Processing Grief Through Music

With Nick, circa 2016, at a show at the Greek Theatre in Berkeley

Other than it essentially being an unpaid labor of love (literally unpaid for me, at this point), music writing is the best job in the world.

I get to interview artists who I’ve long admired. I’m able to ask them questions that have been brimming in my brain for years. And then I get to synthesize those thoughts in a way that ideally convinces readers of the power and profundity of the artform.

And another unspoken rule about being a music writer is the free tickets. It’s generally understood that if you write a feature on a band (one that alerts readers of an upcoming performance), their publicist will provide you with a couple of comped passes to the gig. 

Yeah, it smells a little of quid-pro-quo, but it’s not like I’m writing for the Washington Post and shadily covering  up some abusive corruption. I get to write glowing articles about musicians I love, and as a way of showing their appreciation, they toss me a couple of tickets, gratis.

For years, that extra free ticket of mine was a hot commodity among my friend group. Before everyone got a little long in the tooth and started having kids, seeing a free performance of some band we all loved was a top rate experience. From about 2013 to 2019, I had to judiciously choose among a wide roster of candidates about who to ask to join me for a show.

One of my first choices was always my pal Nick. I met Nick in 2009 through my other friend Jeff, and we immediately hit it off. We enjoyed hanging out and having fun with our friends, and we had the same rascally sense of humor (rascally meaning we were unafraid to pummel a joke into the ground, and said “joke” was often only funny to an audience of two—me and him.)

We also shared a deep and abiding appreciation for music. The roster of bands we both adored was endless (Pavement, the Walkmen, the National, Built to Spill, Cut Copy, Beirut, New Order, LCD Soundsystem, Free Energy, the list could go on and on.)  Nick also loved himself some jam bands like My Morning Jacket and Phish (hey, agree to disagree) in addition to classic acts such as Pearl Jam and the Rolling Stones. But his favorite group of all was Sigur Rós, the dreamy, ambient collective from Iceland.

I had so many classic nights going to local shows with Nick, courtesy of my cherished free tickets. Vince Staples. My Bloody Valentine. M83. Dean Wareham. Beirut. (Confession time: we tended to chatter a bit during those live sets. I think we hold the Bay Area record for most time being shushed. Not exactly a coveted award. Sorry everyone! I know that’s annoying!)

One year, I scored us some passes to the Huichica Music Festival in Sonoma. Nick tried to convince us all that he saw My Morning Jacket frontman Jim James casually hanging out among the fans, clad in a poncho (Nick was a sucker for a good poncho.) We all expressed deep skepticism of the claim, considering his prodigious intake of mushrooms that day, but social media reports later confirmed his hunch. Sorry Nick, we should have believed you.

In 2023, Nick and I travelled together to Utah for the Kilby Block Party, a sort of heaven on earth for aging indie heads like ourselves. It was just the two of us going to the festival, but our company was all we needed to have a great time. 

One of the highlights of the multi-day fest was seeing the Walkmen, freshly reunited and sounding as glorious and clangorous as ever. The band’s lead singer Hamilton Leithauser punctuated their show by chucking loafs of French bread out into the crowd. Nick and I, feeling uplifted by that bit of surrealism, started hoisting up our vinyl copies of the band’s seminal album, “Bow and Arrows,” which we recently bought from the merch tent. Leithauser, apparently endowed with eagle eyes, called us out in front of the huge crowd for having purchased bootleg copies of the LP (I guess the fest was selling unsanctioned Walkmen records?) For the rest of the festival, random people would come up to us, and laugh about the dressing-down we received.

By far, the most unforgettable night that Nick and I had together was a Black Lips show at the Great American Music Hall. In a rare bit of unfettered access, I was awarded two backstage passes for the gig, courtesy of a story I had written for the SF Weekly. 

We showed up to the band’s green room prior to the show, and even though I had interviewed the Lips’ Jared Swilley just a few days earlier, he clearly did not remember me. We hovered awkwardly in the background, until Nick, emboldened solely by his own personal fortitude, grabbed a bottle of Jameson from a nearby table and started swigging away. The band, perhaps impressed by his utter brazenness, immediately loosened up afterwards. 

We spent the next two hours gloriously partying with the Lips and their assorted hangers-on. I ended up stage diving that night. Following the show, I was separated from Nick and I had assumed he had called it a night. After a few minutes, I was able to track him down—he was at the entrance to the backstage door, ready to keep hanging out, which is what we did, until the wee hours of the morning.

On Friday, March 14, Nick passed away, just over a year after being diagnosed with cancer. Toward the end, his condition worsened precipitously, but a large collection of his friends were able to say a last goodbye to him at the hospital that Thursday.

There were a lot of tears. And some laughs. And of course, music.

In that cramped hospital room, we played Sigur Ros and Pearl Jam and Pavement and Phish and Beirut. Despite being frail, Nick would bust out his trademark air guitar while the songs drifted out from someone’s iPhone. He could barely speak, but that didn’t stop him from mouthing the words to the Stones’ “Beast of Burden,” a longtime favorite of his.

In his final moments, Nick had his wife Silvia and their young daughter Rory by his side. His beloved Sigur Rós played as he entered into his next adventure. 

It’s impossible to type those words without tearing up. But it also reminds me of the power of music. 

No form of art has a relationship with ownership that is as permeable and malleable as music. And I’m not talking about possessing physical media or paying for streaming services. I’m referring to that magical moment of transference, when a song is released out into the ether, and the listener is able to impart their own feelings, emotions and associations onto that tune. 

The minute that Brian King and David Prowse put out “The House That Heaven Built,” that track no longer belonged solely to the Japandroids. It also belonged to me, Nick and all our other friends who spent endless late nights screaming along to that anthem. The same goes for songs by the Black Lips, the National, M83 and every other band Nick and I saw together.

After being diagnosed, Nick was often too weak to make it out to live shows. He rallied for a few, though. The last performance we saw together was the Walkmen at Bimbo’s, which meant the return of our old frenemy, Hamilton. The band played as if they personally knew Nick’s time was limited. They were absolutely glorious—loud, raucous and unhinged. Nick was having a blast, and I was hugging him throughout the show. It felt like old times.

So now, every time I play one of our favorite songs, those bands will actually be singing about Nick to me. Whenever I hear the “Rat” or “In the New Year,” my mind will go to Bimbo’s, and that image of Nick, happy and restored, will come rushing back. 

I’ll think of the epic last show. And I’ll smile. 

Oakland’s Kathryn Mohr Stuns With Stirring Debut Album, “Waiting Room”

Photo Credit: Senny Mau

The myth of the origin story has a long and uncomfortable history of overshadowing the works it's credited with inspiring.

For years, Justin Vernon had to answer questions about his solitary sojourn in the woods when explaining the making of Bon Iver’s 2008 masterpiece, “For Emma, Forever Ago.” The members of Pink Floyd couldn’t discuss their epic prog-rock adventure, “Wish You Were Here,” without recalling the time they were visited by their tragically unrecognizable former bandmate, Syd Barrett. For generations, historians linked “Wheatfield With Crows” with the apocryphal tale that Van Gogh immediately shot himself after completing the painting.

But at the risk of continuing a legacy that’s uneven at best, it would be impossible to talk about Kathryn Mohr’s hauntingly gorgeous new album, “Waiting Room,” without providing some context about how the record was crafted.

To create her eerie post-rock tour-de-force, the Oakland-based musician decamped to Stöðvarfjörður, a tiny fishing village in Iceland. Mohr spent most of her 30-day stay at the coastal hamlet ensconced inside a crumbling warehouse, which had only recently been repurposed from a fish factory into a studio space for local artists.

The result of that month-long trial-by-ice is a spectral 11-track album marked by negative space, absent melodies and cavernous atmospherics. “Waiting Room” is a ghostly, oddly thrilling experience and the warehouse is its omnipresent co-creator.

“I’ve always been really drawn to abandoned buildings,” said Mohr, who will perform at Indexical in Santa Cruz on Saturday, March 22. “I have a real affinity with the energy that’s left there. I wanted to capture what I felt like was a really unique and beautiful situation. It was an opportunity to document a place, while also writing songs that were inside of me, because I felt like I had a lot of songs to get out.”

A native of the South Bay, Mohr has been creating atonal, challenging no-wave music for the past half decade, pulling from disparate sources like Sovietwave and Yoko Ono’s primal scream endeavors. 

Eventually, a demo of hers made its way to Jonathan Tuttle, the owner of the venerable San Francisco music label The Flenser. Home to an array of virtuosic black metal, darkwave and other left-of-the-dial outfits, there could not be a label in America more suited for Mohr’s talents.

Through The Flenser, Mohr connected with ambient drone specialist Madeline Johnston of Midwife. In 2022, the two decamped to Johnston’s isolated farmhouse in New Mexico to record Mohr’s stirring EP, “Holly,” setting a precedent of sorts for the secluded creative process that powers “Waiting Room.”

Because, make no mistake about it, it’s difficult to imagine this record being made anywhere else. After hearing about the fish factory from a friend who is a visual recording artist, Mohr arrived in Iceland with a rough sketch of songs she wanted to record. However, she abandoned those ideas early on in the process, instead opening herself up to the inspirations of her Iceland environs.

“I scrapped everything I had and really just had no expectations of myself,” said Mohr. “I flipped a switch in my brain and said, ‘I don’t have to do anything, I don’t have to make music.’ And once I did that, I sat down and started writing. There was this sort of emptiness in my mental space—I was very alone and isolated. There was nobody. I just embraced that feeling.”

Empty noise brims throughout the record—every missing note hums with tape hiss or pulsing feedback. That ghostly apparition is a character that recurs throughout “Waiting Room,” a lurking specter hiding in the recesses of the vast, cavernous industrial plant. You can practically see the wintry breath that accompanies each song.

Mohr recorded nearly the entire record in a large windowless room, and that harshness bleeds into the songs. “Diver,” the album opener, is an austere acoustic number, with Mohr’s simple guitar strumming rising barely above her voice, which mordantly repeats, “This comfort/Discomfort is bad for your health /but what can we do / when it comes to you?” 

“Driven” follows much of the same pace, a brooding elegy where Mohr’s voice sounds like it’s carried off in the wind and “Petrified” is an ambling anti-folk number—a Julien Baker-inflected piece that has been plunged into cold, dark waters. 

For “Waiting Room,” Mohr mostly eschews the analog synth and electronica-infused pieces of her earlier work, instead relying on quiet acoustic guitars and strange sonic manipulations. On “Take It” and “Elevator” the guitars are louder and noisier, but the album is mostly marked by its somberness and discomfiting placidity. The most notable contributions are the field recordings of the warehouse and the Icelandic countryside captured by Mohr. 

“It was really magical to be able to record all those sounds,” said Mohr. “There’s the wind and the water, but also this buzzing fluorescent light. I always listen to shortwave radio whenever I’m recording, and I was able to incorporate that as well.”

Elements of Grouper, Slint and a host of bands from The Flenser can be heard in “Waiting Room,” but the vibe is unmistakably Mohr’s. While she acknowledges the profundity and brilliance of those artists, Mohr said she typically avoids listening to those musicians when making albums.

“I love those bands. I love Grouper—I love her [Liz Harris] methodology and the beauty of her music,” said Mohr. “But I can’t really listen to it too much, because it makes me so emotional and sad. I need music that takes me away from my emotions.”

While she might not take direct inspiration from those acts, she manages to attain the same elusive goal of those outfits—to create beauty from darkness. 

“Waiting Room” is a sad, unnerving record, but there are countless moments of unmistakable reverie contained within its unforgiving settings. Like witnessing the gnarled, glazed branches of a tree after an ice storm or appreciating the crumbling grandeur of post-industrial landscapes, “Waiting Room” is a pursuit to find grace in the unconventional. 

That dichotomy has been recognized by numerous music critics and publications. Pitchfork, music’s most venerable tastemaker, awarded the album its coveted Best New Music label.

“I think music criticism is flawed, but it’s still very flattering,” said Mohr. “I discovered so much amazing music from Pitchfork as a teenager. To receive that kind of attention—and to read something that captured my intent so articulately—was pretty surreal.”

Surreal is an apt way to sum up the entire “Waiting Room” experience. It is an album of vast, oceanic landscapes and cloistered rooms—is it both claustrophobic and boundless. 

To find that balance, Mohr needed to travel to the far reaches of the globe. As a result, we are all able to steal a fortunate glimpse into that wholly unique world.

Show Details:
Kathryn Mohr with Still House Plants
Where: Indexical
When: 8:30 p.m., Saturday, March 22
Tickets: $20, available here.

Al Harper Highlights Standout Collection of Local Artists At This Year’s Noise Pop Fest

Photo Credit: Kari Orvik

The early musical memories of San Francisco-based musician Al Harper sound cribbed straight from the pages of the great American songbook—a sort of portrait of an artist as a young woman. 

Growing up in Bakersfield, Harper spent the days of her youth travelling with her dad in his 1969 convertible, blasting tunes from the old Sounds of the Seventies tape compilations, which featured classic acts such as Fleetwood Mac, Linda Ronstadt and The Carpenters.

However, it wasn’t until years later, after seeing those artists without the lens of rose-colored glasses, that Harper was able to truly appreciate those bands—to hear the musicianship above the memories.

“That was always my dad’s kind of music—something that I would sing just with him,” said Harper. “But then when I was in my 20s, I started listening to those artists again and realized that they’re amazing. Not just the hits of bands like Fleetwood Mac, but their whole albums—they were all so technically gifted. I began to understand that my love for that music wasn’t just based on nostalgia.” 

Now, Harper deftly captures those vintage sounds, reimagining the light textures and soft passages of Laurel Canyon songwriters, 70s studio acts like Todd Rundgren and the country Americana of her native Bakersfield to create music that feels revivalist but also contemporary. 

Her latest release, 2024’s “The Analemma Observation League,” is full of buoyant, jaunty and joyful pop nuggets—a collection of sun-dappled tunes that feel perfect for the open road or a day at the park. 

On Sunday, Harper will play selections from that album at the Kilowatt as part of the annual Noise Pop Festival. A multi-day musical extravaganza taking place at dozens of venues in San Francisco and Oakland, the festival recently announced a sterling addition of local artists, highlighted by acts like Harper. 

The depth and breadth of the bands affirm San Francisco’s always-solid standing as an incubator of creativity, and Harper stands out as a unique element of that scene. After being inspired by a couple of childhood visits to the city, Harper enrolled in San Francisco State University upon her graduation from high school. Once enrolled, she immediately fell in with a group of scrappy, like-minded musicians (included in that cohort was Mike Ramos, the purveyor of the opaque, exploratory outfit Tony Jay, a frequent collaborator with Harper.)

As the case with most DIY-inspired artists, Harper embraced lo-fi, punk leanings, focusing on the power of performance and immediacy over technical prowess. It was only after a long musical voyage—one that included a sojourn to New York City for a few years (that was briefly delayed after a frightening car accident)—that Harper began to feel comfortable sounding fresh and fuzz-free.

“I felt really shy at first about having this crisp, clean sound, because in my heart, I’m a lo-fi kind of person,” said Harper. “But that kind of approach just didn’t feel true to what I was writing. Logistically, I really just want to sing—that’s my main instrument. And it’s pretty hard to sing well in that lo-fi, noisy environment. It was definitely scary to have everything be so clear and straightforward, especially because I grew up in this scene that wasn’t really doing that thing.”

While those initial fears might have delayed Harper’s embrace of a more polished sound, her instincts are more than validated on “The Analemma Observation League.” The second full-length release under her own name, following 2021’s “Promises I Kept,” the album showcases Harper’s powerful, clarion-clear vocals. Evoking luminaries such as Stevie Nicks, Kate Bush and Jenny Lewis, Harper’s warm and rich deliveries add a degree of hushed approachability to the songs.

Standout tracks on the album include opener “Day One of the Sunflower,” a lush, brimming statement filled with lilting harmonies, and an inspired cover of Melanie’s 1971 release, “Some Day I’ll Be A Farmer.” At the centerpiece of the record is “Let Me Be,” a magnum opus of sorts, combining jaunty melodies, vibrant keys and beautiful group vocals.

“’Let Me Be’ was a long time in the making—something I pieced together over like a decade,” said Harper. “I had this verse I was messing around with for years, and then I saw that Beatles documentary that everyone was watching during the pandemic and was kind of inspired to finish that song. I was never really a major Beatles fan growing up—I just didn’t listen to them for whatever reason—but seeing the production efforts in that documentary really motivated me to finish that song.”

Appropriating Beatles-like production efforts is a far cry from her halcyon days as a punk rocker, but Harper pulls it off seamlessly on “The Analemma Observation League” (an analemma is a diagram of the sun when photographed from the same time and place over a year). Working alongside prolific local producer Jason Kick, Harper played most of the instruments on the album, wielding everything from guitar to percussion to Wurlitzer organs to her own field recordings.

Although her sound sets her apart from the gloriously ramshackle janglepop of Slumberland bands like Chime School and the Umbrellas, and the eerie tape-hiss beauty of outfits like Tony Jay, April Magazine and Cindy, Harper is not completely alone in her adoption of the shimmering and sunny. Other local groups like Silverware and Yea-Ming and the Rumors harness a similar kind of aesthetic.

“At first, I was like, ‘oh my gosh,’ who am I going to play with now,’” said Harper. “But this scene here is special. Honestly, I feel like that’s what keeps me going, to keep pushing through on this level. We’re not doing this for the money—we’re doing this for pure love. We have a very healthy little ecosystem going on here.”

Harper closes out her album with “This Time Take Time.” A hymnal that sounds like a Christmas Noel for people who celebrate the holidays in the desert, the song is a self-help mantra that serves as a NorthStar for her winding, wending journey. 

“I actually thought of the last song after walking my baby around in a stroller,” said Harper. “I just had this epiphany to let things happen and not worry too much about them. When you’re putting out an album, you don’t know what’s going to happen—you don’t know if anyone will actually ever hear it. So, I just set my mind to put this out into the world and let it go. I wanted to appreciate things as they come, and not take this too seriously.”

Show Details:
Al Harper with Marika Christine and Uncle Chris
Where: Kilowatt
When, 8 p.m., Sunday, February 23
Tickets: $20, available here.

Wild Pink Bring New Muscularity to The Independent For Two Sold-Out Shows

Photo Credit: Fire Talk Records

During the early days of Wild Pink, the heartland rock band won a loyal following for making music both devastatingly earnest and exceedingly delicate. Led by the soft cooing of chief songwriter (and sole permanent member) John Ross, the group created worlds of fragile beauty, imbued by quiescent synths and plaintive piano pieces. 

As such, Wild Pink studio albums were drenched in somnambulant atmospherics and wistful, gossamer thin assemblies. The hushed nature of the songs and their multilayered production methods, however, made it difficult for Ross and company to faithfully replicate that sound in a live setting. And with the band touring increasingly more behind a steady output of great albums, being able to authentically transfer the sounds of the studio onto the stage took on greater importance for Ross.

The result of that redirected philosophy was last year’s majestically weighty album, “Dulling the Horns.” Easily the heaviest record in the band’s oeuvre, “Dulling the Horns” finds Wild Pink exploring chugging guitar riffs, feedback-laden dissonance and cascades of metallic sonic manipulations. Wild Pink might have once moved like a lithe featherweight, but now the band has bulked up into the heavyweight division, and audiences are hearing the fully realized sounds of a group embracing its muscularity.

“I think ‘Dulling the Horns’ came from me feeling kind of frustrated with how I was doing some of the songs live,” said Ross. “There was some studio stuff that just didn’t translate—certainly my vocal delivery didn’t sound the same. I just wanted this album to feel fun—to have the record sound just like the live show. We haven’t really done that much before.”

On February 17 and 18, Wild Pink will bring that newfound heft to The Independent, where they will open for acclaimed singer-songwriter MJ Lenderman (it’s a lineup that truly deserves the title of dream billing.)

Ross and Wild Pink provided a glimpse into this bigger, denser approach with 2022’s “ILYSM,” a sprawling and adventurous album that delved into an array of industrial-leaning directions while topping out at the one-hour mark. But nothing on that release approaches the immensity of songs like “Cloud or Mountain” or “Disintegrate,” two standouts tracks from “Dulling the Horns” that act as sturdy exemplars of the album.

“Cloud or Mountain” starts off innocently enough with a string of brisk guitar strums, but at the 10-second mark the song collapses on itself, as those brief lilting moments are crushed by a wave of crunchy distortion. Much in the same vein is “Disintegrate,” which is marked by stomping kickdrums, thick basslines and grunge guitar aesthetics (also, saxophones!) On the latter song, Ross pushes his vocals into a new register, evoking an urgency and desperation not often heard in other Wild Pink tunes. He said that track was inspired by “Save it for Later,” a jaunty number by new wave legends the English Beat.

“’Disintegrate’ is definitely one of my favorite songs on the album,” said Ross. “Again, it was about just having fun making a song. I really wanted to embrace that approach for the album.”

That feeling of levity is noticed throughout “Dulling the Horns,” a reaction of sorts to the stern and serious undertones of “ILYSM.” A confrontation with his 2022 cancer diagnosis, “ILYSM” was understandably anguished thematically and lyrically (Ross is now cancer-free and healthy.) 

“Dulling the Horns” is more relaxed and jocular, evidenced by songs like the “Eating the Egg Whole,” a skittering, quick-moving piece that references late 90s sports arcana, including commentary on Michael Jordan’s iconic wardrobe choices.

Ironically, Lenderman wrote a similarly wry ode to His Airness back in 2022, when he penned the “Hangover Game,” a hilariously conspiratorial take on Jordan’s heroic “Flu Game” in the 1997 NBA Finals.

“You know, I told him I had not heard his song yet when I wrote ‘Eating the Egg Whole’—I swear that was just a coincidence,” said Ross. “That said, I’m sure we’re going to have plenty of conversations about 90s NBA basketball.”

Jordan is among a number of famous (and infamous) persons that populate “Dulling the Horns,” with Ross also name-checking David Koresh, Lefty Ruggiero and the death cult Heaven’s Gate. Ross said there was no grand narrative tying everyone together (an idea that Jordan would likely appreciate, given the sordid reputations of the others.)

“Sometimes songs make more sense after the fact,” said Ross. “I don’t really know why those people and names popped up in my brain. It’s just really fun to write about other people, to kind of turn attention away from yourself for a moment.”

That sense of seeking joy is consistently cited by Ross when describing the entire infrastructure of “Dulling the Horns”—from the cheeky, impish tales that account for the lyrical output of the album, to the blown-out sound that makes for a raucous, rocking live show. Based on the euphoric reaction to the album—it was lauded by critics and named best rock record of the year by Paste Magazine—Ross’ blissful instincts have paid off.

After surviving such an intense health scare, it’s no surprise that Ross is eager to embrace a lighter, more easy going attitude—a feeling that can be easily transferable to the crowds assembled at Wild Pink shows, now that the band has a more honed formula for bringing their music to the masses.  

“I feel very fucking lucky—like I dodged a bullet,” said Ross. “I didn’t have to do chemo or anything dramatic like that. It really inspired me to appreciate what I have—to keep my output high and really make music that’s fun to listen to. I’ve made challenging records. Now I’m here for the fun ones.”

Show Details:
Wild Pink with MJ Lenderman and the Wind
Where: The Independent 
When: 8 p.m., Monday, February 17 and Tuesday, February 18
Tickets: Sold Out!

Will Oldham Fittingly Brings Tales of Grace to Show at Grace Cathedral

Photo Credit: David Kasnic

Tucked quietly near the end of “The Purple Bird,”—the latest album from folk-rock troubadour Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy, aka Will Oldham—is an austere, finger-picked cover song of the 1980 gospel standard, “Is My Living in Vain,” originally recorded by The Clark Sisters.

A hushed and devastating testament to the power of the righteous struggle, the track acts as a serene call to stay strong despite all life’s challenges, and serves as a centerpiece of “The Purple Bird.” 

Prior to his graceful cover song, Oldham populates the album with his typical collection of absurdist characters and vignettes, ridiculing and lambasting the hypocrisy and selfishness prevalent in so many elements of our society while painting a portrait of a modern day culture that is both hilarious and horrifying.

And while the album has plenty of earnest moments, none quite touch the plaintive beauty of “Is My Living in Vain,” with Oldham delivering the chorus in a defiantly triumphant tone, stating eloquently, “No, of course not/It's not all in vain.”

“If anyone is questioning by the time they get to the 11th song on this album, how the hell does anyone keep their optimism, that track provides the answer,” said Oldham. “It’s because that optimism is born out of necessity. There is almost no other choice.” 

On Saturday, Oldham will bring those tunes to San Francisco, playing a Folk Yeah-produced show at the Grace Cathedral Church—a strangely fitting venue for an album anchored by beguilingly hopeful undertones.

Produced in Nashville, “The Purple Bird” contains all the classic elements of a record made by Oldham, who has recorded under a myriad of monikers, including the Palace Brothers, Palace Music, Superwolf and his own name. The album is filled with quirky Americana adjacent and gospel-tinged elements, bolstered at all times by Oldham’s soulful, quavering vocals and his unique characterizations of modern day life.

Never an overtly political songwriter, Oldham takes a more direct approach on “The Purple Bird,” writing painful laments on environmentalism (“Downstream”) while devilishly skewering the nation’s obsessions with firearms (“Guns Are For Cowards.”) The latter tune is a jaunty, lilting jig with shockingly direct lyrics (“Who would you shoot in the face?/Who would you shoot in the brain?”), offering a bracing juxtaposition for the strange acceptance we have for gun violence.

“There are some people who like to fight for something, and some people who just like to fight,” said Oldham. “There seems to be a significant portion of our population of our country that is just bred to fight. They’re the fighter ants of our colony.”

While “The Purple Bird” is filled with weighty themes, it’s still an Oldham production, so there are plenty of impish, ribald tunes, evoking the rapscallion nature of 70s outlaw country tunes. “The Water’s Fine” is a banjo-powered ode to the wonders of washing away your worries in the local swimming hole, while “Tonight With The Dogs I’m Sleeping,” is an uproarious recollection of drinking too much and having hell to pay from your old lady. 

With its familiar mantras (“Never liked sleeping out in the yard/But crawling up the stairs is too damn hard”) “Tonight With the Dogs I’m Sleeping,” feels like a lost B-side from a dusty cowboy bar single.

“There were four of us just sitting around the kitchen table and that song kind of just started happening,” said Oldham. “I mean, nobody spoke aloud the name Hank Williams, but we were all thinking it. Everyone was probably, consciously or subconsciously, aware that we were expanding upon the concept that Hank had tackled so well with ‘Moving on Over.’”

Although his twangy voice and his comfort with traditional American instruments (fiddles, slide guitars, mandolins) would make Oldham a natural for the Nashville scene where “The Purple Bird” was created, he’s never been one for conformity. A true outsider, Oldham grew up in the punk environs of Louisville (he’s childhood friends with the members of the legendary post-rockers Slint), and has always zigged and zagged throughout his career, departing from certain sounds, concepts and approaches right when listeners might have him pegged.

In many ways, “The Purple Bird,” is the latest example of that slippery nature. In these ridiculous times, when the baseline assumption is that music should reflect an angry and wrathful reaction to oligarchy, cruelty and bigotry, Oldham has created an album asking for grace. “The Purple Bird” is not an apologist tract for any of today’s loathsome behavior, but it does imply a somber plea for unity.

That sentiment is best captured in the understated beauty of the album’s opening track, “Turned to Dust (Rolling On),” an irony-free paean to the notion that our similarities are stronger than our differences. In that track, Oldham sings “If we rely on love to lift us higher/Things'll be all right for you and me.” 

It is simple and schmaltzy and saccharine and also undeniably true. When Oldham delivers that line, it really feels like has no option but to believe in that kind of beauty.

Show Details: 
Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy with David Ferguson
Where: Grace Cathedral Church 
When: 8 p.m., Saturday, February 8 
Tickets: $58, available here.

Lucky–the latest brainchild of musicians Andrew St. James and Peter Kegler–to play at the Independent on January 11

The Lucky Horseshoe is not a glamorous place. 

A dive located in Bernal Heights—one of San Francisco’s less glitzier neighborhoods—the bar is a nondescript joint where locals can stop by for a few beers and a couple rounds of pool. The lighting is nice and dim, the drinks are reasonably priced, and the crowds are manageable. There is a small stage where you might hear a cover band playing David Bowie tunes or an old-timer riffing out the blues.

And on any given night, you might find Andrew St. James and Peter Kegler ponied up to the bar, nursing a beer and having a chat. The unassuming, yeoman nature of the Lucky Horseshoe makes for an ideal locale for the two veteran San Francisco musicians, which is why it’s no surprise that they opted to name their latest project—Lucky—after the venerable institution. 

Both have put in plenty of hours grinding it out as a working musician. While St. James still hasn’t reached 30 years of age, he’s been plying the trade nearly half his life, starting off as a teenage wunderkind recording under his own name while also performing in outfits like Juan Wayne, Fast Times and the French Cassettes. Similarly, Kegler has a lengthy resume of artistic ventures, playing with bands such as Half Stack, Babewatch and Share.

As a result, the pair have a unique view into the itinerant nature that’s inherent with being a working musician—the joy of playing raucous late-night gigs with your best friends in strange cities and the subsequent hangovers and uncertainties of the day after. That restlessness and wayfaring energy is captured gloriously in Lucky’s first collection of songs—a seven-song album that is due to be released in early 2025. 

“When Andrew and I became buddies and started working on this project, we were both going through some transitional times, which is kind of natural for what we do,” said Kegler. “It was almost like a molting phase—this shedding of layers. There were a lot of changes happening to both of us, and I think that’s clearly reflected in the music.

On January 11, Lucky will play those tunes of modern day drifters at the Independent as part of a support gig for the French Cassettes (St. James will be playing double duty that night.)

While both are stalwarts of the local music scene, Kegler and St. James didn’t actually become acquainted with each other until the tail end of 2022. St. James, who has been running a regular music booking residency for years under his Fast Times moniker, enlisted Half Stack for a gig at the Rickshaw Stop. He and Kegler hit it off while at the show and after a few drinks, committed to playing with one another in the future.

“Andrew can probably attest to this as well, but I’ve had that same conversation a million times before with other musicians,” said Kegler. “Like, ‘oh dude, I love your band, we should make music together,’ but then nothing ever happens. But this was the real thing—I think that’s a testament to how aligned we are on our approach to music.”

Prior to committing in earnest to collaborating together, the two had plenty of written material already in the works, which they brought collectively to the partnership. And despite existing in some forms before the band, the songs on Lucky’s debut album feel remarkably cohesive and natural—a testament to St. James and Kegler’s creative chemistry.

While both are Bay Area natives—St. James grew up in San Francisco and Kegler is from Orinda—there is a decidedly bucolic feel to the Lucky songs. St. James has an inherent twang that imbues his songs with a countryish vibe—more Bakersfield bard than Haight street hippie—and Kegler’s plainspoken approach has a similarly high-desert plains appeal.

Their album kicks off with Kegler taking the lead on “Falling Through,” a whirling, lilting jaunt about underachievement and disappointment that sounds like Merle Haggard injected with a high voltage shot of the Pixies. It sets the tone for a collection of songs that map out the highs and lows of relationships, the tenuous nature of being a creative person and the general volatility of post-pandemic life.

“Traveler” is a gorgeous, urgent Americana tune, with St. James extolling the virtues of wide-eyed wonder—a paean to the joy and discovery of not knowing what the next day will bring. Similarly, “Friends” is a gloriously raucous ode to hellcat living—a collection of blurry barroom memories and booze-soaked backstage reveries, with St. James highlighting the song by stating the obvious—“Believe it or not/I don’t think we’re too well/as far as minds go.”

“The lyrics in ‘Friends,’ are mostly me just writing things that I literally witnessed,” said St. James. “There is a lot of hassle in this kind of lifestyle, but there is also so much to celebrate. That song is about remembering what this is all about and that’s the people. Like, it's all about the people you do this with, and the people do you this for. This is a people job, and I love that.”

But the album isn’t simply an unflinching exultation to excess—far from it. Following the one-two roar of “Traveler” and “Friends,” is Kegler’s austere “Lines,” a beautiful ballad that captures the headaches and heartbreak that inevitably comes with a nomadic life—a mournful elegy about lost time and missed opportunities. In a related vein is “Colder,” a lamentation about dishonesty, shame and taking things for granted, made all the more sorrowful by St. James’ cracked delivery. It recalls the haunted majesty of Magnolia Electric Company’s Jason Molina (a noted inspiration for the album.)

The songs are rife with references to motion—whether it's barreling down highways, navigating city streets or feeling forlorn on the back of a bus. Those extracts are literal—so much of a musician’s life is in transit—as well as figurative—apt metaphors and analogies to relate a general feeling of disquiet.

“This is kind of the reality of our life,” said St. James. “Peter has had a lot of projects he’s worked on; I’ve had a ton of projects. You’re always finishing one thing and starting another thing. There is always an end and then a beginning—a changing of circumstance or focus. I’m sure, subconsciously, that bleeds into how we both write our songs.”

With that in mind, St. James and Kegler both seem realistically grounded but cautiously optimistic about the future of Lucky. They’re exploring label options for the release of their album (which is still untitled) and are committed to playing more shows in the future. They’re discussing the possibility of releasing a single following their gig at the Independent while also exploring other options to promote the project. 

Until then, the duo will continue to catalog and collect the moments that make their music so worthwhile—those twilit times in an empty bar or the epiphanic moments when the sun shines through on a California coastal highway. 

“We started this thing off just writing songs together and they were kind of an amalgamation of our styles,” said Kegler. “We didn’t have a lot of conversations about the future of the band at first, but I think we both believe in this project. This is a real band—this is a real thing. And we’re looking forward to seeing what happens next.”

Show Details: 
Lucky with French Cassettes and Tino Drima
Where: The Independent
When: 9 p.m., Saturday, January 11
Tickets: $20 plus fees, available here.

Broken Dreams Club Best Local Albums of 2024

We are incredibly blessed to have such a vibrant music scene here in San Francisco. Here were my favorite albums from local acts in 2024 (in alphabetical order.)

April Magazine – Wesley’s Convertible Tape for the South: Languorous and soporific, the songs of April Magazine unfold humbly, slowly emerging from a hiss of lo-fi environs to reveal something eerily beautiful. On this latest collection from Peter Hurley and company, April Magazine sound ghostly and insouciant—like if Suicide was beguilingly hopeful. It makes for an unstoppable collage of atmospheric echoes.

Al Harper – The Analemma Observation League: A luminescent collection of Laurel Canyon style rock songs, the “Analemma Observation League” is an engaging and fruitful journey through the California heartland. Bolstered by buoyant, shimmering keyboards and Harper’s confident delivery, the songs feel like throwbacks to the polished studio albums of the 70s, evoking everything from Fleetwood Mac to Dolly Parton to Kate Bush. 

Chime School – The Boy Who Ran the Paisley Hotel: From the Broken Dreams Club archive: “‘The Boy Who Ran The Paisley Hotel’ features plenty of Pastalaniec’s penchant for buoyant earworm masterpieces, with singles such as “Give Your Heart Away” and “Wandering Song” feeling like lost B-sides to the debut album. There are familiar touchpoints for the record—80s UK rockers East Village and Glaswegian legends Teenage Fanclub, for example—but tracks such as “The End” and, in particular, album closer, “Points of Light,” offer a tantalizing new direction for Chime School, one imbued with melancholy and jagged dissonance.”

Cindy—Swan Lake: From the Broken Dreams Club archive: “No band has done more to draw attention to San Francisco’s nascent “fog pop” scene than Cindy, the brainchild of singer-songwriter Karina Gill. Characterized by hushed vocals, unhurried, ambling tempos and proudly lo-fi recording techniques, Cindy’s songs evoke that vivid, dusky moment when one first wakes up, still half-immersed in a dream.” 

Flowertown – Tourist Language: A combination of Tony Jay’s Michael Ramos and Cindy’s Karina Gill, Flowertown is unsurprisingly hushed and enigmatic. Like a whispered conversation overheard outside a bar on a drizzly, quiet night, “Tourist Language” hints at something deeper without revealing too much.

Tony Jay – Knife is But a Dream: Tony Jay’s Michael Ramos likes to dress up in Kiss clothing, but there is nothing theatrical or pyrotechnic about his outfit’s shadowy, lo-fi aesthetic. Like April Magazine and Cindy, Ramos strips down songs to their bare elements—skeletal outlines that resonate all the more because of their austere bareness.

Sad Eyed Beatniks – Ten Brocades: The founder of Paisley Shirt Records, the highly influential local label home to numerous bands on this list, Kevin Linn also fronts the Sad Eyed Beatniks. On “Ten Brocades,” Linn and company once again embrace the demo-style recording approach that’s so pervasive in the San Francisco scene, exploring elements of psych, garage rock and post-punk through a fuzzy, squalling lens. 

Silverware—One True Light: From the Broken Dreams Club archive: “One True Light” is humble, yet ethereal—grounded in a DIY ethos but also uplifted by Wagoner’s boundless talent and technical expertise. It is secular spiritual creation, an ambitious concept album of sorts that combines Wagoner’s varied influences—everything from the experimental noise bands she played in college to her formative years spent in the church. Flitting between art-rock, synth pop and indie-folk, the album recalls acts such as Indigo de Souza, Bat for Lashes and Chairlift (Caroline Polachek’s pre-breakthrough outfit.) It’s a powerful statement from a musician who draws just as comfortably from Sonic Youth as she does from hymns.”

The Umbrellas – Fairweather Friend: Coming off their stunning 2021 self-titled debut, the Umbrellas somehow manage to elevate their game for their sophomore release. The hooks are bigger, the melodies sunnier and the songs catchier. Like their Slumberland Records brethren, Chime School, the Umbrellas mine the janglepop and indie-twee influences of 90s Britain to come up with a formula that is undeniably effervescent and enjoyable.

Yea-Ming and the Rumors – I Can’t Have it All: This outfit on Dandy Boy Records makes clear, sparkly Americana pop concoctions with distinct underpinnings of wistful sadness. Led by Yea-Ming Chen, this latest album recalls acts like Camera Obscura and Rilo Kiley, flitting seamlessly between fragile, delicate moments and defiant, vibrant ones.

Broken Dreams Club 10 Best Songs of 2024

#10 Grandaddy – You’re Going to Be Fine, I’m Going to Hell: The bard of Modesto, Jason Lytle is never finer than on this gloriously self-deprecating, “You’re Going to Be Fine, I’m Going to Hell,” another example of his heartfelt, forlorn poetry belying his tough guy Central Valley exterior.

 #9 Porches – Music: What can I say, I’m a sucker for nostalgic ballads about the foolhardiness of loving rock n roll. Never change, Aaron Maine.

 #8 Been Stellar – Sweet: In which the youngsters from Been Stellar temporarily take a post-punk reprieve to indulge in a soaring Britpop number that would make Oasis proud.

 #7 Friko – Where We’ve Been: Few songs in the past decade have acted as a more appropriate album opener than this manifesto of an indie rock tune.

 #6 Cindy Lee – Government Cheque: A song ostensibly about living on the dole is transformed into a plaintive, haunting plea for desire and longing.

 #5 – MJ Lenderman – She’s Leaving You: Really, this could have been “Joker Lips” or “Wristwatch”—no one captures the existential angst of mundane living quite like Lenderman, who imbues a genuine sense of empathy into his lovable losers.

 #4 Christophe Owens – Do You Need a Friend: Owens channels the Beatles and his own past efforts with Girls on this orchestral tour-de-force about loneliness and heartache.

 #3 This is Lorelei – Dancing in the Club: Everyone who loves  this unstoppable piece of electronica can relate to Nate Amos’ defiant claim that he’s “a loser, always been.”

#2 Waxahatchee – Right Back To It: Almost a companion piece of “She’s Leaving You,” this snapshot of Southern-friend Americana is a glorious ode to the complexities of relationships.

 #1 This is Lorelei -- Where's Your Love Now: If he’s listening, The Beach Boys’ Brian Wilson would be proud of this cacophonous, lilting ballad of heartbreak, a treatise on rejection that doubles as Amos’ personal diary about his struggles with sobriety.

Broken Dreams Club 20 Best Albums of 2024

This was another great year for music! Some old faces returned to the scene and a cadre of new artists unveiled thrilling debuts, but 2024 belonged to one act in particular. Read more about the Broken Dreams Club Top 20 albums of the year: 

#20 Mount Eerie – Night Palace: Listening to Mount Eerie is like trekking through  a dark, wintry snowstorm. Waves of dissonance and distortion knife through somnambulant tunes, creating gusts of staticky inference that barely part ways for Phil Elverum’s quiet, spoken-word soliloquies. “Night Palace,” the latest release from the Pacific Northwest’s favorite songwriter, finds Elverum once again confronting life, death and everything in between. It is haunting, sad and scary, but—like the winter sun that eventually emerges after a blizzard—ultimately hopeful.

#19 Nilufer Yanya – My Method Actor: Yanya manages to pull off a tricky tightrope act on “My Method Actor”—she has created a mature, adult album that is neither boring nor saccharine. Channeling acts like Rhye and Sault—and above all, the legendary songstress Sade—Yanya writes shimmering, smooth love and breakup songs, adding enough wrinkles and nuances to update classic R&B sounds.

#18 Porches – Shirt: After positioning himself as a maven of icy, dispassionate synth pop with Porches albums like “Pool” and “The House”, Aaron Maine has steadily gone about unraveling that pristine persona. Ever eager to explore aggressive, unchecked sounds, Maine has reached a zenith with “Shirt,” a grungy, unhinged collection of headbanging rockers. Maine does manage to squeeze in a quiet, wistful piece among the blown-out sounds: album closer “Music,” a soft and poignant ode to the artform.

#17 Los Campesinos – All Hell: I did not have a triumphant comeback from Welsh indie rock heroes Los Campesinos on my bingo card for 2024, but here we are. The giddy, dancefloor-ready tunes that populated their early releases give way to weary, mordant reflections on mortality, middle class drudgery and corrupt politics on “All Hell,” the group’s first album in seven years. It might sound macabre, but Gareth David and company capture all those travails with an endearing sense of empathy—a lived-in and honest take from a band still surviving, nearly 20 years into their existence.

#16 Vince Staples – Dark Times: A quick peek through the archives will quickly reveal that Broken Dreams Club is not your go-to repository for hip-hop coverage, but I’ve always been a fan of this Los Angeles rapper, dating back to his thrillingly murky debut, “Summertime 06.” “Dark Times” captures much of that same aesthetic, with Staples reminiscing about past memories while confronting his current conditions, all to hazy, noir-ish beats

#15 Jessica Pratt – Here in the Pitch: You drink in this record like a dirty martini in an empty nightclub. These are songs for the shadows—for people at the far edge of the bar, just beyond the dim overhead lights. Pratt channels 60s pop melodies and adds her own dusky, woozy inflections, singing whiskey-soaked lullabies for the closing time patrons. 

#14 Ducks LTD—Harm’s Way: From the Broken Dreams Club archive: “McGreevy’s laconic, dry delivery and tales of urban ennui offer an intriguing contrast to the propulsive, upbeat backdrop of the band’s musical output—every song feels like an urgent race to nowhere in particular. That arresting tension is prevalent throughout “Harm’s Way,” which is replete with chugging, skittering songs littered with sardonic observations.”

#13 Being Dead – Eels: These cheeky rockers had one of the best debut albums in recent memory with last year’s brilliant, “When Horses Would Run,” and their follow-up record is equally as engaging. Combining the restless ebullience of The Unicorns with the garage-rock scrappiness of contemporaries Dehd, Being Dead create chugging, propulsive indie pop nuggets that are perfect for the open roads of desert highways or the beer-stained environs of your local DIY club. The gang vocals of Falcon Bitch and Shmoofy (formerly Gumball—yep these are their nom de plumes) add a strange sense of gravity to their goofy tales of everyday oddballs.

#12 Japandroids – Fate & Alcohol: Every six or seven years, Japandroids emerge from their hibernation in Canada (or others part of the world) to bless us with glorious songs extolling the delight and delirium of drinking with your pals until you’re braindead. Sadly, that streak ends in 2024. The Vancouver duo have announced that this will be their last album and to add insult to injury, the band will not be touring behind their final opus. While Brian King and David Prowse have clearly grown apart over the years (a distance likely amplified by King’s newfound sobriety), the band still has a manic energy that cannot be replicated. While it doesn’t quite reach the heights of 2012’s landmark album, “Celebration Rock,” “Fate & Alcohol” is filled with spitfire anthems about love, loss and, of course, getting blitzed with your best friends. Japandroids will be missed.

#11 Parannoul – Sky Hundred: In 2003, Anthony Gonzalez of M83 set the bar for gauzy shoegaze standards with the release of masterpiece, “Dead Cities, Red Seas & Lost Ghosts,” but Parannoul has been steadfastly chasing that sound for the past five years. The South Korean musician—who somehow still remains anonymous—blends feedback laden guitar with lo-fi MIDI sounds–and on Sky Hundred he once again effortlessly melds the outputs to addle the listener on what’s coming from where—the sign of a true shoegaze practitioner. 

#10 Oso Oso—Life Till Bones: Is there any current artist more consistent than Jade Lilitri? Every Oso Oso album is guaranteed to contain a litany of lean, pop-adjacent punk tunes that are as catchy as they are thoughtful. Never afraid to wear his heart on sleeve, Lilitri adroitly recounts tales of suburban heartbreak, reimagining Ted Leo as a perpetually lovetorn romantic.  

#9 Hovvdy – Hovvdy: Unassuming is probably not a band’s first choice for a descriptor but few words better summarize the gorgeous low-key nature of Austin duo Hovvdy. The vocals never rise much above a whisper on the band’s latest, self-titled, effort, recalling the quiet profundity of artists like Elliott Smith and recent Alex G. Whether acoustic ballads or piano numbers, the songs of Hovvdy envelope you like a warm summer breeze—a reminder of the importance of serenity and peace in turbulent times. 

#8 Been Stellar – Scream From New York, NY: From the Broken Dreams Club archive: “Like their NYC forebears, Been Stellar are masters at creating atmospheric, lived-in moods— although their references are forgotten museums, vacant parks, grimy train stations and empty streets, as opposed to dank dive bars and seedy clubs. With their origin story and bristly, post-punk sound, the band inevitably carry comparisons to NYC royalty such as Interpol, the Walkmen, and the Strokes, but Slocum’s loquacious, rangy delivery hews more closely to Elias Bender Rønnenfelt of Danish rockers Iceage, and the group’s maximalist approach evokes the great Austin act …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead.” 

#7 Christopher Owens—I Wanna Run Barefoot Through Your Hair: From the Broken Dreams Club archive: Owens first solo album in nine years is the gorgeously emotive “I Wanna Run Barefoot Through Your Hair.”  A stunning achievement, the new collection of songs draw upon all the candor and self-reflection that made Girls so great, while also charting an intriguing new path forward for Owens.

#6 Wild Pink—Dulling the Horns: Few artists have been more consistently captivating than Wild Pink’s John Ross. Starting in earnest with 2018’s gorgeous “Yolk in the Fur,” Ross’ recent run of albums has never felt out of step, and in “Dulling the Horns,” the Wild Pink team once again puts forth a poignant and compelling compendium of heartland rock. Sharing M.J. Lenderman’s love for 90s sports arcana, Ross manages to find existential angst in very curious places. The most muscular Wild Pink album yet (“Cloud or Mountain” and “Disintegrate” both feel IMMENSE), the album is still anchored by Ross’ cooing vocals—gentle placation in a storm of big sounds. 

#5 MJ Lenderman – Manning Fireworks: This is an album for everyone who has a houseboat at the Himbo Dome, rents a Ferrari and thinks they can do a better job than the Pope. Essentially, every sad sack and deadbeat dude who has just a little bit of redemption in them. Somehow, MJ Lenderman—at the precocious age of 25—is able to eloquently capture the pain and pathos of these lovable midlife losers. Coming off his 2022 masterpiece, “Boat Songs,” Lenderman somehow elevates his formula of laconic indie rock nuggets again on “Manning Fireworks.” It’s a perfect combination of Jason Molina, Drive By Truckers and Archers of Loaf— all amplified by Lenderman’s trademark heart and greasy grit.

#4 Waxahatchee – Tigers Blood: It wasn’t too long that Katie Crutchfield was rightly being feted as indie rock’s next best thing. Albums like “Cerulean Salt” showcased her peerless ability to match disarming words with crunchy guitar sounds. But she’s clearly found her footing embracing the Americana flavor of her Southern roots. A companion piece to her 2020 standout “Saint Cloud,” “Tiger’s Blood” builds upon the Southern Gothic mythos established by the record. Always a perennially gifted lyricist, Crutchfield outdoes herself on her latest album, deftly matching feelings of aimlessness with the rangy, vast settings of rural America on tracks like “Lone Star Lake” and the title track. And then there is her tour-de-force duet with MJ Lenderman, “Right Back To It,” a swampy, drawling testament to the twin natures of relationships—doubt and acceptance.

#3 This is Lorelei – Box for Buddy, Box For Star: Nate Amos is on one here. The brilliant multi-instrumentalist has shown his talents in the past as 1/2 of the delightfully offbeat art rock group Water From Your Eyes, but the latest effort from his solo moniker showcases new facets of his outrageous range. A dizzying range of genres are explored here, from beers-in-your-teary country waltzes (“Angel’s Eye”) to Elliott Smith-indebted ballads (“Two Legs”) to slacker rock anthems (“I’m All Fucked Up”) to glittery synth pop bangers (“Dancing in the Club.”) At the center is the towering breakup elegy, “Where’s Your Love Now,” a Beach Boys-meets-Magnetic Fields masterpiece that is the finest song of 2024.

#2 Friko – Where We’ve Been, Where We Go Far From Here: From the Broken Dreams Club archive: “On the Chicago indie rock band’s glorious debut album, this year’s “Where We've Been, Where We Go from Here,” it’s impossible to get comfortable. Austere piano ballads are followed by breakneck post-punk thrashers. Kitchen-sink indie rock anthems sit side-by-side with humble guitar numbers and multi-suite baroque chamber pop epics give way to crashing, blown-out shoegaze pieces. It's a truly dizzying display of the band’s talents—one that shows an endlessly inventive approach to sonic structures while tracing a lyrical narrative that grapples with regret, memory and the ephemeral nature of passing time. Each song feels singular, yet part of a bold, cohesive  mission statement.”

#1 Cindy Lee – Diamond Jubilee: This is what it sounds like to capture the ghosts of 60s girl groups—a séance of the Crystals and the Supremes, refracted through the scratchy connection of a worn out FM radio tuner. These are songs to be heard from another room, a distant past—an entire lifetime ago. No record in the past decade has more unequivocally created a specific sense of atmosphere than this titanic triple album from the former lead singer of post-punk titans Women. Cindy Lee, the project of Patrick Flegel, incorporates elements of glam rock, power pop, doo-wop and indie, but all processed through an ethereal, phantasmic filter. There is an overwhelming sense of nostalgia on this album—but the cavernous, polar feel that accompanies each track makes that yearning feel all the more desperate and austere. Originally released solely through YouTube and a hilariously low tech GeoCities site, “Diamond Jubilee” plays out like a movie—a continuously cinematic and sweeping epic. Songs blend into another, bleeding from wounds pierced by Flegel’s masterful guitar playing and left weeping by their mournful wails. This is an album like no other—an alien, enlivening and thrilling testimony that proves music can still be an undefinable and glorious mystery.