Francis Davis just sent out a note that 6th Annual Jazz Critics Poll had its winners (check Rhapsody during the next few days for the particulars), which reminded me that I’d never posted my own 2011 best-of list, initially published in the Providence Phoenix. That kind of tells you how busy life has been.
JAZZ
Orchestre National de Jazz/Daniel Yvinec, Shut Up and Dance (BEE Jazz)
Elements of the Soft Machine and other prog-prov outfits bubble up in the rock-inflected arrangements of “jazz” composer John Hollenbeck’s pieces, but the ultra-tight French big band make everything fluid enough to glide, glide, glide.
Craig Taborn, Avenging Angel (ECM)
Disturbingly intricate notions rendered with a glowing attack on this solo disc by the NYC pianist. Perhaps its real triumph is the array of approaches it brokers throughout the program – each distinct, yet related.
Marcus Strickland, Triumph of the Heavy (Strick Muzick)
With a hard-driving mix of brains and brawn, the NYC saxophonist drops a double disc of studio and bandstand sessions that proves just how freewheeling his approach can be, and how catholic his choice of rhythms is. Swing tunes, funk accents, hip-hop shadows, and blues galore.
Ambrose Akinmusire, When The Heart Emerges Glistening (Blue Note)
The ballads have an ache to them, the upbeat stuff hits way hard. There’s directness at work in the young trumpeter’s major label debut, and it comes from a wise blending of concision and extrapolation.
Matana Roberts, Coin Coin Chapter One: Les Gens de Couleur Libres (Constellation)
One critic wrote that it sounds more like an art installation than album, and that’s a pithy way of putting it. Every move made by the intrepid saxophonist is dramatic, giving the first section of an overarching narrative about slave culture a do-or-die feeling. Symphonic swells, painful memories, and aching beauty.
Paralleling the myth of the goddess Inana, the superb trumpeter’s fetching suite stumps for cultural pride while creating some of most kinetic small ensemble work around. His connection with saxophonist Hafez Modirzadeh is deep, making their incorporation of Iraqui maqam roots that much more potent.
Keith Jarrett, Rio (ECM)
His rambling solo romps have been pared down, and their essences are more engaging than ever. There are some truly wondrous passages on this live date.
Medeski, Scofield, Martin & Wood In Case the World Changes Its Mind (Indirecto)
It’s a live disc that shows how out in can be. Or vice versa. Happily it’s sometimes hard to tell as the grooves start swelling and the guitarist starts riding head-first into waves. The most exciting moments come when everything tilts to the left.
Tyshawn Sorey, Oblique – 1 (Pi)
The knotty music lives up to the album title’s implications. Sorey’s a composer who enjoys scripted implosion, so the parade of flare-ups has an abstract logic to it. Challenging stuff played so convincingly that its whirl of emotion almost bullies you.
Gerald Cleaver, Be It As I See It (Fresh Sound)
A series of string passages, explosions of reeds and rhythm, an earthy gentility that’s there even during the expressionistic flurries – the scenery is always changing as the Brooklyn drummer lets his music unfold. Old fashioned beauty meets new fangled creativity.
POP
tUnE-yArDs, W h o k i l l (4AD)
Crazed, propulsive and catchy, Merrill Garbus’ songs pilfer from Africa, walk in the shadow of whimsy, and bind their inner devisiveness in a very cagey way.
Stephen Malkmus & the Jicks, Mirror Traffic (Matador)
It’s all about him buckling down and trading jammy wobble for pop concision. The fruits are obvious. The sing-along quotient is high, even when the Malkmusness of his lyrics tries to dominate.
M83, Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming (MUTE)
Peter Gabriel in Smashing Pumpkins clothing – something I’m not often attracted to. But Anthony Gonzalez’s grand ruminations on youth have just enough hazy thrust to whirl you into his synth-centered dream world.
Das Racist, Relax (Greedhead)
Buildings with belding, tiny ass hamburgers, kicking it like Rockport – the music they call panic attack rap is brimming over with ideas. Sometimes that’s a headache. Plenty of ‘em get wasted. But many more are put to good use, and as the trio spits its opinions on how the guy with the most cake wins, they make you grin pretty hard.
Tim Hecker, Ravedeath, 1972 (Kranky)
If you’re of the mind that music should engulf you, here’s a presentation that turns from being a blanket to a shroud to a sun dress. The Montreal keybster’s ambient swells have an orchestral aura.
The Roots, undun (Def Jam)
Odd how their most pithy joint seems like their most expansive. Glancing over their shoulder to tell the tale of the Philly’s deadly street trade, they give their music its most pop feel ever, and the most far-reaching as well. The instrumental coda is to die for, literally.
Paul Simon, So Beautiful Or So What (Hear)
He never has a problem with being poignant. Bittersweet couplets have fallen from his lips for decades. But being playful is a different game. This time out, what seems like lyric-driven tunes sustain themselves due to shimmering melodies and a youthful elan.
Drake, Take Care (Cash Money)
Rap’s little boy blue writes his diary entries for all of us to hear, and the forlorn aura his team has become expert in individualizing this year becomes more and more addictive. No, not for dancing.
Kendrick Lamar, Section.80 (Top Dawg)
About a month ago a co-worker threw so many exclamation points at the end of his declaration that this was the disc of the year, I had to give it fourth or fifth listen. It’s messy for sure, but as the L.A. MC chases his muse around, he bounces off some engaging ideas. During a mid-air sex fantasia, he rhymes “terrorist” and “asparagus.” That’s gotta count for something.
Tie: Shabazz Palaces, Black Up (SubPop) vs. Black Keys, El Camino (Nonesuch)
This was a headphones year for me, and the beats that skull-fuck your brain on Black Up border on the surreal. That’s attractive when the real life blues are hitting you. Escape music, right? The Keys pounding does something similar, though their thud is appreciated for its predictability and pleasure.
