Picks of the Litter by Sean Cameron Every year that does not see a revolutionary rock and roll album on the order of Daydream Nation, It Takes A Nation Of Millions to Hold Us Back, or Loveless leads any number of ponyboy critics to proclaim the genre dead. No, 1997 did not produce a masterwork that changed anything all too much. In some circles, this leads to pronouncing rock music as hopelessly derivative. But in rock, as in any other art, creators build upon what came before them. The past year should be remembered for a number of superb acts who twisted, rearranged, and reinvented the sounds inherent to the tradition they work in. Popular music is continually falling prey to blandness. Witness the here-today, serving-fries-tomorrow progression of Gin Blossoms, Blind Melon, Better Than Ezra, and Matchbox 20. Or the cartoonish posturings of the Puff Daddy and Marilyn Manson collectives. Sure these acts sell, but they are nothing more than lowest common denominator product. If this is rock and roll, or hip-hop for that matter, then yes, the old boy is in serious trouble. But rock has always been a bit more subversive than that. Not that good rock cannot sell (as Beck and Radiohead have shown, MTV darlings status does not negate quality), but it more often than not lurks below the realm of blockbuster sales. So what, then, is rock and roll? And what are the best albums of any given year? Hell if I really know. Good rock can be silly, poppy, dead serious, straight out of the garage, or downloaded off a Mac. The beauty of rock music is that it reserves a place for all of these expressions. I probably contradict myself quite a bit when explaining why I think the following are the best albums of the year, but contradiction is what makes rock a vital, explosive force. It can be art or anti-art. Punk could not survive without hubristic over-reachers. But there's an inescapable quality about all of these records, that they transcend mere product status. Maybe they don't make sense, a lot of them, but in rock the form is the meaning. Take it seriously or do not; more often than not it begs both. So 1997 may not have been revolutionary, but it stands as testament to the fact that rock is far from dead, and in taking from its past, it is reinvention, rather than shameless aping, that retains its spirit. 1.Yo La Tengo, I Can Hear the Heart Beating as One Ira Kaplan and Georgia Hubley, the married couple at the heart of Yo La Tengo, love rock and roll in all its forms. I Can Hear The Heart Beating As One is their valentine to it, and finds them smitten as Paul and Paula, from the bossanova of "Center of Gravity" to the lovelorn Dinosaur Jr. crunch of "Sugarcube" to the lush and dreamy "Autumn Sweater" to what may become their signature feedback drenched mini-epic, "We're An American Band." All of the disparate elements of their past work fuse seemlessly on Heart, from the ghostly folk of Fakebook to the incendiary noise workouts of Electr-o-pura, and it presents the band at a creative summit. Kaplan is not so much a guitarist as a mad fuckin' scientist, concocting a viscous compound of pedal fuzz and blaring discord. Live, he comes off like an indie-rock Eddie Van Halen, slapping his instrument around, humping it -- whatever it takes to get to blow any song straight through the roof and into the stratosphere. But what strikes me as so amazing about this record is not only the sheer depth of sound but the lack of it. Yo La Tengo has the singular ability to be both the loudest and quietest band on the planet; on "Green Arrow," you can literally hear the grasshoppers. The interplay of Kaplan's guitar and Hubley's sensuous vocals proves them masters at keeping the hot side hot and the cold side cold. Like the ornate heart which adorns the CD tray, Yo La Tengo renders an album that is beautifully odd, strange and familiar. 2. Radiohead, OK Computer / Polvo, Shapes Prog rock returned in spirit, but thankfully not form, with these two opuses. Radiohead and Polvo do not conjure images of dancing Druids and diminutive Stonehenge models, but forge complex, majestic works that adopt the epic sweep of prog without the pompous silliness. Radiohead studied The Wall closely for OK Computer, updating Floyd's creamy psychedelia on this concept album about ... well, something having to do with technology and the human condition or whatever (this is prog rock, after all -- no definites needed). Polvo strives for the experimentation of Robert Fripp but eschews the precise virtuosity, coming off like Beethoven with a cranked Marshall stack. The success of both albums stems from the fact that each band never forgets the song, the primary flaw of wanky '70s head music; this allows Radiohead to compose the beautiful, scintillating "Let Down" and Polvo to write a tour-de-force like "Rock Post Rock." These albums are adventurous and transportative, as well as emotionally gripping, engaging the mind without dulling it. 3. Sleater-Kinney, Dig Me Out In a year when teenie-skappers and purple bubbalicious-core led the 7-11 Punk Revolution, this Femgazi unit rocked the bloody hell out of the myriad SoCal Tiger Beat centerfolds. "Dance Song '97" was the year's best single, three minutes of pure snarl and scratch, and easily the toughest thing on the radio. Sleater-Kinney transcends the bombastic polemics of their riot-grrl lineage by their artistry, possessing an understanding that it's the little things that make songs worthwhile. The hand claps and "dum-dum-ditty" choruses of Dig Me Out, as well as the potent emotional wail of singer Corin Tucker make the songs, and their message, stick out. This is the swiftest kick to the nuts rock had all year, and when Tucker bellows "Words and guitar/I got it!" you not only believe it, but you get out of her way. 4.Verbena, Souls For Sale Verbena plays low-down, southern-fried boogie with a heated passion usually reserved for Mickey's powered revelers. Each track sounds like the band rolled off the couch, lit up a Red, took a shot of whiskey, tore through the song, and then passed out again. The blistering opener "Hot Blood" is, in the immortal words of Ritchie Valens, "a bit of a rattlesnake," all dirty guitars coupled with the tawdry, boy/girl vocal attack of Anne Marie Griffin and Scott Bondy. "Shaped Like a Gun," with its slinky bass line and desperate chorus made me want to lay in bed in the Charlottesville summer and sweat all day. The Stonesy shuffle and early-Aerosmith bluster manages to evoke the strung-out groove of the great blue jeans bands, only more sinister and depraved, radiating off the speaker like urine off a hot city sidewalk. "Come On," a glorious ode to the road trip, transports one to the mythic Route 66; and in a perfect world, "The Song That Ended Your Career" would have lighters swaying from side to side in arenas across America. 5. The Interpreters, Back In the U.S.S.A. It's only appropriate that Oasis would get beaten at their own game by a bunch of Yanks from Philadelphia. The Interpreters take their love of Merseybeat '60s pop one step further, not by ripping off Beatles lyrics but by injecting their by-the-numbers structures with hair-pulling, speedfreak energy. The result is like Austin Powers with an amphetamine addiction -- a technicolor, slap-happy good time. The band does not need much in the way of structure or complexity, possessing enough rocket fuel to set fire to a chorus of "Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go! Go-oh!" and make it sound convincing. "Uptight" starts off on a single note and builds to orgasmic heights, unleashing the year's most cathartic blast of excitement. What they lack in sophistication they make up for in exuberance, and come up with the most enthusiastic debut in recent memory. This is matching sailor suit rock, all bratty, ass whippin' fun. And if that ain't rock and roll ... 6. Silkworm, Developer Developer sticks in your head not because of catchy choruses and hooks, but due to its cleverness. Andrew Cohen has constructed a gritty song cycle concerned with urban alienation, with a lovely cast of loners and deserters desperately seeking a human connection among the faceless masses. Each track comes off like a short story, showcasing his remarkable eye for detail. In "Never Met a Man I Didn't Like," he begs his friend "Gerard give me two hundred bucks/It's been weeks since I had a good fuck." The music is spare, and emotionally edgy; the jangly lines of "Give Me Some Skin" provide a suitably bleak accompaniment to Cohen's tale of "getting stuck in any town" and pleading "appreciate your time tonight ... spend some on me." The title track blazes with a Neil Youngian crunch, and the opening line "When I came to the city I thought it'd be easy/selling my ass came so naturally" cuts like vintage G'N'R. 7. Rakim, The 18th Letter "I'm giving them back what they've been waiting for -- skills." Rakim opens his comeback album with this declaration, telling all the neighborhoods he's got the goods again. The 18th Letter portrays Rakim as a holy savior, not only to the kids of the worldwide ghetto but of the anemic world of hip hop. Puffy and his hit-making mob may have ripped a meaty shred off the paralyzed body of rap this year, but the "prophecy professor" raised the old man outright. His mission is not to bite the old school, like the Eric Parrish/Keith Murry/Redman cover of "Rapper's Delight" or any number of Bad Boy cut-and-paste hits, but lead the way for a return to the sharp, lightening quick rhymes of the past. The production consists of spare beats, less hectic than his collaborations with Eric B., but nonetheless striking aural platforms from which he can cut loose. Rather than glamorize cartoonish crime scenes, the only gunspeak consists of "a sawed off mic/so words scatter like a rifle." Though Rakim seeks to restore discipline to rhyming, the album is hardly a somber affair -- the gripping lyrics of "It's Been A Long Time" and "Remember That" bounce along on jazzy, carefree rhythms. 18th Letter puts the focus back on the language and wordplay, eschewing worthless self indulgence, signaling a return to the raw jams of the old days. 8. Stereolab, Dots and Loops Once again, Stereolab proves that challenging, difficult music can be fun and frothy. On Dots and Loops they stir up a foo-foo cocktail that's 150 proof. The bubbly lounge-cum-krautrockers with style to spare can cold rock a party for rockers and ravers alike with their unique, twisted approach to deconstructive elevator music. The cheese may be spread a bit thick at times, but their karaoke trance rock may engage as well as soothe. Enjoy the ethereal vocals or the trills of white noise which punctuate "Brakhage." "The Flower Called Nowhere" actually sounds like snow -- tingly, delicate and ice cold. 9. Superchunk, Indoor Living Considering the recent re-emergence of slasher flicks, bubblegum Top 40 pop, and Tom Selleck's mustache, Superchunk seems poised to conquer the world. Indoor Living is another collection of songs from a classic '80s movie that John Hughes never made, bursting with manic energy, teen lust, late night pathos, and bittersweet anthems. It's as strangely handsome as Lane, forlorn as Molly, and catchy as one of Ducky's shirts. The 'Chunk tones down their fiery Chapel Hill attack on most tracks, thrusting singer Mac McCaughan's thin yelps to the forefront, fostering songs which maintain a high pogo factor but are more insanely hummable. Each song unfolds like a scene from a high school document; "Every Single Instinct" is the slow dance song, quietly painful but not maudlin, and the desperate "Marquee" begs "Will I see you in the parking lot?" before exploding into a noisy tantrum of libidinal urges and drunken anger. When they quote The Who's "Baba O'Reilly" at the end of "Song For Marion Brown," it becomes clear that like any good tale of teenage wasteland, Indoor Living has just the right balance of fucked-up confusion and mature insight. 10. Pavement, Brighten the Corners Like many Pavement listeners, I was initially dismayed by Brighten the Corners's lack of the off-kilter rhythms and vocal freak-outs that made their past albums a freewheeling joy. But several months later, I still cannot get the damn thing out of my head. The rubbery soul of "Stereo" sets the tone for what is to come: a tipsy, giggly affair full of cyst-ridden kaisers and "lots of details to discern." And that's part of the fun -- along with the (relatively) operatic gestures of "Type Slowly" and "Old to Begin," we have cameras in sorority houses and overfriendly concierges set to a meandering, noodley groove. "Shady Lane" is a pub song on par with "Tubthumping," inviting raised toasts with its "He's everybody's God" chorus. Pavement has always been too-clever smart-asses with vocabularies as large as their bar tab (Steven Malkmus and Bob Nastanovich are Wahoos, mind you), and they've finally started acting like it. And the "woo-ooh-ooh-ooh"s of "Passat Dream" and the foggy, atomospheric "Blue Hawaiian" keep the proceedings sharp enough that they form subtle, but deep impressions.

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