| TOP 60 ALBUMS 1993-2003 | |
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60 Shins |
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59 Grifters Crappin’ You Negative (Shangri-La), 1994 Art-rock alert! Somewhere between their so-lo-fi-it’s-no-fi early-‘90s skronk and their glam-slammin’ Sub Pop period later that decade, these Memphis minnies earned degrees as metaphysicians. This album’s Captain Beefheart blooze, Southern-fried funky mambos, blasts of krautrock distortodelica and slackeriffic stomps are guaranteed to make even the most hairy-palmed Pavement fanboy bolt up from his dorm-room futon. Appearing on the horizon just as the Lollapalooza Nation was losin’ it, Crappin’ You Negative offered an escape from alterna-schlock, suggesting that brains will always trump brawn in the end. (Fred Mills) |
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58 Shellac At Action Park (Touch And Go), 1994 Steve Albini’s outsized, righteous persona may sometimes overshadow his music, but Shellac’s debut willfully challenged indiedom to resist the come-hither gaze of the recently co-opted alterna-nation. Core, almost jazzlike values: economy over excess, release through rhythmic repetition and serendipity via precise interpolation of space and noise. The album does intersect with Big Black’s ‘80s sound, chiefly in Albini’s deadpan/ declamatory vocals and his raw, high-treble fretwork. (Not to mention provocative song titles: “My Black Ass,” “Boche’s Dick.”) But by 1994, there wasn’t anything remotely like this anywhere. It hurt so good. (Fred Mills) |
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57 New Pornographers Electric Version (Matador), 2003 Follow-up to Mass Romantic—the decade’s definitive didn’t-see-it-coming smash—the second helping of retro-futurist power pop from this clique of mostly Canadian oddballs might be the best sequel since The Godfather Part II. While lacking some of the collaborative chumminess of its predecessor, Electric Version again finds Carl Newman directing an A-list cast, including wordsmith Dan Bejar and scene-stealing songbird Neko Case. Fashioning a lush, layered and addictive fantasia, Newman remains attuned to the very smallest sonic detail. A nearly flawless, era-melding mix that crackles with enough juice to power a multiplex. (Bob Mehr) |
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56 Jon Spencer Blues Explosion Orange (Matador), 1994 Having stroked, lied and noisily yeah-yeah-yeahed long before the ‘00s said yes to New York should make Jon Spencer and his trash-can-rocking, faux-blues-a-billy outfit originals. It doesn’t: The Blues Explosion stole from the Cramps, Contortions, Sonic Youth, Tav Falco and ex-bandmates in Pussy Galore in order to forge Spencer’s singed, primal-scream rock. With Orange, he perfects the raw mess by occasionally soaking his hiccuping, horror-show blues in a plush bed of sad, opulent strings, creaky theremins and garrulous gospel singers. Spencer’s slinkiest, angstiest moment of Selma-meets-SoHo rock bluster. (A.D. Amorosi) |
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55 Pernice Brothers Overcome By Happiness (Sub Pop), 1998 For those who had begun to grasp the soft-focus genius of Joe Pernice through the 3-a.m. kitchen-table recordings of his No Depression act the Scud Mountain Boys, Overcome By Happiness must’ve been pure revelation. Dropping the Appalachian affectations in favor of a ‘70s-era pop singer/songwriter guise, Pernice assembled a completely new band and remade his persona as the Scott Walker of his day (or perhaps a slightly less suicidal Mark Eitzel). This debut’s whisper-light vocals, syrupy strings and fingertip melodies mark it as pure babymaker come-on music—Let’s Get It On for the Morrissey set. (Corey duBrowa) |
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54 Whiskeytown Strangers Almanac (Outpost), 1997 Long before the success, starlets and “Summer Of ‘69” heckling, there was this second album from Ryan Adams’ combustible, ever-revolving Carolina combo. The major-label bum rush hyping it as the “alt-country Nirvana” was pure marketing conceit. In reality, Almanac revels in the black-and-blue hues of the Stones’ moody, mid-‘70s ballads and Fleetwood Mac’s bruised romanticism. The dewy, intertwined beauty of Adams’ small-town vignettes and careening love songs, Caitlin Cary’s wan fiddle and the gently coruscating guitar of Phil Wandscher marks the album as a triumph of profound—albeit short-lived—alchemy. (Bob Mehr) |
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53 Wrens The Meadowlands (Absolutely Kosher), 2003 A fixer-upper by major-label standards, the Wrens’ third album is a suburban New Jersey bi-level with a lot of holes dug in the backyard. On the ground floor, The Meadowlands is an attractive-enough pop/punk space in which boys’-choir vocal harmonies share living room with the catchy tangle of guitars. Climb the winding lyrical stairs, however, and The Meadowlands is a brave and sad album about the dust collecting on your youth, the love letters yellowing beyond reply and the necktie you unwittingly make into a noose every morning. Yet there’s more life in here than most records will ever live. (Matthew Fritch) |
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52 Helium The Magic City (Matador), 1997 Mary Timony easily could’ve played power chords with the boys—Helium was birthed in a wash of Sonic Youth-like discord, after all—but instead, she traded her fuzzbox for dulcimer-like guitars and orchestral splendor. A revisionist fairy tale complete with dragons, unicorns and ogres, The Magic City sounds less baroque today than it did at the time of its release (particularly in relation to Timony’s recent solo albums). But its mythical atmosphere and woman-centric perspective created a softer, more introverted archetype for indie rock, one that depends on the listener’s willingness to be led by the hand into the deep, dark woods. (Tizzy Asher) |
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51 Pulp Different Class (Island), 1996 Revenge of the nerds: In the midst of the Blur/Oasis Britpop war, Jarvis Cocker sat down in his kitchen one night and wrote Pulp’s entire dark-horse manifesto. You are privately heroic and socially awkward, you are overeducated and underemployed, you wear glasses and ride a bicycle, and yes, you will get laid. Atop theatrical synth pop, Cocker plays the part of the sexual pariah (“I’ve kissed your mother twice/And now I’m working on your dad,” he sings on “Pencil Skirt”) and the bourgeoise champion (“Common People”). Like Morrissey and Kurt Cobain before him, Cocker called the meek off the sidelines. (Matthew Fritch) |