The 10 Best Albums of 2014

Below are a selection of the ten albums that I enjoyed most in the last calendar year. There are many other albums that I have listened to and liked a great deal — D’Angelo and the Vanguard’s Black Messiah, Parquet Courts’ Sunbathing Animal, A Sunny Day In Glasgow’s Sea When Absent, Shabazz Palaces’ Lese Majesty and Mogwai’s Rave Tapes to name a handful. Each of the ten albums below stands out from the aforementioned few and — in my own opinion — every other piece of music I have heard this year. I hope that maybe you will find something within the selection below that can give you as much enjoyment as I have found in them.

This is not a list; it is simply a selection. Therefore, the order that they appear in is entirely nonpartisan.

Benji — Sun Kil Moon (Caldo Verde Records, 11:02:2014)

Many people die throughout the hour long course of Benji. So many people die, in fact, that it would be near impossible to keep count: children die, old people die, middle aged people die, serial killers die. To put Benji in black and white terms both good and bad people die; it makes no difference in which direction your moral compass swings as sooner or later you will die. It does not matter what age you are — old or young — when listening to Mark Kozelek’s latest release you will be staring face to face with the facts of your own mortality. The other instrumental theme within Benji that goes hand in hand with death is the process ageing. The album gives Kozelek a platform to open the ‘middle-aged white man’ cupboard and dust down some of his many insecurities about getting old. Often in reviews Sun Kil Moon records are compared to younger, ‘beardier’ and supposedly fresher artists — Bon Iver, Jose Gonzalez and ilk. Benji shows Kozelek’s begrudging acknowledgement that he is no longer the young fresh-faced frontman of Red House Painters and although he may be compared to newer troubadours he is not one of them. Benji is a strange multifaceted insight into the psyche of the much maligned demographic that no one wants to be a part of: the 45–55 year old white man.

One of the striking things about Benji is its authenticity. There appears to be nothing too personal for Kozelek on his latest LP as he tells fleshed out stories that would be fit for inclusion in novels. On ‘Carissa’, the opening track, he renders his deceased thirty five year old second cousin with such detail one would forget the last time he saw her was when she was “fifteen, pregnant and running wild”. It helps Kozelek has a biological attachment to Carissa but he recounts her life — in which he was absent — up to the point of her aerosol related death with such poignancy and tragic beauty it yearns for a deeper meaning. To doubt Kozelek’s song writing as works of fiction would be to doubt the integrity of Benji as an art piece. All place names and events check out: the Newtown school shooting, seedy bars in Akron, his role in the film Almost Famous that he briefly mentions in ‘Micheline’. The more personal details he instils in his stories — formative sexual experiences, family deaths, substance abuse and lunches with friends — do not need questioning either. Kozelek’s earnest near spoken word verses have a certain reverence to them — the stories must be true.

Most of the people — characters — within Benji are from Ohio. They are typical rural middle-Americans; some are well-off while some are not-so-well-off. Some start as “rednecks” and find salvation while others start as salt of the earth people and end up dying in ignominy. What matters is their relatability and how honestly Kozelek treats them. He does not exploit them as simply beings on which he can project his own interpretations, meanings and solutions to their life events. It shows a certain degree of courageousness on Kozelek’s part to let his views on mortality take the back seat and allow the humble yet magnetic life stories of ‘Carissa’, ‘Micheline’, his ‘Truck Driver’ father and ‘Jim Wise’ to shine through. In many cases the songs interrelate to one another reflecting the complex nature of societal relations in real life. On the ten minute long centrepiece ‘I Watched The Film But The Song Remains The Same’ Kozelek references his idea to go on a trip to Santa Fe then on the closing track ‘Ben’s My Friend’ he actually goes on that trip to Santa Fe. On ‘Richard Ramirez Died Today Of Natural Causes’ a similar thing happens: he is on a flight to Cleveland to go to a funeral which in turn is the funeral of ‘Carissa’. These correlations and the continuity between songs on Benji is not just coincidence it shows how astonishingly talented Kozelek is as a songwriter and as a storyteller.

Few of the songs on Benji could be seen as acting proactively. Most are long retrospective eulogies searching for meaning in the past and in the remains of Kozelek’s friends, family and acquaintances lives. ‘Ben’s My Friend’, however, jolts the listener out of a meditative reflection solely focused on the past by bringing us into the present. It is also on this track that Kozelek finds inner clarity in order to express his insecurities surrounding the process of ageing. However, even in this light Kozelek seems troubled by the new middle-aged version of himself dismissing his distracted behaviour at lunch — “I can’t explain it / it’s a middle-aged thing”. Furthermore, he expresses his distaste for the supposedly ‘trendy’ décor in Perry’s — yes, it is a real restaurant on San Francisco’s Union Street — calling it “sports bar shit.” Kozelek goes to see The Postal Service fronted by his long-time friend Ben Gibbard but feels out of place, dislocated from the young people surrounding him in the crowd, “there’s a fine line between a middle-aged guy with a backstage pass / and the guy with the gut hanging round like a jack-ass.”

Benji has greater stylistic variances than previous Sun Kil Moon records. ‘Dogs’ and ‘Richard Ramirez…’ are both backed by bluesy urgent guitars. ‘Pray For Newtown’ closes with ethereal and shimmering picking while the likes of ‘Carissa’ and ‘I Can’t Do Without My Mothers Love’ are classical guitar arrangements with the timeless sound of nylon strings. Although on paper Kozelek’s latest work may sound depressing — morbid even — it is a surprisingly easy listen. On the album’s opening track he states that after Carissa’s death he needed to “find some poetry to make some sense of this / to find a deeper meaning”; on Benji Kozelek has created the very poetry needed to find deeper meaning within human mortality. If that was the album’s aim then he has categorically succeeded and that is why Benji does not turn into a depressing slog conceptualising death and ageing. As an album it is a “thank you” to all those who have made a mark, however fleeting, on his life and passed away. In that respect it is more life affirming than any other album made in 2014; no matter how mediocre and unfulfilled a life you lead someone, somewhere, will eulogise your death, find some poetry and form a deeper meaning.

Atlas — Real Estate (Domino Records, 04:03:2014)

The album artwork for Real Estate’s astonishing third studio album — Atlas — is a detail taken from the Paramus Mural, New Jersey. The building it was attached to — Alexander Department Stores — has long since been demolished leaving Stefan Knapp’s vast work standing alone, looming over the suburban sprawl. What the Paramus Mural shows is that, sometimes, even in the most mundane of environments amazement can be found. On previous recordings Real Estate have often tried to wash over their suburban attitudes with reverb coated music echoing around the beaches and tiki bars of the West Coast. However, on Atlas the band finds themselves in an existential crisis in the least assuming of locations: the suburbs. Atlas is to music what the Paramus Mural is to suburbia.

Real Estate have never had the harshest of aesthetic. On first listen Atlas’ pastoral shades may sound too pale: too limp. Yes, the open chord strums of Martin Courtney remain relatively unchanged since 2011’s Days and Mondanile’s leads still shimmer in the sun but the lack of reverb creates a crisp — maybe too crisp — sound. However, on repeated listens Atlas becomes a glassy pool offering up observations and reflections on life. On ‘Crime’ Courtney sings “toss and turn all night / don’t know how to make it right / crippling anxiety.” Real Estate are no longer at the heart of the beach party as they were on previous records. Instead, they are on the long drive home to the suburbs the next day faced with a crippling hangover and the consequences of plenty of dubious decisions.

On Atlas the simplicity of the music belies how graceful a unit Real Estate are. On every song the tight guitar melodies and tenor vocals are played through an Instagram filter. ‘Past Lives’ is likely the album’s most retrospective moment and toggles between bleary-eyed Wes Anderson nostalgia and Zach Braff indie flick. “I cannot come back to this neighbourhood / without feeling my own age” places Courtney as the protagonist in his very own Garden State with memories haunting his every step. The song ends on a delicate couplet, “And even the lights on this yellow road / are the same as when this was our town” — Courtney may have aged yet the suburbs, like always, remain incongruous to the passage of time. All members of the band are through their early twenties; the foundational years of their lives have passed, been internalised and are now far behind them in the rear-view mirror. Atlas is a nostalgia trip without the laughs and a whole lot more retrospection.

Atlas sounds gorgeous yet lyrically it is not anything less than forlorn. On many of the songs Courtney appears to be mapping out the contours of his misspent adolescence. He is about to become a father and, for all he knows, this may be his last chance to have some closure before moving onto the next chapter of his life. Much of the lyrical content also dwells upon Courtney’s disbelief that he has reached this stage in his life. On ‘Navigator’ he muses, “I stare at the hands of the clock / I’m still waiting for them to stop” and “the earliest light is just shining in / I have no idea where the days been.” Clearly, time, and specifically the passing of it, is something that is playing on his mind. ‘April Sky’ — the album’s only instrumental — is Courtney’s only breather and it’s not hard to imagine the singer wondering if this is the last break he will ever get.

A post-modern album Atlas views the suburbs through a sepia toned fish-eye lens. It is the kind of album you could walk the dog, paint the fence or do the weekly shopping to. It is a bourgeois album through and through and at no point do Real Estate try pretend otherwise. Listening to Atlas is like driving through leafy suburban streets in the back of your friend’s car; out of the hedges and well-trimmed lawns massive murals rise up. Growing up in the suburbs encapsulates a variety of contradictions societally, culturally and existentially and leaving the suburbs does not remove these from your psyche. On Atlas Real Estate — a true suburban American band — capture the real essence of our towns.

Bury Me At Makeout Creek — Mitski (Double Double Whammy, 11:11:2014)

In The Simpsons Milhouse is the punching bag for all Springfield. In one episode a fake spiritual healer rolls into town and ‘restores’ the character’s vision. Obviously a hoax, the innocent Milhouse falls for the trick and proceeds to plan a date by the nearby creek. However, on his way to meet the girl a truck violently slams into him and, as Bart looks over his crippled friend, he mutters… “Bury me at Makeout Creek.” Many artists have — over the years — incorporated the archetypal drama of American society that is The Simpsons into their work but very few have pulled it off with such lo-fi beauty as Mitski. The false hope that Milhouse and his subsequent near-death embodies mirrors the stories locked within Bury Me At Makeout Creek with Mitski Miyawaki fulfilling the role of the hopeful yet hopeless narrator.

Opener ‘Texas Reznikoff’ begins “It’s a beautiful day / I wish you could take me up state” before recounting the various specifics of Miyawaki’s apparent domestic bliss. However, this idyll is shattered within the first two minutes of her latest LP like sirens interrupting the “breeze in [her] Austin night.” The album’s opener promises to be delicate but those hoping for a sweet tempered and gentle folk album will be sorely disappointed. ‘Townie’ shows a Miyawaki no longer content with life recounting a feral night out. Filled with visceral similes — she wants “love that falls as fast as a body from a balcony” and to be kissed “like my heart is hitting the ground” — she remains “holding her breath” armed with a baseball bat. Outlining her self destructive tendencies that appear like reoccurring nightmares in Bury Me her life story reads like a fantasy for an eighteen year old, but by twenty-five she is growing tired.

Bury Me is an album about the nuances of emotion; it is better to feel loathing and self-pity than nothing at all. It is a transmutation from her last two albums. Both were classically arranged with strings-galore cloaking her internal turmoil. On her latest LP Mitski is isolated physically and emotionally; she is detached from everyone — even the rest of her band. They play around her lackadaisically; does she matter to them? Probably not. Obviously intentional this technique plays on her isolation making her emotional plight all the more pressing upon repeated listens. However, her emotion is hyperbolic like good 90s emo; Bury Me At Makeout Creek may be raw but there is always some dark humour to take the edge off. On ‘Drunk Walk Home’ she quips “I will retire to the Salton Sea / at the age of twenty-three” referencing the accidental dustbowl-come-lake in California. The entire album is a balancing act and Miyawaki always gets it right.

The aforementioned ‘Drunk Walk Home’ is the album’s shocking centrepiece. The ear catching line “though I may never be free / fuck you and your money!” forcibly pulls the listener in to wailing guitars and screeching vocal yelps. The song balances the pressures that relationships bring — love versus identity and subsequently freedom — and in the abrasive setting Mitski’s hurricane of emotion is let free. Up to that point Bury Me is an emotional examination and ‘Drunk Walk Home’ is the eventual release; the screams are painful but equally joyful. On ‘I Will’ the release and newfound freedom the examination brought threatens to crumble around her as a loose and shuddering bass line drags the song forward. However, the potential chaotic climax never comes; the meditative quality of the song is perhaps the album’s most peaceful moment.

Miyawaki is Milhouse; their Makeout Creek is one and the same. ‘Carry Me Out’ transcends the sadness, the humiliation and the failures that life has thrown at both of them as a dysfunctional harmony raises the song to biblical status. Mitski, the twenty-five year old “tall child” (‘First Love/Late Spring’), has produced an intimate yet stadium sized album. Her musical prowess may have been evident on her pervious classical releases but Bury Me shows a progression of talent into the ‘mainstream’ as recent reviews by Rolling Stone magazine show. Miyawaki is one of the most urgent voices in the New York music scene and with Bury Me At Makeout Creek she will not be preaching in obscurity any longer.

My Everything — Ariana Grande (Republic Records, 22:09:2014)

In Nickelodeon’s Victorious Grande played the exuberant, quirky yet strangely oblivious character of Cat Valentine. Set at the Hollywood High Arts School the programme — a staple for the post-2000 tween generation — infantilised her. In many ways this carried on to Grande’s 2013 release Yours Truly; she was the antithesis of the rebellious Miley but was not making serious pop music like Swift — she was the awkward, weird kid stuck in the middle much like Cat Valentine. However, on My Everything Grande channels her inner Rihanna, ditching the tween pop balladry, and goes straight for the bangerz. She has seemingly grown up and — with a voice like hers — it is about time. No longer is she a novelty star, a Nickelodeon refugee, she is a full blown pop star and her latest LP is the best pop record of 2014 showcasing gymnastic vocal melodies and sugary sweet production.

The lead singles ‘Problem’ and ‘Break Free’ were both produced by Max Martin — of Britney Spears ‘Oops!’ fame — and this is of no coincidence. The early-2000s hit came at a transitional moment for Spears’ career and Grande is in the same position with My Everything. ‘Problem’ draws on Big Sean and Iggy Azalea for backup. A looping anti-chorus from Grande erupts like a firecracker before Big Sean whispers what she cannot bear to say herself — “I got one less problem without you.” Grande handles the stop/start vocals with the ease of a seasoned star while the incessantly catchy saxophone riff works its way into the brain — an earworm for sure. Within My Everything ‘Break Free’ stands out; not only is it the opposite of ‘Problem’ it is also a stadium sized floor filler like no other. It adds a feminine touch to the male dominated EDM arena with Zedd’s high-energy electronics building a platform for Grande to show off. Bar the collaboration with the Russian-German DJ ‘Break Free’ is simply Grande being Grande unlike the mismatch of supporting characters parading through ‘Problem.’ It is not hard to imagine ‘Break Free’ playing as the sun sets over nearly every major festival and with songs like this it is on those stages Grande will soon find herself.

My Everything is not just an album revolving around a couple of lead singles — nearly all songs stand out on their own merits. ‘Love Me Harder’ is an awkwardly paced slow-burner featuring the usually sleazy Weeknd but it works. Gyrating synth pulses lace Grande led verses while The Weeknd croons lines such as, “Can you feel the pressure between your hips?” This is not infantilised stuff; it is raw, sensual pop music showing Grande’s newfound status as a real sexual being not just some brat off the TV. ‘Love Me Harder’ is vulgar in its use of 1980’s trashiness — it references all the kind of stuff played at ‘cheese’ discos — yet Grande knows this and has crafted what may be the best ‘love’ song of the year. On ‘Break Your Heart Right Back’ Grande enlists Childish Gambino — another actor-come-musician — her vocals tiptoeing around samples of Diana Ross’ ‘I’m Coming Out.’ It is maddeningly catchy stuff and ignoring Gambino’s line “The flow so gross / my nickname’s school lunch” his verse is a stellar addition to an already funked-up tune. Perhaps the least endearing member of the A$AP mob, Ferg, features on ‘Hands On Me.’ He finds Grande channelling her inner Rihanna calling out, “Keep your hands on me / don’t take them off until I say so.” She pushes her good girl image out the window sighing the quip, “Might be a little thing / but I like that long, yeah” reinforcing her changed position within the framework of popular music.

It is no coincidence that the majority of the best songs on My Everything are featuring other artists — and it is not because they push Grande forward. Rather, her talent for creating luscious pop drags the usually creepy Weeknd, cringe Gambino and underwhelming A$AP Ferg up to her standard and, in the process, creates the classic male/female drama that nearly all great pop is based upon. However, it would be impossible to ignore ‘One Last Time’ in which Grande admits “I got nothing here without you” — a moment of startling honesty on an album full of upbeat coming of age proclamations. However, even this is counteracted by a feel-good chorus with Grande setting aside her melancholy. ‘Why Try’ is a ballad with an uncompromising sense of conviction; when she unleashes the words “I’m loving the pain / I never wanna live without it” you better believe her. ‘Just A Little Bit Of Your Heart’ runs along as your standard piano led ballad — the instrumentals written as a favour by Harry Styles — with only Grande’s voice pushing it above and beyond average. On the final verse she reaches some spectacularly high-pitched notes that are laid bare for all to hear within the sparse setting.

My Everything is not perfect. The track listing — at times — is awkward with slow ballads leading clumsily onto party anthems but nearly all songs capitalise upon Ariana Grande’s natural talent. What it does signal is the arrival of new superstar in music — one that will no longer just be recognised by tweens. Her duet with The Weeknd on Saturday Night Live earlier this year only goes to show this point in greater clarity; as the pair gyrated round one another onstage it felt like a new chapter in modern pop history was being opened.

Our Love — Caribou (Merge Records, 07:10:2014)

Upon setting out to make Our Love Dan Snaith had one goal in mind: to make an album that has “something for everybody to listen to.” It is his first album under the Caribou moniker since 2010’s Swim and in many respects is not that drastic a change. It is futuristic, digital and often sparse but at its core it contains a selection of similar ideals to its predecessor’s analogue warmth. It is easy to apply the label of “dance” to Snaith’s music but, in general, the term is ill fitting. Our Love is simply too ambiguous to be a dance record; it communicates to the listener on an entirely different wavelength in its emotionally honest depiction of interpersonal relationships — love.

Our Love often verges on too intimate. Snaith has placed his experiences of thirteen years of marriage and three years of fatherhood into his latest album and it shows. On many occasions it is the collaborations with good friends Pallet and Lanza that lighten the songs from brooding electronic epics to sizzling electro pop. On ‘Second Chance’ Lanza’s R&B vocals coyly drift between slow motion electronic depth charges — if there were to be a big crossover hit on Our Love this should have been it. Pallet’s arrangements on the title track and ‘Silver’ brighten the compositions bringing them from the dark of night back to the hours of dusk. Snaith has poured his all into producing a work of startling honesty with Our Love and only these touches from outsiders pull it away from becoming a biographical tale of his own relationships.

In respect to dance music Our Love stays at an arms length. Snaith is too talented and too inventive to be compared to even the most ambitious DJs and producers. His rendering of love often takes too long — it is too complex — to have the bass drop in time for his songs to become floor fillers. ‘Can’t Do Without You’ builds up slowly over the course of three minutes before bursting forth into what could be a club song before flickering and quickly fading into an outro. ‘Our Love’ does similar arriving with Storm Trooper blasts at its final destination before Snaith abruptly cuts it short. Both these songs could easily be extended into seven and eight minute dance anthems but with Caribou Snaith lacks the gluttony of pure indulgence showing subtle confidence in restraint.

‘Back Home’ is the album’s most introspective moment with Snaith asking “How can we fix our love / now that we know it is broken?” His vocals, mottled by curious inflexions and imperfections, reflect real life love — nothing can ever be truly perfect. Furthermore, his hushed tones give an intimacy rarely seen with electronic music; it is not hard to imagine Snaith quietly whispering the words to a troubled loved one. ‘Back Home’ may be the album’s darkest point but that is not to say the rest of it is full of joy. Although ‘I Can’t Do Without You’ was supposedly written in the context of his young daughter’s dependency the constant repetition — “I can’t do without you” — cannot help but trigger dark images of obsession — bad love. On ‘All I Ever Need’ Snaith is detached emotionally from his love. At first he “can’t take” the way she treats him but by the end of the song he is practically begging to get her back. Populist interpretations of love often narrow the emotion down to a handful of extremes yet on Our Love Snaith captures the multiplicity of feelings within that one feeling and, often, they are not pretty.

Snaith set out to make an album with something for everyone. In many ways he has more than succeeded producing a clean, efficient and emotive piece of pop that benefits from its shimmering ambiguity. He also stated that with Our Love he had created a remarkably simple piece of music. Somehow that is hard to believe as over repeated listens more and more is revealed — this is a patiently rendered affair showing great craftsmanship on his part. It is a work that could be played loud — booming bass and all — but it sounds so much better, and Snaith might just agree, played in reverent tones with the one you love.

Say Yes To Love — Perfect Pussy (Captured Tracks, 18:03:2014)

Perfect Pussy’s debut album is twenty-three minutes of five people pushing themselves to the limits of their own physicality. As a listener you are buried under an avalanche of sonic sludge; layer upon layer of feedback pressing down upon you till you surrender and accept Perfect Pussy for what they are: an imperfect punk band that does not give a shit about what you think. Standing out on Captured Tracks’ roster of bands Perfect Pussy are not melodic — for the most part the five band member’s respective instruments appear to battle one another to the death for supremacy. However, one instrument resolutely rises to the fore time and again: Meredith Grave’s voice.

Her voice is sharp yet soothing — offering up all the thoughts everyone hides deep down in private to the world. Much of the time the lyrics are hidden under the sheer volume of McAndrew’s guitar, Koloski’s drums and Sutkus’ radiation fuelled synth blasts. On ‘Big Stars’ it is impossible to decode her words as they merge into the landscape of the surrounding noise; it is so loud it takes on an out-of-body significance. The feedback smears and distorts her words on purpose, censoring her feminity much like society repeatedly ignoring and suppressing women. However, on occasion her voice punctuates the cloud of fuzz and the listener becomes privy to Graves’ private world. On ‘Dig’ the background noise momentarily fades and Graves yelps “And I want to fuck myself / and I want to eat myself” with no shame; her lyrics are life affirming in their pure celebration of self. She screams “But if I’m anything less than perfection / well shit, nobody told me!” and “Broad back and bad tits / yes I know my kind.” She thinks big by utilising personal — intimate — experiences and moments from her life addressing how our male dominated society views women and the unreasonable expectations placed upon them.

Perhaps the Syracuse five piece’s finest moment comes on ‘Interference Fits.’ A powerful and valedictory song Graves sings, “I met my despair at midday light / and it was amazing and I almost cried” — essentially the beating heart of the album. She uses Say Yes To Love to confront the demons that have haunted her throughout life and to knock their fucking teeth out in the process. Unlike most albums this loud, this abrasive and this angry its jarring quality does not come through forcing the listener to stare into the darkest depths imaginable. Instead it comes through enlightenment — allowing the listener to look straight ahead into the light and to turn their back on society’s wrongs. Say Yes To Love is like staring at the sun — thrilling and illuminating yet dangerous.

Perfect Pussy are unusual on many levels. The ‘hype’ came early and they withstood it after playing only a handful of shows and releasing one EP. They were rough around the edges and in many ways still are. Within the hardcore scene they break the mould bringing not only a female driven project to the table but also by being people with ideas and concepts you want to embrace and become a part of. Graves’ lyrics straddle the gaps between being human, being a woman, being a part of the male-orientated hardcore community and being the front woman of Perfect Pussy. They transcend ‘the band’ and form a rallying point for all those treated unjustly by society whether that be women, the LGBT community or anyone else screwed by the middle-aged white man’s world.

Say Yes To Love jumps from drone, krautrock, noise-rock and hardcore with spectacular ease in a manner as joyous and celebratory as the lyrics themselves. On ‘Driver’ Meredith Graves calls out, “I eat stress and I shit blood / and buddy, I’ll tell you, it never gets better.” After being sonically pummelled by Perfect Pussy on their debut LP these words ring truer than ever because, really, it does never get better than this.

Salad Days — Mac DeMarco (Captured Tracks, 01:04:2014)

For many in the mainstream music press DeMarco’s character is more interesting than his music. He holds a tempting ambivalence; the kind of personality that many a person stuck in a dead end office job dreams of. There is a certain duality to him that is hard to put your finger on. At once he is the buck-toothed stoner always up to no good while also singing the crooning love ballad and — supposedly — never touching drugs. It is hard to read any article or review on DeMarco without encountering the word “slacker.” For a lot of people he is the pinnacle of the new slacker movement with contemporaries such as Courtney Barnett and even Tyler the Creator. However, to take the duality of DeMarco to its fullest extent: is he even a slacker? Can a man who has released three smooth albums of jizz-jazz since 2012 really be one? If anything DeMarco is more of an industrious songwriter than a Bushwick layabout — even if that is what he is. Discussing the true complexities of Mac DeMarco could wrap anyone up in knots but, possibly, the truest expression of who he really is comes in the form of Salad Days.

Salad Days sees DeMarco mature. The perverse quality and creeper detours of Rock and Roll Nightclub and the darkly humorous quips of 2 are noticeably absent; the ‘dude’ has grown old. He may be older and — supposedly — wiser but he is riddled with internal conflicts. On the opening track ‘Salad Days’ DeMarco is worried about growing old — “As I’m getting’ older, chip up on my shoulder / rollin’ through life, to roll over and die.” However, he undercuts the serious tone — like he does at many points on Salad Days — with “Oh dear, act your age and try another year” slyly acknowledging the fact that he is, after all, only twenty-three. ‘Let Her Go’ is the song DeMarco did not want on the album. In fact, it was only written after his label Captured Tracks demanded a plush song that would fit with late night talk shows. However, the woozy jangle pop guitars and soothing vocals are without a doubt an album highlight. The song’s refrain “if you love her let her go” is decidedly straightforward but mumbled in the outro “or you can keep her, it okay it’s up to you” reverses the message.

Salad Days has an out of focus complexion like grainy, sun blushed lomographic photos. The likes of ‘Goodbye Weekend’ and ‘Chamber of Reflections’ utilise dreamy synths and pitch bending guitars that My Bloody Valentine would be proud of. The result is like listening to a vinyl left out in the sun for too long: warped yet eerily beautiful. ‘Chamber of Reflections’ is particularly striking evoking the image of DeMarco’s bummed out room where he “lives like a scumbag.” It explores loneliness lyrically — “alone again / alone” — but mainly through atmospherics. Without a doubt ‘Chamber of Reflections’ is DeMarco’s most expansive work to date with synths dripping in melancholy and Pierce McGarry’s bass lines pouring like viscous black oil down bare walls.

The brooding sadness that is felt in various songs on the album proves that DeMarco’s prankster antics may just be a defensive mechanism. Further this with lyrical undercutting of serious themes and it shows that DeMarco is trying to cut everyone’s heightened expectations short before he even plays a note or sings a word. Salad Days was released on April Fools Day — paradoxical, as it is DeMarco’s album with the least high-jinx involved. The closing track — ‘Johnny’s Odyssey’ — is entirely instrumental bar a touching note left by DeMarco at the end — “Hi guys this is Mac / thank you for joining me, see you again soon.” On past efforts by the Montreal songwriter it could be assumed that the audience was the butt of an elaborate joke or that you just were not getting his humour. However, on Salad Days the final words seem poignant after the melancholic internal battles that have come before. Mac DeMarco really does mean “thanks” and with the success of his third LP it seems likely that we will all see him again soon.

Here and Nowhere Else — Cloud Nothings (Carpark Records, 01:04:2014)

“I can feel your pain / and I feel alright about it,” Baldi roars without even a glimmer of sympathy on the opener of Here and Nowhere Else, ‘Now Here In.’ This coldly calculated line shows an artist striving to create something new and removed from Cloud Nothing’s previous records. The result is a stripped down, unhinged and grey-scale album; this is not an indulgently bourgeois record. Gone are the twinkles of piano and production tricks: Here and Nowhere Else could be a live album. It does not take much imagination to picture the newly streamlined trio bashing out the eight songs in quick succession in the studio or — more importantly — in some basement dive.

On first listen it sounds like a traditional rock album — one to play on a long drive or for the amateur guitarist to strum along to. However, upon dissection it is a headphones album; one that needs time to settle into its own skin and reveal its true nuances. The trio of songs mid-album — ‘Psychic Trauma’, ‘Just See Fear’ and ‘Giving Into Seeing’ — lay the foundations of this multi-faceted punk. Baldi drags the listener through these songs with visceral jolts, harsh yelps and waves of mutilated guitar. The listener is black and blue, pummelled by the sheer power of Cloud Nothings’ but filled with adrenaline; it is an addictive tripartite.

The only post-production comes on ‘Pattern Walks’, an ambitious seven and a half minute long thrash that leaps from metal dissonance to post-punk hooks with Baldi’s vocals submerged in a viscous liquid. He makes the “Here” seem like a distorted and paranoid world making the most of his newfound role as lead and rhythm guitarist. It is a single-minded song — a summation of the album’s ruthless title. More crucial to the success of the new Cloud Nothings than Baldi’s vocal prowess or aptitude on guitar is the sonic ambition of Jayson Gerycz — the band’s new drummer. His drums are skull crushing. The endless tom and cymbal crescendos create a duality: the band has two front men. Placed so high in the mix Gerycz allows a self-contradictory mind-set to envelop the music. Baldi focuses on lyrics that often dwell on topics of despair and isolation while Gerycz contradicts this. His drums pursue an urge for action channelling all his generational angst into mind numbing snare and bass thwacks. At times the raw force of the drums seem destined to derail and throw the entire band of course.

‘I’m Not Part Of Me’, the album’s finale, serves as a self-fulfilling prophecy. “It starts right now / there’s a way I was before / but I can’t recall how I was those days anymore,” Baldi acknowledges that although this is his creation most suited to basement venues it seems unlikely that it — and he — will remain there for long. ‘I’m Not Part Of Me’ will inevitably fall into the hands of frat-boys making the most of the song’s penchant for wild hooks. This is an outright paradoxical situation when Baldi speaks of isolation and lonerism. However, that says a lot about his song writing capabilities that the music he creates can transcend social groups and stigmas uniting those who would generally be at loggerheads. On Here and Nowhere Else Baldi has become the true all-American hero in the same vein as Springsteen in albeit a slightly less traditional manner. If the first seven songs of Here and Nowhere Else serve to wipe away the remainder of early Baldi no-fi solo records then ‘I’m Not Part Of Me’ firmly stamps the soil down on top of the grave. Here and Nowhere Else is a record for Millennials born into a society of limited prospects yet in Baldi’s greying warped world he carves a peculiar yet enticing path for prospective listeners to follow.

Baldi has been making music under the Cloud Nothings moniker for five years now. In his Cleveland basement crafting out tape recordings of his solo projects he must have dreamt about his band becoming a punk behemoth — a distant fantasy. However, with Here and Nowhere Else the dream has been realised with the band facing out to the world, a snarl on their faces. Over the course of eight songs they expose the ironic hardships of life — at times verging on insanity — in easily the most ruthless indie rock record released in 2014.

More Than Any Other Day — Ought (Constellation Records, 29:04:2014)

Ought are aware that they are not the most startlingly original band in the world, nor do they care. Influences of pre-punk, punk and post-punk (Velvet Underground squalls, Byrn-ian vocals and Television-esque riffs) all lace the Montreal band’s debut record. These touch stones from the alternative music of the last sixty years make More Than Any Other Day one of the most listenable records of the year. The Quebec group — not that any of them are actually from Francophone Canada — reject the traditional Quebecois tradition of rejecting the popular. In rejecting the rejection Ought have come full circle: they are post-post modern artists who know that by morphing the sounds of their idols they have created something fresh.

In what may be legend in years to come, Ought allegedly met at the “Printemps Erable”, the Maple Spring of student protests — so art rock it hurts. The protests were marred by excessive police force against young Canadians demonstrating against a seventy-five percent tuition fee rise. Ought’s anxious, jittery math-rock gives a flavour of the tense atmosphere of the time. Furthermore, the guitars that cannot-seem-to-stand-still and nervous drums are the on record sonic equivalent of the defiant percussive protest the Quebecois students gave. However, bar frontman Tim Beeler’s defiant calls of “We won’t take it anymore” on ‘The Weather Song’ very little on More Than Any Other Day can be interpreted as an overtly political statement.

Rather, Ought’s anxious debut LP plays upon the everyday dramas that unfold in the late-capitalist world. On the almost title track of ‘Today More Than Any Other Day’ Beeler cries that he is “Prepared to make the decision between two percent and whole milk!” Hell, he is even “excited to go grocery shopping” taking ironic drags at the concept of choice in capitalist economies. Standout on the album is ‘Habit’ exploring the mundane yet overwhelming joy felt when getting something of your chest. The song is littered with questions — “Is there something you are trying to express, yeah?” and “Do you feel it like I feel it?” — that are left unanswered. Neoliberalism may provide so much but it fails to give many answers in real life and Ought reflect this.

The Montreal based four-piece fall into a bracket of bands that are university schooled, highly intelligent and burdened by severe genius complexes. Their whole act could be perceived — and has been perceived — as an example of the arch-hipsterisation of music but in reality they are who they are and are well aware of the music they make. They bridge the perilous divide between groups that make music heavy on the retro aesthetic but lack substance and those that preach to their listeners as if their verses are directly lifted from the gospels. It helps that Beeler is a natural orator offering up a gossamer like voice that threatens to be blown away at any moment. The apparent fragility of his vocals makes the lyrics he delivers all the more urgent. After two minutes of deathly silent guitars on ‘Today More Than Any Other Day’ he exclaims, “…so open up your textbooks…” With his gifted style of narration this nervous shout becomes an order: what Beeler has to say is fundamentally important, you will listen and he will teach you.

The final track on More Than Any Other Day offers up precisely what Ought are all about. Beeler snarls “I retain the right to be disgusted by life / I retain the right to be in love with everything in sight” — they may have met at a political protest but for the most part they are an apolitical band simply making sure that you live life to the fullest. Although their sound may draw countless comparisons from American new wave music Ought have an anxious energy that makes their music sound so real and so alive and so now.

Nausea — Craft Spells (Captured Tracks, 10:06:2014)

There is no exact translation for the Japanese word komorebi in English. The closest you can get to expressing the word’s much cherished meaning in our language is sunlight filtered through the trees — an elusive yet compelling sight. Phrases such as komorebi hark back to a different era; one in which mankind and nature were inextricably intertwined — an era when we did not all reside in concrete cities. Appreciation for the true complexity of ancient Japanese sayings grows when you step outwith the city and remove yourself from the conceptualised technology that feeds our modern lives. ‘Komorebi’ also happens to be the appropriated title of the second track on Nausea and, when the album is put in context, this comes as no surprise. It comes in the wake of Justin Vallestero’s digitally induced mental breakdown caused — in part — due to his addiction to social media. Nausea is Craft Spell’s own remedy for modern living; a detox from gizmos and commodities that aims to give the listener time to contemplate the state of the world. ‘Komorebi’ is an apt title, for what is arguably the album’s crown jewel, as it lacks a proper verbal equivalent outwith the Japanese language; it is difficult to pin down a precise meaning. Similarly, Nausea evokes feelings that are hard to convey even on repeated listens.

On 2012’s Idle Labour Craft Spells invariably dealt with the emotional toils of consciously choosing to be a solitary individual. However, on Nausea the flip side of the coin is explored with feelings of isolation and loneliness pervading every nook and cranny. The album may dwell on bleak and emotionally daunting themes yet the music remains paradoxically upbeat — most of the time. On previous releases Vallestero has used rudimentary drum machines and cheap synthesisers to construct a rigid framework within which he can place his work. However, Nausea sees him using mainly analogue instruments giving his music room to glide and swing through songs. The album may feel more organic than previous efforts but still maintains an icy aesthetic. Songs build up, as if to reach a crescendo, before dissipating quickly for fear of melting Craft Spells’ exterior.

Vallestero’s sets himself apart from his peers with precise, glossy production and his penchant for the occasional piece of trip-hop. On ‘If I Could’ Vallestero sounds like the guy who is not invited to the party; muffled hip-hop beats form a fuzzy background noise as if being played in a distant room. He contemplates that “throughout the nights he felt so small” emphatically hitting home the isolation and dislocation from society he experienced. The production of ‘Breaking the Angle Against the Tide’ places piercing strings at the fore with the song’s up-tempo attitude solely designed to counter Vallestero’s crushing anxiety. However, arguably the melancholic strings on ‘Dwindle’ carry more emotional weight as they drag Vallestero’s down into the darkest recesses of his mind. It is on ‘Twirl’ that he is most direct, pleading with the world to give him his pre-internet life back — “I don’t know what to do.”

On repeated listens Nausea will reveal itself to be a dissertation on the cultural concerns of modern living: the dislocation of social media, the sensory overload of advertisements and visual media and the sudden trauma when you realise your computer is your best friend. The album’s closing track ‘Still Fields (October 10, 1987)’ is a meditation. If the term komorebi can define the album then surely this closing track owes a debt of gratitude towards another ancient Japanese tradition: Zen Buddhism. With this reflective song Vallestero’s gives the listener time to digest the great emotional heft of Nausea in blissful tranquillity.