the richest listening experience, you need to immerse yourself in The Suburbs. Set aside a few hours; the album’s only 64 minutes, but you’ll need more than one spin to absorb the overlapping lyrics and the cohesive imagery. Butler, Chassagne and their army of rhythm and strings capture the feeling of one moment bleeding into the next until they become some hazy past that may or may not jibe with your own biography, but belongs to you all the same. Not every one of the 16 tracks is a peak, but that’s what makes The Suburbs a great album rather than a greatest-hits collection. The valleys, like “Half Light II (No Celebration),” have their own symphonic richness, if you take the time to explore them. The glittery bits are what draw you in, but the sprawl is what makes The Suburbs a journey worth taking again and again.

—M.J. Fine

The best record that chilly Berlin-era Bowie never made came out this year from LCD/DFA godhead James Murphy in the form of the rhythmically cracking, oddly introspective This Is Happening. Meanly funny (“Drunk Girls”) and tender (“I Can Change”), this is Murphy at his midtempo discoid finest. Even his subtlest melodic twists become epic by each song’s end, with “Somebody’s Calling Me” a solid example of Murphy’s widescreen compositional largesse. (It’s best heard live — specifically at Making Time’s 10th anniversary show at the Philadelphia Naval Base — and one-take versions of This Is Happening can be heard on the iTunes-only London Sessions.) If this is, as claimed, LCD’s last album, it’s a fine way to go out. If not, I guess I’ll see you at Making Time 20, Murphy.

—A.D. Amorosi

At the point where massive am­bition, panoramic vision and a not negligible dose of hubris meet is where you’ll find Glen Rock, N.J.’s Titus Andronicus. On sophomore album, The Monitor, Patrick Stickles brazenly conjures strains as disparate as Abe Lincoln’s Civil War melancholy, early Springsteen and traditional hymns, then blends them into a brooding suburban hoodrat punk opera where your greatest paranoid delusions — “you will always be a loser” and “the enemy is everywhere” — are made flesh. At nearly every turn, the album feels as if it’s flown too close to the sun (did they really just sing “Tramps like us, baby we were born to die”?) only to pull out of a death spiral to nail the landing. It’s manic. It’s panicked. It’s a shout-along pogo party, but one that also rewards closer inspection.

—Brian Howard

It’s not often an album showcases such an unflappable completeness of thought like the dark and rootsy Brothers has managed to do. The whole package rattles, riffs and wails with dark, lovelorn tunes, a few foot-stompers and smooth, soulful songs that — while honorary of blues-rock royalty past and present, like Zep, Jimi, even The White Stripes — show great strides in the musical maturity category. (This despite “Chop and Change” showing up on a Twilight soundtrack.) Six albums in, singer-guitarist Dan Auerbach and drummer-contortionist Patrick Carney have arrived at a more mod version of bluesy rock with plenty of R&B momentum. The band even covers Jerry Butler’s Philly classic “Never Gonna Give You Up” without once embarrassing itself. Robert Plant should be proud.

—Natalie Hope McDonald

Vampire Weekend’s wildly successful debut made the band a series of what used to be called “class enemies,” what with their Columbia degrees, paeans to Cape Cod and air of prepster privilege. But Ezra Koenig and company flipped them off with this nearly perfect follow-up, interrogating their own legacy and vastly expanding their quirky musical repertoire. On “California English” they attack those who perform authenticity with Tom’s toothpaste and “fake philly cheeseteaks.” And on the wildly catchy Graceland-inspired “White Sky,” a Manhattanite wants to “look up at the buildings and imagine who might live there.” But the album’s centerpiece is the magnificent, six-minute reggae-lite “Diplomat’s Son,” set to an M.I.A. sample, achingly documenting the pot-and-sex-fueled implosion of a friendship. “To offer it to you would be cruel,” Koenig sings, “when all I wanna do is use, use you.” Being used never sounded so good.

—David Faris

By now you’ve already formed a pretty strong opinion on Kanye West. Hell, so have your parents. But if you’re among the masses of rap fans who lost interest with each new pair of tight pants and ugly sneakers Ye turned up in, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy might be the album to bring you back. With production comparable to well-orchestrated symphonies, and top-notch lyrical contributions from the likes of Pusha, Jay-Z, Rick Ross and Raekwon, Kanye has managed to push the creative envelope back in the direction of hip-hop acceptance.

—Justin Rizzio

Ted Leo is an unrelenting jugger­naut of righteous indignation and bombastic punk rock. On the surface, it’s fair to call The Brutalist Bricks the latest in a series of consistently strong albums; however, that appraisal misses the artistic leap Leo and his Pharmacists have made. The usual elements (frenetic energy, progressive politics, guitar hooks, pummeling drums) are all present and accounted for, but there is a “think globally, act locally” flavor that sets Bricks apart. Leo’s downing pints and visiting family in foreign lands as the U.N. deliberates; a victory for the proletariat is entwined with entreaties for caresses and affectionate glances. This dual vision resonates gorgeously, and marks a subtle but important paradigm shift for Leo, putting him actively into the story whereas he was the commentator on 2007’s Living with the Living. Taken as a whole, Bricks is a mas­terful work. It can also just be enjoyed as toe-tapping, hand-clapping pop music by the “willfully dumb.”

—Jesse Delaney

If there was a song this year better than Janelle Monáe’s “Tightrope,” I didn’t hear it. (Sorry, Cee-Lo.) It’s a funk-driven struggle for survival and cautionary tale, fueled by ir­resistible rhythms, insistent ukulele and Ellington-like horns. And it’s par for the course for Monáe, who, on her first full-length, tack­led a dizzying array of genres — including R&B, hip-hop, indie-pop, psych-folk and classical. (She also boasts a fearsomely impressive pompadour, making her the most aerodynamic singer since Klaus Nomi.) The ArchAndroid came with a CD booklet detailing a wealth of influences — such as Orson Welles, Stevie Wonder and Salvador Dali — as well as a fairly incomprehensible sci-fi plotline. No matter. Monáe’s silken vocals and pleading searches for meaning, on tracks like the urgent “Cold War” and the gorgeous “Oh Maker,” are what make this concept album beautifully coherent.

—Michael Pelusi

The list of ingredients for Sleigh Bells’ Treats is awfully small, more of a Rachael Ray dump-and-stir recipe than a Julia Child vol-au-vent. It’s roughly equal parts screeching guitar riff and sweet melodic girl-voice, passed through production that’s all compression and distortion and redline, so that the record sounds like it’s blowing out speakers even when the volume’s down on your noise-canceling headphones. The simplicity of the recipe doesn’t diminish the quality of the ingredients, though, and standout shout-alongs like “Crown on the Ground” will remind you that a boilermaker is also just made of two things.

—Justin Bauer

Ask most hardcore fans of The National, and they’ll tell you: High Violet is easily the weakest of the band’s last three under­appreciated and underexposed full-lengths. That’s not a slight, though, as The National has dispersed with its earlier fireworks and come up with an album that feels more mature and less aggressive than the previous Alligator and Boxer. Despite lead singer Matt Berninger’s statements in multiple interviews that the band set out to make a “loud, fun record,” High Violet is steeped in the band’s trademark somber, cinematic brooding. As always, The National reveals its intentions through a series of vignettes — mostly dark, and evoking the inky mental sketches of a rainy, late-night Manhattan — exploring the complex relationships Berninger has with those around and close to him, as well as the places he inhabits. It might take multiple listens to get to the very bottom of his feelings, but that’s a good thing.

—Dominic Mercier

Beach House has always lived up to its dreamy name; the languid slide guitar, dizzying keys and sparse percussion created melodies that were hypnotic, if not downright haunting, but in a good way. Teen Dream is decidedly peppier and more robust. Even when Victoria Legrand sings of heartbreak, she bears a thicker skin. On album standout “A Walk in the Park,” she crafts a reassuring, you’ll-get-over-him anthem, crooning Grace Slick-style over a room-thumping beat and steadily warbling organ. Throughout, Alex Scally takes on more nuanced psychedelic guitar riffs, complementing the band’s arsenal of vintage keyboards for a simple sound with a big, blissed-out payoff.

—Julia Askenase

Quasi’s trademark has long been the balance between their propulsive rock dirge and tales of doom, and the spoonful of sugar helping the poison go down fine. Things tipped a bit toward the dark in recent years, but American Gong resets the scale and proves to be the band’s best album in nearly a decade. New member Joanna Bolme’s bass lures Sam Coomes away from the rocksichord and lets him fully embrace his considerable guitar prowess, bringing welcome snarl and fuzz to songs like “Repulsion” and “Rockabilly Party.” Meanwhile, Janet Weiss successfully defends her title as world’s greatest drummer, and there are still few things more exhilarating than when Coomes and Weiss let their harmonies soar as they do on the standout “Bye Bye Blackbird.” The good times may never be Quasi’s favorite subject, but Gong shows they can roll with the best.

—Robert McCormick

Flawed has never sounded so perfect. This L.A. trio’s debut full-length is fraught with insecurities, weed-induced apathy and self-proclaiming lunacy, yet it’s set to pleasant, carefree guitar rock. While simpletons have decried the lyrics as anti-feminist — pining over men, sometimes desperately — the fact is, singer Beth Cosentino nails the female psyche of our worrisome, over-medicated generation. Take the title: “Crazy for You” seems quaint enough, in a Madonna sort of way, but it plays on Cosentino’s fear that her male sweetheart may find her clingy, or worse, insane. This album makes you want to shake it off, roll a spliff and be at peace with your craziness.

—Julia West

Whether he’s dreaming up clever walk-ons for guests on Fallon, rallying with Colbert and Stewart, or running the show at his annual Picnic jam on Penn’s Landing — no one works harder at his craft than Ahmir “?uestlove” Thompson. And that goes double for his main gig; How I Got Over is The Roots’ strongest and most complete record to date. Perhaps the untimely 2006 passing of the incomparable beatmaster Jay Dee continues to inspire ?uestlove to hone his own sound. Owen Biddle on bass has clearly re-energized things, too. And Black Thought’s voice continues to gain personality and traction with age, while his lyrics are as brainy and incendiary as ever. How I Got Over moves at a symphonic pace, blending styles and tones in ways no other band in America can. More than that, it’s banging. Fifty years from now people will look back at The Roots like we think of Miles Davis and John Coltrane, and How I Got Over may very well be our own A Love Supreme.

—Andrew Ervin

Whether Damon Albarn and Jamie Hewlett are shrewd, megalomaniacal solicitors of our multimedia appetites or earnest satirists of an age bent on pushing cool to its technological extreme seems almost a non-issue. The anime/graphic novel figment known as The Gorillaz is a juggernaut brand, and this third installment is a calculated assault on the senses. Albarn and this cast of musical archetypes (including venerables Lou Reed, De La Soul, Snoop Dogg, Mos Def and Mick Jones) have crafted the most satisfying Gorillaz listen yet with a sound equally challenging and ear-friendly. The story­line and tone appear to spring from a grudging 21st-century idol-worship, but there is also a non-machinist soul beneath it all. Songs like “Melancholy Hill,” “Empire Ants” and “Broken” speak to our collective twisted pulmonary valve, while the undulating opus “Stylo,” with Bobby Womack’s haunting vocals, helps ink 2010 indelibly in gargantuan hand.

—M.F. DiBella

Superchunk’s one of those wily veteran bands that seem to have nothing to prove until they’ve already proved it. Almost a decade after their last full-length, Merge Records’ unsinkable flagship returned with Majesty Shredding and, as expected, it’s a brilliant batch of smart, hard-charging indie rock revelry. Powered by those classic looping solos and caffeinated choruses, this one easily stacks up against anything from the band’s back catalog. Mac McCaughan’s voice has aged only slightly but nicely, as adept now at the pretty breakdowns as the ferocious rock declarations. Superchunk isn’t too old and they’re not about to go anywhere quietly.

—Patrick Rapa

Transference isn’t the Spoon album that’ll make converts out of nonbelievers. The minimal shorthand swagger Britt Daniel and Jim Eno perfected over a decade of jewel-perfect Merge releases shows up damaged here. But Transference follows cues set by 2007’s Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, which turn up in the plink and wooze of “Who Makes Your Money” or the off-balance lope of “Is Love Forever?” By the time the album reaches ballad “Goodnight Laura,” though, it’s clear that this performance is as meticulous as any of their others; they’ve not surrendered any control, but instead eroded ironic distance for guarded immediacy. From a band that re­pays close listening, it’s a reward for the faithful.

—Justin Bauer

“Best thing about this place are the showers./ Worst thing is the visiting hours.” Despite being 30-plus years into his musical career — a point where many post-punk crooners have resigned themselves to penning Tampax jingles — Nick Cave has never lost the fire that burns deep in his crooked heart. In fact, he’s continuous­ly invented new uses for it. On Grinderman 2, he summons his inner flame to ignite an orphanage and transform the howls and wails of nuns and waifs into eerie new forms of guitar feedback while Ol’ Saint Nick treats us to some of the darkest and cleverest lyrics this side of — well, whatever you’d expect to get if you forced Leonard Cohen to drink his body weight in bong water and then spun him around a few times just for good measure.

—Rodney Anonymous/p>

If you throw enough ideas at a wall, something’s bound to stick. That’s the method behind Himanshu Suri and Victor Vazquez’s manic brand of hip-hop mayhem: The Brooklyn rappers sample everything from the Addams Family to Black Sheep in their second bizarrely-nonexistent-on-Amazon mixtape of 2010, Sit Down, Man, with utterly incongruent results. All for the sake of cultural relevance/irreverence, Robert Mugabe, Glenn Beck and Toby Keith are asked to please chill in “Sit Down, People”; “Puerto Rican Cousins” travels from Bono to Spicoli via Parmesan cheese; Mark Ruffalo and Bob Ross inexplicably turn up on “Return to Innocence”; and “Hahahaha JK?” might contain the year’s slickest chorus, or its most obnoxious. It’s up to you. Just don’t let 2008’s single “Combination Pizza Hut and Taco Bell” be the decider: Das Racist has a lot more to say.

—Carolyn Huckabay

In a career that’s seen her ambitions grow exponentially with each album (and kicking off a year she capped by headlining Carnegie Hall), Joanna Newsom’s tremendous third is a monumental achievement in its scope alone: 18 songs, averaging nearly seven minutes apiece, spread over three discs. But the album’s generosity, implicit in its title, extends beyond mere statistical abundance: Perhaps astonishingly, this is Newsom’s most accessible offering, thanks partly to the newfound grace and naturalness of that notoriously divisive voice, partly to its unusually lucid, affecting lyrical content. Among other things, Have One On Me is essentially a long-form breakup record; the faint unease gnawing at its too-blithe opening stanza, eventually developing into the devastating resignation of its wrenching closer. An unexpectedly, profoundly human statement from a songstress better known for enchantingly airy abstractions.

-K. Ross Hoffman

If we’re being honest, this album’s probably here on the strength of Internet sensation “Fuck You” — early leader for single of the decade and watershed cultural moment for the F-word — a song which, technically, has been replaced on The Lady Killer by its milquetoast radio edit. But Green’s (Gnarls Barkley, Goodie Mob) third solo LP is no one-hit wonder, a collection of wound’s-still-fresh, thou-protesteth-too-much heartbreak jams (see “It’s OK,” “No One’s Gonna Love You”) that reveal Green to be not so much the misogynist, but rather the guy who loves the ladies just a little bit too much.

—Brian Howard