"It was 2006 and you needed reminding to stay alive" MUSIC IN 2006 (D&D W/O) Mar 03 '07    Write an essay on this topic. Tweet Popular Products in Music Jersey Boys [Original Broadway Cast Recording] by Original Broadway Cast From $8 Mai by Eri Sugai From $4 The Bottom Line Let's go get this paper. THE BEST MUSIC OF 2006 I was doing it big in 2006—here's what did it big in order for me to do it big. THE BEST 10 HIP-HOP ALBUMS OF 2006 ten. HIP-HOP IS DEAD, nas nine. A PIECE OF STRANGE, cunninlynguists eight. FOOD & LIQUOR, lupe fiasco seven. YOYOYOYOYO, spank rock six. GAME THEORY, the roots five. KING, t.i. four. FISHSCALE, ghostface killah three. MISERY LOVES COMEDY, louis logic & j.j. brown two. HELL HATH NO FURY, clipse one. THIS IS MY DEMO, sway THE BEST 20 ALBUMS OF 2006 twenty. THE HARDEST WAY TO MAKE AN EASY LIVING, the streets Let’s face it, when compared to either of the albums that precede it, The Hardest Way to Make an Easy Living is a disappointment. Much of the criticism it has received is warranted: for the first time in his career, lengthy stretches are nonessential, and The Streets (Mike Skinner) too frequently dives into stereotypical being-famous-is-so-hard waters instead of just dipping his toes in the wading pool. The Average Bloke hoodie that fit Skinner so well has been largely discarded on The Hardest Way to Make an Easy Living, replaced by a (studded leather) Rock Star bomber jacket that Skinner never feels completely comfortable wearing. He even comes across as plain mean-spirited at points, which would have been unfathomable on Original Pirate Material or A Grand Don’t Come for Free. The Hardest Way to Make an Easy Living is intensely personal and distant; poignant and banal; self-deprecating and, on more than one occasion, pathetic—often all at once. When barreling (in his Silver Shadow) toward a head-on collision with cliche, Skinner manages to swerve at the last second and when he comes to, find himself in a ditch with no recollection of how he got there. And a really sore neck. This is where The Hardest Way to Make an Easy Living excites. Few artists could turn hotel trashing into an art form, but Skinner does just that on the aptly-named “Hotel Expressionism”. “War of the Sexes” is a preposterously pragmatic dating tutorial condensed into three minutes, and “All Goes Out the Window” relies on sound logic (“If you never tell a lie to her, you don’t have to remember it”) for its thesis concerning fidelity. Elsewhere, Skinner acknowledges his Robbie Williams-like antics while hilariously self-diagnosing himself with both paranoia and amnesia: “I don't remember any of what I just thought at all / The conclusion prior to when I forgot it all / Panicking a bit, getting frightened of fuck all.” It doesn’t hurt that his production has evolved from being charmingly minimal and simple to being charmingly minimal and layered; The Hardest Way to Make an Easy Living continues moves further away from Skinner’s UK garage roots and closer to hip-hop territory. Calypso rhythms and warbled synths decorate “When You Wasn’t Famous”, and “Never Went to Church” finds pathos amongst Beatles-esque chords and the thickest fog of claps. And the drums, baby. Outside of Timbaland and the late great Dilla, The Streets’ drum-work is nonpareil, chk-ing and tik-tik-ing and booooooming like the stormiest of nights. Speaking of Timbo, “Can’t Con an Honest John” is the type of track Timothy Mosley would concoct had he been born on the other side of the Atlantic and grew up listening to garage music instead of Indian music. There’s a fine line between pathos and weak cliche, and for the most part Mike Skinner avoids the mistakes of nearly all I’m-kind-of-a-big-deal albums by understanding one crucial detail: you can’t take yourself too seriously. Skinner needed to make The Hardest Way to Make an Easy Living, but after a concept album that ended up a masterpiece, he also needed a challenge. And what better challenge than to attempt the impossible: portray himself an endearing prima donna. He doesn’t always pull it off, but that’s half the fun. nineteen. LOOSE, nelly furtado No offense to Nelly Furtado, but I consider Loose a Timbaland project. It’s not that Furtado’s contributions are negligible or that she can’t sing—her voice is an airy, sultry instrument more versatile than she usually lets on—but Timbaland could have given his nine (ten with the bonus song “Let My Hair Down”) tracks to almost anyone and Loose would still have been the year’s second best pop album, behind Timbaland’s other yeti of a project. Asides from the burner of the summer (“Promiscuous”) and the best Hall & Oates cover ever (“Maneater”), each Timbaland and protégé Danja-helmed collaboration with the Portuguese-Canadian nymph songstress traverses different realms of the pop kingdom, visiting hamlets tucked away in remote taiga for 80s rock sounds and stumbling across raggaeton in the tropics. The Timbaland-ness almost excuses lyrics that directly quote The Forty-Year-Old Virgin, and “Let's start a frat, Gamma Gamma Gamma Phat” is probably the worst lyric ever written. Not that it matters; Mosley finds chemistry with Furtado last heard when Aaliyah (R.I.P) was that somebody. Our job isn’t to question—just to dance. eighteen. DONUTS, j dilla You know those “moments” on an album where you reach for the rewind button just to make doubly (and triply and quartuply) sure you didn’t imagine what you just heard—those special moments when a good song becomes great, and a great song becomes classic? Donuts is full of these “moments.” Moments like 1:34 on “Workinonit”, where from the shadows one electric guitar lick channels the soul of the infinite universe; the jab-hook combo that begins “Stop” (the Jadakiss cough-laugh followed by the same Dionne Warwick sample that Just Blaze used for Usher’s “Throwback”); when Dilla shifts from reverse to third gear at 1:01 of “People” 1:14 on “Time: The Donut of the Heart”, where the song gasps for air after Dilla submerges it in molasses; when “Airworks” appears, seemingly out of nowhere, with little warning—but receives our full hospitality—welcomed insides our homes (and hearts) like an old friend; realizing the vocals at the beginning of “Stepson of the Clapper” were also used on De La Soul’s “Verbal Clap” (another Dilla production); how Dilla holds back the orchestration on “Two Can Win” until it can no longer be contained lest someone be seriously injured; the lesson in the art of the chop that begins at 0:41 on “Don’t Cry” wondering where you recognize the sample Dilla flips on “Geek Down” from, and marveling at how much warmer Dilla makes it feel; finally remembering where you recognize the sample Dilla flips on “Geek Down” from; imagining what Ghostface would actually sound like over “One For Ghost” and speculating what the other beat Dilla gave him for Fishscale was (I always thought it would be “Gobstopper” or “U-Love”, but wished it would be “Time: Donut of the Heart”, even though I think Black Thought fits it much better than Ghost would have). But these are just some of the “moments” I personally experienced while spending time with Donuts, and what’s so great about the album is yours might be totally different. But there will be plenty of them. seventeen. HE POOS CLOUDS, final fantasy Though he takes his recording moniker from the legendary RPG franchise, Owen Pallett insists he’s not much of a gamer. I think he’s a bad liar. Maybe its the orchestration, all whimsy and elaborate. Maybe it’s just that there’s something intrinsically RPG about strings. Maybe it’s song titles like “Many Lives → 49 HP” or “I’m Afraid of Japan”. Whatever it is, I can’t help but imagine He Poos Clouds chronicling the adventures a ragtag group of swashbucklers (including a mysterious, wiser elder figure, an idealist heroine, and an androgynous male lead) on their quest to save the world from complete annihilation, all while learning the values of friendship, love, and perseverance in the face of hopeless odds. If Nobuo Uematsu doesn’t return to Squaresoft’s flagship series for the next installment, they should inquire into enlisting the services of the gay boy with the violin. Look what happened when Arcade Fire did. Just don’t call him the Canadian Joanna Newsom—I’ll bet good money she doesn’t know the difference between an Ether and a Phoenix Down. Not that Owen would, y’know, being a non-gamer and all. sixteen. GAME THEORY, the roots Game Theory isn’t as career-defining as Do You Want More?!!!??!—it’s more a this-is-where-we’re-at-riiiight-now album a la Things Fall Apart. It’s less The Roots Do Traditional (a.k.a. boring) Hip-Hop than The Tipping Point. Game Theory is just as progressive as Phrenology in places—could any other hip-hop act get away with sampling Radiohead? Maybe the novelty of The Roots doing rock has worn off now that indie kids are just as likely to be worshiping Game Theory as hip-hop kids are. There is three hundred percent more Malik B. (and one hundred percent more Dice Raw) on Game Theory than any Roots long-player since Things Fall Apart; this is a good thing. The Roots haven’t sounded as much like a true, organic collective since Illadelph Halflife. Game Theory is the most album-y album The Roots have put out since Phrenology. Black Thought hasn’t been this charismatic since Do You Want More?!!!??! (exhibit A: “Baby” exhibit B: “Living in a New World” exhibit C: “Can’t Stop This” exhibit D: do I really need to go on?). Game Theory is a lot of things. It’s not The Roots best album, nor the most adventurous, nor the most consistent (no Roots album has a stretch of songs more mundane than the last three on Game Theory prior to the Dilla tribute). But Game Theory works precisely because it’s none of those things: it’s Game Theory. fifteen. WHATEVER PEOPLE SAY I AM, THAT’S WHAT I’M NOT, arctic monkeys Alex Turner doesn’t seem like a rock star. Rather, he seems like a regular kid from the suburbs—if not more observant and wittier than your average suburbanite—more disillusioned than he probably should be at his age, but humanist in his outlook instead of callous. And that’s where the charm of the Arctic Monkeys comes from, for me at least: I can relate with Turner. We’re about the same age, from the suburbs, and share a similar propensity for cynicism-drenched humour, albeit I’m probably more idealistic than Turner is. But that’s neither here nor there. As a songwriter, Turner understands that writing about what he knows yields the best results. Whether it’s picking up girls at a bar (“Still Take You Home”) or running from the police just for kicks (“Riot Van”), his writing reflects the life of young-with-old-soul wankers who don’t always like what they see in their environment, but still love their environment nonetheless. Maybe you need to be nineteen and bored and middle-class to really like Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not... but maybe not. There’s always the the music, which I hear is pretty good too. fourteen. POST-WAR, m. ward Though hip-hop will always be my true love, that doesn’t mean I don’t have intense affairs with other genres—sometimes I just don’t want to listen to Jay-Z chip away at, and effortlessly reshape, the English language like a master sculptor. It happens. And when Basement Jaxx are too schizophrenic for my already fragmented mind, that’s when I rendezvous with Post-War for a late, late night encounter. Intimate, subdued, and strikingly beautiful, Post-War is lo-fi folk with a healthy dose of Americana to cure all your maladies. Let’s just hope you aren’t terminal, because M. Ward doesn’t do miracles—but he probably makes house calls. thirteen. MISERY LOVES COMEDY, louis logic and j.j. brown Half of the fun of year-end retrospectives and best-of lists is disagreeing with the selections various authors make when compiling these sorts of pieces (fuck the writing). There are always albums you think shouldn’t fly within twelve parsecs of such lists, and slept-on albums that don’t receive just representation, even though they deserve it more than most of the albums that do. Misery Loves Comedy falls under the latter category. Louis Logic, now a duo with long-time producer J.J. Brown (a la Gang Starr), has crafted a traditional hip-hop album that will stand the test of time, perhaps not as a classic (oh, how I hate that word), but simply as a point-black-period dope album. Misery Loves Comedy don’t quite reach the (sporadic) Everest heights that Sin-a-Matic did, but it reliably negotiates Kilimanjaro. Logic is a rapper’s rapper, possessing natural skill that at times makes rapping seem as effortless as talking. And unlike most indie rappers (though Lou is indie only because the majors would probably fuck up his career like Apathy), Louis has charisma for days and centuries and eons. He should be rapping with Snoop and Ludacris, not Nameless Underground Rapper A or Space Rapping Aesop Rock Wannabe (no offense to nameless underground rappers or Aesop Rock). Oh Word (http://www.ohword.com) recently ranked Misery Loves Comedy as the number one album of 2006 “they were told they should check for but were a little busy, okay?” And according to my math, a grand total of five (give or take one or two) people have actually checked for Misery Loves Comedy, because I’ve only seen it on as many lists. twelve. SO THIS IS GOODBYE, junior boys I don’t go out much. I mean, I go out all the time—just not to bars or clubs. The lame Top 40 play lists and overpriced alcohol (“It’s $10 beer night, sweet!”) appeal to me about as much as my Post-Confederate Canadian History prof does, which suffice to say, is less than you might think. I can anticipate your retorts already: “But Renato, The Globe isn’t the only club in Edmonton!” You’re right, but it’s the place my St. Albert friends most often frequent. And don’t get me started on my intense hatred for Ezzie’s. I can anticipate your retorts already: “Renato, your St. Albert friends have no taste in clubs!” Well, perhaps not. The other week I did venture out to a bar with some friends. Prior to leaving for the many adventures I was sure to encounter while out and about town after sunset, I had Röyksopp’s The Understanding playing, which has become the record I always put in when I get ready to go out (on the way to the club it was Basement Jaxx and LCD Soundsystem). The Understanding is fit for many situations, and usually enough to put me in enough of a good mood that I can stomach the dredge played at whatever club I’m at. I had fun that night: saw a lot of friends I hadn’t seen in months; drank more than I normally would (I’m just not a big drinker); danced, surprisingly; danced even though I was too tired to dance (or stop); made drunken advances to girls I had never met before; perhaps even came across as charming to at least one of said girls; sang along to really bad late-90s pop songs; enjoyed the people; the noise; the sweat; the bad dancing; the few good songs they played; how the cares and burdens of those in attendance seemed not to exist, if only for a few hours; youth. And on the way home, in the early hours of the morning, in frosty, sub-arctic temperatures, falling asleep in the car (don’t worry, I wasn’t driving), after hours of inebriated fraternizing that left my chronically underslept body and overstimulated mind clinically exhausted? You would have heard So This Is Goodbye. eleven. THE CRANE WIFE, the decemberists http://cherylkirknoll.com/jpegsbooks/craneinsnow.jpg http://cherylkirknoll.com/jpegsbooks/craneatdoor.jpg http://cherylkirknoll.com/jpegsbooks/cranegreed.jpg http://cherylkirknoll.com/jpegsbooks/craneflyaway .jpg ten. ST. ELSEWHERE, gnarls barkley Was there really any chance that St. Elsewhere wasn’t going to make this list? I’d have to be... deaf. “Crazy” has reached “Hey Ya” ubiquity, and just like OutKast’s (well, Andre 3000’s) genre-defying behemoth, I don’t want to ever hear it again. But while Gnarls Barkley (Danger Mouse and Cee-Lo) might be a commercial one-hit wonder, this doesn’t speak ill of the rest of St. Elsewhere; without “Crazy” the album would still make lists similar to this one. The beats are restless, often bordering on schizophrenic (“St. Elsewhere”, “Transformer”), and even the more methodical, deliberate tracks don’t restrain Cee-Lo’s self-imposed psychosis like a three-sizes-too-small straightjacket. But St. Elsewhere works because it’s not just beats and vocals. These are songs that transcend their ingredients on some greater-than-the-sum-of-their-parts shit. Beneath the obscure world music samples, the digital processing and coats of electronic paint, St. Elsewhere is just soul music for the 23rd century. Keep on singing Mr. Calloway. nine. FISHSCALE, ghostface killah 2006 was The Year of Ghostface. No other single rapper (maybe Lupe Fiasco) received as much acclamation and hyperbole as Tony Starks did. And rightfully so; Fishscale is an archetypal Ghostface Killah album. Soulful 70s loops from hip-hop’s elite (Dilla, Pete Rock, and Just Blaze, among others) form a sturdy foundation for Ghost’s frenetic tales of drug busts (“Shakey Dog”), inter-familial conflicts (“R.A.G.U.”) and corporal punishment (“Whip You With a Strap”). And when soul loops can’t convey what Ghost wants to, he raps over entire songs. Ghost’s product was some of the most potent of last year, pure enough to make your nose bleed and never diluted, even when intended for mass consumption (lead single “Back Like That” with Ne-Yo). No wonder we keep coming back for fix after fix—it’s simple economics. eight. RINGLEADER OF THE TORMENTORS, morrissey Moz is experiencing a personal renaissance in the last few years. Grappling with mortality, his horns still locked with God, Morrissey might even be more interesting as an artist now than when he was rocking out with Johnny Marr and The Smiths. Then again, living in Rome, where Ringleader of the Tormentors was recorded, will do that to a person. Producer Tony Visconti (with help from the legendary Italian composer Ennio Morricone on strings in “Dear God, Please Help Me”) knows what Morrissey’s singular voice needs to breathe and delivers it in spades. Sweeping, orchestral grooves and the best songwriting Morrissey has done since the early 90s coalesce into something special. “You Have Killed Me” might be one of the greatest songs Moz has ever written, and the others aren’t far behind. Moz might be in his late 40s, but there are kids in their early 20s who should turn to Ringleader of the Tormentors for a lesson in how to relevant after twenty years in music. seven. HELL HATH NO FURY, clipse The Thornton brothers, Gene and Terrence (Malice and Pusha T on the mic) know how to rap; they know how to rap very well. Years of honing their craft has turned them into first-rate spitters, their punchline-ridden raps menacing and sinister, whether revealing coke-cooking techniques or how clean their Ice Creams are. Hell Hath No Fury has been dubbed the rap Yankee Hotel Foxtrot; it’s been proclaimed a classic (perhaps prematurely?) by music journalists; indie kids and hipsters (wait, aren’t they the same thing?) love it because Malice and Pusha T rap about crack. Pharrell and Hugo also step their game up—El-P-esqe synths (“Mr. Me Too”) and beats that don’t aspire to be “Drop It Like It’s Hot” rehashes but more—their production on Hell Hath No Fury could be considered their The Sun Rises in the East (call it the Neptunes’ Livin’ Proof and I’ll smack you). And while Clipse almost assuredly had more press prior to Hell Hath No Fury’s release than Jeru the Damaja did for his 1994 masterpiece, both adhere to the same formula: dope beats and dope rhymes. Put it that way and seems so simple, doesn’t it? six. FOX CONFESSOR BRINGS THE FLOOD, neko case What separates Neko Case from vocalists like Xtina, Mariah, and even Beyonce, is her modesty. If you’re looking for Listen To Me I Have A Twelve Octave Range Voice histrionics, you’re about a thousand kilometres astray from your intended destination; Case understands it’s about expressing and not impressing. She knows her she was granted one of music’s great voices, but as demonstrated throughout Fox Confessor Brings the Flood, she never takes it for granted. This isn’t to say Case never unleashes her weapon of choice, but when she does it’s never at the expense of the songs. Take for instance, the haunting narrative that is “Star Witness” reaching its epochal moment, Neko communicates the pathos of the song’s heroine with dexterity. And it’s more poignant this way. Fox Confessor Brings the Flood pushes Neko Case’s voice to the front of the stage, but the supporting cast is equally up to the task. Call this one a team win. five. THIS IS MY DEMO, sway There were four hip-hop albums last year that received near-unanimous praise from heads and hipsters alike; three have placed on this list and the fourth (Lupe like Lupin the third) would have were the scope of this list larger. And those albums are good, don’t get me wrong—great, even. But This Is My Demo might even be better. This Is My Demo might even be the best rap album to ever come from the UK (The Streets excluded). It’s too bad that the Dizzee Rascal-induced hype the British rap scene has benefited from has dissipated, because in 2003 This Is My Demo would’ve been your favourite blogger’s favourite album. Derek Safo raps, produces, and has a sense of humour any rapper west of the pond would be hard-pressed to match. But don’t call him a joke rapper, because that Sway is not. But his now trademark British wit and his hilarious skits tacked on to the end of numerous tracks—the best skits since those black humour sketches on The College Dropout and Late Registration—indicate Sway could thrive as a comedian if this rap thing doesn’t work out. If this is his demo, I can’t fathom how good the album will be. four. FUTURESEX/LOVESOUNDS, justin timberlake I’ve never bought into the whole King of Pop thing. Too totalitarian for me. Regardless, Justin Timberlake is doing Michael Jackson and Prince better than Michael Jackson and Price are doing themselves these days. Together with Timbaland (and Nate “Danja” Hills), Justin has carved a sound for himself on FutureSex/LoveSounds. “SexyBack” and “My Love” aren’t just pop smashes, they are part of an evolving Justin Timberlake sound. Yes, it’s immaculately produced—Timbaland’s the most forward-thinking (and probably prolific) pop producer in the last twenty years, blah blah blah—but you already knew that. Yes, nearly every track could be a single. Yes, the string work is the second best on a pop album last year. And yes, Justin’s mid-range is god-like; But what makes FutureSex/LoveSounds such a rewarding listen is that Timberlake and Timbaland sounds like they’re having fun making people dance. Genuine, honest-to-goodness fun. The music forces you to buy into their joviality (though most of us will surely voluntarily submit ourselves)—why do think Timbo’s always hamming it up when there’s a camera around? three. SILENT SHOUT, the knife I’m a big dork. You’re just as likely to find me watching Firefly on DVD (props if any of you actually know what Firefly is—and you should) as surrounded by a bevy of women. But what really is going to paint me as a nerd is that The Knife’s Silent Shout reminds me of this one episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. I know I’ve lost about 90% of you with the previous sentence, but hear me out: there is this one episode (“Schisms,” from season 6) where, after experiencing inexplicable medical symptoms, members of the U.S.S. Enterprise convene in the ship’s holodeck to try and piece together what exactly has happening to them—remembering first a cold, smooth surface, followed by eerie clicks and eventually surgical tools, together which reproduce a sinister and foreboding hospital-like environment. It’s all very psychological, and there’s something inhuman about the setting Riker et al have recreated—and rightfully so, because it turns out that there has been an alien race abducting and performing experiments on the Enterprise crew. With Silent Shout, siblings Olof Dreijer and Karin Dreijer Andersson—her voice a rickety footbridge between Bjork’s islet and the archipelago of the Arcade Fire’s Regine Chassagne—have, for me, turned this episode of The Next Generation into an eleven song album. Which is both unsettling and fuckin’ awesome. two. SCALE, herbert Matthew Herbert and chanteuse Dani Siciliano are the best husband-wife tag-team in music today. I’ve never seen a picture of Siciliano, partly because there’s not one on Wikipedia (and I’m lazy), but mostly because I don’t want to ruin the image of her that I’ve drawn in my mind—she has one of those voices that makes her sound drop-dead gorgeous, whether she is or not. Herbert’s innovative house beats, which on Scale are crafted from at least 720 samples (635 of which are listed in the liner notes) fit Siciliano’s voice like one of those little black dresses every girl has, i.e. they fit to form and highlight all her best attributes. In addition to sampling everything and the kitchen sink (literally), the songs benefit from sophisticated strings that separate Scale from your typical house fare—or even your typical Matthew Herbert project. The strings coax vocals out of Siciliano that she might not otherwise have been able to procure, and warmth they furnish the music with is essential to Scale’s success as a piece of music. The best compliment I can pay Herbert and Siciliano is that Scale is an album that can soundtrack a run, provide emotional support after a devastating break-up, or add personality to one of those drab, formal dinner parties where John Mayer and Joss Stone are the usual suspects—and that’s really not a back-handed compliment, I swear. one. DESTROYER’S RUBIES, destroyer When I was deciding what was the best album of last year, I took many approaches. I looked into my iTunes history to find out what album got the most plays over the past twelve months. I tried to recall what album—if any—I was able to get my friends to listen to, and more importantly, fall in love with. I thought about which album made me feel the most. I even tried to go about it objectively in a What Album Displayed Superior Musicianship And A Whole Bunch Of Other Things People Look For When Supposedly Objectively Critiquing An Album way. Regardless of which strategy I employed, I kept returning to one album: Destroyer’s Rubies. Rubies is one of those definitive albums that encapsulates everything that’s special about a band; with a oft-revolving set of members, Destroyer is often considered a Dan Bejar solo project, but Rubies is the work a full-fledged band. If you didn’t know it was a 2006 record, it would be difficult to date Rubies; this helps it reach a sort of timelessness. This could be in part due to Bejar’s references to numerous dates and times; military times, the 2300s, 1987, 2002, the 20th century in general. He mentions historical and mythological figures: Clytemnestra, Tabitha, Zeppelin and Floyd, even his previous works of his own. The strongest lyrics on Rubies aren’t lyrics at all; his aphasic “La la la las” and “Dai lai lais” that appear on nearly every track on the album communicate the emotions that need to be conveyed when beautiful phrases like “I brought bells to the wake and you, you didn’t mind” are no longer sufficient. They sound so intimate, so primal, that Bejar takes you to all these places without ever needing to reveal where you’re going. * * * This year, more than any other I can remember, winter has greatly influenced my emotional state. A little bit of preamble: Alberta winters begin late October (sometimes sooner) and last until late-March on a good year and mid-April on a bad year (sometimes later). It’s not that this winter has been particularly long or cold or any extreme that could induce a sullen state of mind. There’s a lot of snow on the ground, but that’s not out of the ordinary for prairie winters. And it’s not that I’m depressed or suffering from SAD (season affective disorder), it’s just that this winter has been one long rumination for me. I’ve been working a lot of things out in my head—think of it as a philosophical exercise where the question is me and the answers are whatever I’d like them to be, if only I knew what I wanted them to be. This past week the bud of spring has begun to emerge from the seemingly permafrost; warmer temperatures (if you consider -5 degrees Celsius warm), minor melting of snow (on the roads mostly), and the sun is finally rising before I wake up. All slow but sure signs spring’s return is imminent. Music helps prep me for seasons and soundtracks them as they are happening. Itching for spring—which I’m not sure even exists in Alberta, as it often feels like winter segues directly into summer with no perceptible transition period—albums that represent spring for me have been monopolizing my iPod, almost with a “if I will it, it will come” mentality. Stress: The Extinction Agenda, Young Roscoe Philaphornia (criminally slept-on like an old college futon), Moment of Truth, and Illmatic (which admittedly could make the apocalypse sound beautiful), and more recently Secede’s Vega Libre. And Destroyer’s Rubies. Maybe there’s some hope left for me, after all.

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