Chicken Out of Hell
A Column by Andrew Hamlin

The Best Albums of 1999

A wonderful year for music. A horrible year for musicians. Adrian Borland threw himself under a train. Larry Troutman pumped several slugs into Roger Troutman's chest, then sat in a car and turned the gun on himself ("if you've killed your brother, if you've fucked up that badly and you're not looking at anything but the rest of your life in jail" someone said next to me in a car later on, "maybe that's the best thing to do"). Rick Danko just quit breathing in the middle of the night; Curtis Mayfield's body grew weary, finally, of breathing and almost nothing else at all for well-nigh a decade. With forty-four and a half hours to go in the year, Henley-on-Thames time, a nutcase amazingly almost killed George Harrison (prompting some pseudonymous jackass to suggest, in this very publication I'm sorry to say, that free-range nutcases go after Ringo, the one "who wouldn't be missed" and isn't "even an orignal [sic] Beatle for Christ's sake"…but that's another story). I don't have links under these people's names, but I hope after you're finished reading this, you'll plug them into a search engine or the ultimate band list at www.ubl.com and find out more. Search under "The Sound," "Zapp," "Zapp & Roger," "The Band," "The Impressions," and "The Beatles" also, of course.

Further regarding the past, I should mention that my Album of the Year is a longer version of an album originally released Stateside in 1998, and in the UK a year before that (though from what I understand, Numan actually assembles the long versions first, then chops them down); my number six album consists of sessions recorded in 1978, but not released until this year; and my number ten album is an expanded (with most revisited songs revised) vision of an ep released in 1994. I still don't feel especially nostalgic, except sometimes when I turn on that new all-80's station my poker buddies love so much they clicked off 69 Love Songs twenty-three seconds into "Absolutely Cuckoo" for it.

The Chicken Out of Hell Top Ten Albums of 1999

1. Gary Numan, Exile Extended (Cleopatra)

"The only thing I don't like," said one of two sisters I know who admire Gary Numan's recent work almost as much as I do, "is the Christian-bashing, all the time. 'God is dead, I don't believe in Jesus'—well, get over it." Ah, but I find a far more disturbing denouement on this seventy-five minute glistening apocalypse that begins with Jesus weeping in the dark; second-by-second, beat by beat, that hapless Christ moves through the digestion system of consciousness on this hypothesized blasted planet, reduced to chemical (conceptual) components simple as the salt and water from his eyes—then with impeccable clockwork a new deity hatches from an inevitable egg, scrabbling on the landscape like a giant shrimp over a cocktail napkin, muttering from between its antennae, "I'll make you believe/In me…I'll make everyone pay…I'll make everyone pay…" Richard Thompson, in his salad days, sang of "watching the dark," and seventeen years later Numan steps into that profile with the surety of Alfred Hitchcock stepping into his own profile on the old TV show. Gary hasn't yet picked up a gun, or a seven-inch blade. On the strength of this, though, I'll suggest he bears constant watching.

2. Beth Orton, Central Reservation (Arista)

With Jeff Buckley gone it's left mostly to Beth to forge for the world this peculiar, nameless amalgamation of pop's aspiration to impeccable structure in miniature, folk music's winsomeness-as-fresh-air approach (shucked of folk music's sometimes-excruciating political and/or social stridency), lyrical self-improvement, and pretty singing for the hell of it. Should, by virtue of the pop content, produce viable singles, but oddly enough individual selections sandwiched between Flaming Lips and the Balloon Farm on the Monkey Pub jukebox sound misplaced, strident; the whole, in this case, reinforces the pieces.

3. Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Echo (Warner Bros.)

In a year where I lost so much, spent too much painful time thinking about how it shouldn't hurt nearly as much as previous, presumably more serious, losses, and then gained something I'd never had before entirely out of the cloudy sky, the high position of this album goes more towards the first two than the last. It's the sound of a loser who only got lucky for awhile, refusing to reconsider what luck might mean anyway, making sunglasses of bitterness; "I've got a room at the top of the world tonight and I ain't/Comin'/Down," suggests, to me, Bob Greene's old column about spending a night in an airport control tower, but invoke in context a peeling hotel or a steely bar stool. But hey now, he went down, swinging. He reminds us of that twice, actually. The consoling-themselves contingent does tend to repeat itself, especially if you throw in alcohol. But with Frederick Exley dead, we do need periodic reminders "that even in America failure is a part of life."

4. Crash Test Dummies, Give Yourself A Hand (Arista)

Having run out of compact deadpan funny stories circa A Worm's Life, three years ago, they manage admirably at breaking all of their own customs—basso profundo Brad Roberts talks to himself and answers in a whispery whine, Ellen Reid sings almost as much here as she did on (or outside) the previous three albums, drums-and-bass percussion skitters in the back of several tracks. "I love your goo," Roberts oozes in a panting confession that's only accidentally frightening, to him; "I'm just chillin" insists Reid in scared-chilly reply. She's hoping Roberts'll turn back to the bean dip. What she hasn't figured out is, they're all like that at this party.

5. Fountains of Wayne, Utopia Parkway (Atlantic)

It doesn't hurt that They Might Be Giants are having an off year (though see John Linnell below), but that should not detract from the blooming this quasi-duo demonstrates from 1996's debut; downshifting through the Dead Man's Curve of joke rock, they now use humor carefully fixed in sprightly pop constructions and varied but never stuffy or overstuffed arrangements. And above all, a tight focus for character and setting. The guy with his, "Red Dragon Tattoo" belongs on Rockaway Beach, even if I have to hang my head and cry at his chances of getting lucky.

6. Laing Hunter Ronson Pappalardi, The Secret Sessions (Pet Rock)

Fresh from 1978, four not-quite-superstars (two now dead, another largely self-shriveled) form what could be called a supergroup at the time, if the record had come out in that age of supergroups. Guitarist Mick Ronson got famous gigging with David Bowie, but got even better afterwards. Felix Pappalardi played remarkable bass for a man left more than half-deaf from the amp levels of his previous band. Corky Laing, quite apart from his drumming, sang and wrote songs so well I gave Ian Hunter credit for most of his contributions before I read the credits. And Ian Hunter, the biggest name of the lot, sang in an amiable brandy Alexander bark, slammed a mean barrelhouse piano, and loved America, as an Englishman, with at least the ferocity of Sergio Leone, the Italian—so when latter meets former in the aural spaghetti-Westernisms of "The Outsider," oil and water and warm beer squirt around each other almost like a light show in a dish from the old Avalon Ballroom.

7. Lauren Hoffman, From the Blue House (Free Union ) and Emm Gryner, Science Fair (Dead Daisy)

Two young performers similar more in their situation—signed by, released by, and then half-pushed, half-jumped from respective major labels, now back to self-releasing and improved for it—than in sonic signature. Lauren opens her record with a soft-shoe shuffle, then courses through folk, semi-acoustic rock, and self-imploding resignation ("You open your mouth and a God comes/Out," sung through a throat dryer than Alex Chilton's on "The Letter") without ever fumbling for an appropriate accompaniment. Visit her at www.forlauren.com or www.freeunionrecords.com . Emm's record is more obviously self-produced and -performed, which is not to say that it sounds like Johnny Dowd's first record, but unlike Johnny, she can sing, and parallel to Johnny, she sizes and summarizes situations without sounding quite like anyone else doing so. Visit her at www.emmgryner.com or www.deaddaisy.com.

8. The Negro Problem, Joys & Concerns (Aerial Flipout)

Pop's most obdurate and eclectic black songwriter keeps the band name that keeps heads ringin', and keeps expanding the along both the psychedelic and Jimmy Webb axes, remembering to plea for television personalities to come into his life and heal. 1997's Post-Minstrel Syndrome became, retroactively, my Album of the Year that year; this one tries my patience at times (a liberal helping of unlisted bonus tracks is starting to look obligatory in this catalog), but holds together everything it holds together in that same old seamless magic trick.

9. Alejandro Escovedo, Bourbonitis Blues (Bloodshot)

John Cale's "Amsterdam," Lou Reed's "Pale Blue Eyes," the Gun Club's "Sex Beat," Ian Hunter's "Irene Wilde," and Jimmie Rodgers' "California Blues" all sound like they were written for skeletal ensemble featuring cello, and Shania Twain's alleged plans to record Alejandro's own "I Was Drunk" made me laugh harder and warmer than any other rumor this year. Alejandro could surely use the money. Shania surely isn't (and yes, I am a fan) capable of bringing this much to it.

10. John Linnell, State Songs (Zoe)

The non-guitar-playing John from They Might Be Giants writes oblique themes for a few of the fifty states, working in along the way his relentless (though not always prominent, and thus more easily tolerable) obsession with impending death, a few selections for punch-tape-operated carnival/carousel organs, and the observation that Montana is a leg. No, I don't know what that means either, but when Linnell sings atop a figurative deathbed, from the depths of his sometimes-curdling nasality, that Montana is a leg, he sells this idea with the same overpowering refusal of disbelief that fuels my Sarah Michelle Gellar impersonation. Ask me to show you that one sometime. But provide proof of purchase for this record first.

Special Award: The Magnetic Fields, 69 Love Songs (Merge)

Arrived too late in the year (for Christmas—thanks Mom!) to properly digest. Off the top of head, after, I think, two and one-thirds spins through the three discs, I do miss the sinister, obscure wordplay of the early work (many rhymes here seem predictable), and "Love Is Like Jazz" is the one that should have been tossed to leave us with 68 love songs (consult George Carlin for the meaning of "68"). Against those quibbles, though, Stephin Merritt does mate 4-track recording with every conceivable pop music style, plus humor, plus plaintiveness, plus Cole Porter homages that don't make you think about how much better Cole Porter did that sort of thing. So I figured I ought to mention it somewhere.

Next Ten

11. Anton Barbeau, A Splendid Tray (Frigidisk)

Anglophillic Bay Area amiable zany pulls a plausible nervous breakdown while begging for a banana and makes a cockroach sound like Dilbert, plus ten more impossible things.

12. Joel R. L. Phelps and the Downer Trio, Blackbird (Pacifico)

Having seen them do this stuff live and instrumentally low-key, I was a little disappointed that they're actually rocking out here, with heavy drums and stuff, but I got used to that, and concentrated on the supplicating for redemption down at the feet of one's destroyer. I still can't get used to the cover lettering, though.

13. Macy Gray, On How Life Is (Epic)

Premature, of course, to equate her with Billie Holiday, but her sound is similar, and her knack for paring a story to its pure and simple bones, and tossing it to one side. Even stories with death and pestilence in them.

14. Bif Naked, I Bificus (Atlantic)

Was supposed to be the Next Big Thing if not the next Gwen Stefani. Managed to write songs, sing songs, emote without crashing or bleeding out, and partake of the straight-edge ideology (except for the anti-sex part) without letting it crumple any of the above, instead.

15. Luna, Days of Our Nights (Jericho)

Supposedly some more portraits of psychopaths and shut-ins on here, which will keep me listening, but I'm damned if I can get past Dean Wareham's voice, or the occasional trumpet, or divining the exact number of languages represented in "The Slow Song." Scariest album cover of the year, though, especially for anyone who's visited www.realdoll.com.

16. ZZ Top, XXX (RCA)

Okay, four tunes of twelve are live, and okay, one of those four is an old song with new words (what they've done all along, I hear you snicker). Not important. What's important is how they've merged their 70's bottoms-up Texas-boogie sound with their 80's electro-mesquite experiments, producing one of the year's better guitar records in the process, and incidentally, the finest They Might Be Giants song They Might Be Giants never touched.

17. Julian Lennon, Photograph Smile (Fuel 2000)

Should he change his name to J.C. Bassanini? No; he'd still sound like his biological father, and word would get out somehow. For those willing to believe, I'll attest that this is the album he had in him his whole life, and he probably at least spent at least half of it figuring out the string arrangements, and it's a record any lover of the latest XTC, or early solo Scott Walker, or Badfinger, or the accomplished but personally hateful Eric Matthews, could easily accept to heart.

18. Low, Secret Name (Kranky) and Christmas (Chair Kicker's Union)

Still wish I knew if those Godspeed You Black Emperor rumors had any truth to them. Artistically however, I have to admire them for, like the Crash Test Dummies, cracking their own mold (before I tired of said mold, unlike the Crash Test Dummies), and teaching me, not only to unhate classic Christmas songs, but to appreciate new ones.

19. Stan Ridgway, Anatomy (New West)

Dropped his clues on the streetlamp side of the street, looking for them on the dark side. Because that's where the light isn't.

20. Kinski, Space Launch For Frenchie (self-released)

Local trio builds on Sonic Youth's drone destiny without the hubris, and with only one guitar player. No web page yet I guess, but drop a line to kinskiklaus@yahoo.com and order one.

They Also Ran: Rick Springfield, Karma; Moxy Fruvous, Thornhill; Johnny Dowd, Pictures From Life's Other Side; Trans Am, Futureworld; Jackie Leven, Night Lillies; Heather Duby, Post To Wire; Jandek, The Beginning; Mandy Barrett, I've Got A Right To Cry; Marillion, marillion.com; Judybats, '00

Records I wish I could hear so I could have an opinion: Guided By Voices, Do The Collapse; Tom Waits, Mule Variations; XTC, Homespun

Live stuff, reissues, compilations: Billy Bragg, Reaching To the Converted (Minding The Gaps); Meat Loaf, VH-1 Storytellers; The Contours, The Very Best of the Contours; Henry Cow, Unrest

Song of the Year: Oooooh, so many worthy contenders, and me so unwilling to give out a tie after doing that last year. The War Against Silence's glenn mcdonald, demonstrating with "Port Marie" that the mini-home studio is the new acoustic guitar, but rapidly eclipsing that notion through the actual song? (Look him up at www.furia.com and download it for yourself.) The Vengaboys, not all boys at all, stepping fearlessly into the breach left by Gina G. with "Boom Boom Boom Boom"? Blue Highway's bluegrass recasting of Sting's "I Hung My Head" that sounds far more at home with itself than Sting's original? The Dark Fantastic's "The Girl With The Cross In Her Car," raising all the religious questions I like to think, but rarely speak? Vitamin C's "I Got You," transporting Split Enz's audio noir from a bus stop on the corner to a skyscraper top where superheroes collide, at least one of them singing "I Got You"? They Might Be Giants' "On Earth My Nina," one minute plus change of John Linnell transmuting a capella fake-backwards singing into eternal heartbreak? Jesse Camp's "See You Around," wherein our now-mostly-vanished hero whips off his glue-sniffing mask to reveal the face of the World's Biggest Cheap Trick Fan? Close, all, but no, it's actually Buckcherry's headbanging, wall-kicking, fist-pumping, devil-horn bunny-hopping, ass-shaking, air-guitar-limbo-inducing, demon-raising "Lit Up," an ode not so much to the cocaine in its chorus (which becomes "Rogaine" at least twice anyway), but to the unassailable compunction to burn the candle at several ends with several torches, and which incidentally provides a fine and resonant soundtrack to any reading of Swaggart: The Unauthorized Biography of an American Televangelist. Especially that part where Jimmy Lee Swaggart goes to drag his first cousin, Jerry Lee Lewis, who is plonking through the obscene "Meat Man" completely drunk, with a Bible on his music stand, from a stage in Columbus, Ohio, in 1982. "Why Jimmy Swaggart!" cries the utterly flabbergasted Jerry Lewis to the relation with whom he's played with in the dirt, whom he's eclipsed, mocked, been eclipsed by, re-overtaken, and finally been re-eclipsed. "Son, what are you doing here?" Ann Rowe Seaman reports that Swaggart paid off the club manager, in cash, and took Jerry home with him to Baton Rouge.

Live show of the year: Ween, at the Pier, second show, just barely edging out Link Wray at the Crocodile Café. Still, I did get to shake, at the latter show, the right hand that created rock and roll guitar.

(In memoriam Justin Bradley, January 1, 1999. Having given that luckless devil's death in the wrong year at this time last year, the least I can do is memorialize him again. Someone, still, kindly see that his grave is kept clean.)

(In memoriam also Clayton Moore, December 28, 1999. Thank you, Masked Man.)

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