It's time to leave somebody

I can no longer call myself a liberal.

Don't worry, faithful readers (both of you). I haven't crossed to the dark side. I'm not going to call myself a conservative (or worse, a moderate), and I haven't suddenly decided to start voting Republican (not that they're really "conservative" so much as "neoconservative," but that'll be addressed later). And I'm not hating on liberals (well, any more than I should, I suppose; but, contrary to the beliefs of the blonde doucheshell Ann Coulter, "liberal" is no more a dirty word than "conservative"). But it's high time a few things got clarified.

First off, let's start with the moderates, and why I refuse to consider myself one. Moderates, you see, can't make up their minds. Moderates have a few beliefs here and there, but they're scattered about in a mess of fence positions. For example, you'll often find moderate liberals saying, "Well, it's good that Saddam is out of power, but President Bush lied about the war," whereas moderate conservatives will say what they consider the opposite: "Well, President Bush lied about the war, but it's good that Saddam is out of power." This is the position of most people. And this is why the country's so politically fucked.

Then there are the conservatives, who at least have the cajones to take a stand on issues. Unfortunately, while their heads are often in the right place (except for the neoconservatives, but again, that'll be addressed later), their hearts are usually more obsessed with their pocket books. That's not to say that traditional conservativism is necessarily a bad thing--a little short-sighted, maybe, but not inherently bad. I mean, traditional, Teddy Rooseveltesque conservativism created the building blocks for military and industrial (not military-industrial, mind you, but the two as entirely separate beings; see Ike Eisenhower for another stellar example of a good traditional conservative) superiority that carried the United States through two world wars, an economic free-fall, and brought us right into the modern era, of which Kennedy was the first president.

That's awfully different from what happened to traditional conservativism in the latter half of the last century. Perhaps it was a reaction to Kennedy; perhaps it was the charge led by Joe McCarthy. Whatever the case, neoconservativism, this reactive, paranoid, hyper-religious, and overtly liberal (in the classicist sense of the term) Republican Party began to take over. Why? Because they were the rich elite who were also very, very stupid, but they were smart enough to lead the sheep mentality of Southern Whites, who were against everything but WASP dominance.

In the 1980s, perhaps as a reaction to the liberal conservativism (no, that's not a contradiction) of the new breed of Southern Democrats (Jimmy Carter is a good, if somewhat miscategorized and misunderstood, example), the neocons felt empowered to do whatever they want. They knew people like money, and people especially liked money in the '80s. So what did they do? Led by Ronald "The Worst President Since William Howard Taft" Reagan, they slashed taxes. To pay for the tax cuts, they knew programs would have to be slashed as well...so they cut Veterans programs and other social services while ballooning the military budget; as a result, it took smart work by a non-neoconservative president and a fiscally-responsible moderate-liberal to put us back on track.

So if I'm so against the neoconservativism of the contemporary Republican Party and am annoyed with this supposed centrist-moderate movement, why am I not a liberal?

Well, quite honestly, I'm sick of liberalism. True liberalism creates bureaucracies, big government, and socalism of things that don't need to be socialized. That's why I'm going to progressivism. To be a true, Rooseveltian progressive, one must only believe in a medium-sized government (Bush, the flaming governmental liberal, has far too big a government, as did Clinton), moderate taxes (this is essential) that make sense (I don't wanna be paying for Ted Stevens' next pork-barrell pet project, which will likely have something to do with building an enclosement over the Bridge to Nowhere; but I've no problem paying higher taxes for Social Security), and progress in all forms (gay marriage? Yay! Gay adoption? Yay! Women in control? Yay! War on drugs? Boo!).

Yes, I'm out on liberalism. Look at the poster-children for true liberalism right now. Hillary Clinton, that cow, is supporting legislation aganst video game manufacturers, even though the fault of letting kids play violent video games lies in the hands of their parents. Bill Clinton is rubbing shoulders with Georgie Sr., who can't be happy with what his idiot son is doing but hasn't had he balls to say anything. And John Kerry's just an idiot.

So who've we got left? Over the next few weeks, I'm going to be doing an alternating series regarding who should be considered for president and who shouldn't. And the answers might surprise you. Be warned: I'm only talking about illustrating the differences between true progressives and fake progressives. If you want to get anything done in 2008, please, for the love of everything that everyone in history has ever considered even minutely sacred, listen to at least part of what I'm saying.

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Today's DIJ: "Won't You Please Crawl Out Your Window? [Mixed Version]," Bob Dylan (Come Crawl Out Your Window: The Blonde on Blonde Demos).

I have no doubt that people don't really know this song very well. To me, there's no reason Dylan didn't release this on Blonde on Blonde, since it's one of his greatest compositions. The man's a master, to be sure, but there's something special he captured here. Sounding like an Italian troubador who just discovered Folk Rock and is standing beneath the bedroom window of his crushed-upon lass, Dylan ups the ante by delivering his all-time best vocal performance, and devoting it to Meat Loaf-esque adolescent sexual sentiments. His genius has always been in vocal delivery, but this one echoes "Idiot Wind" for sheer passion: "Won't you please crawl out your window," he begs, "Use your hands and legs, it won't ruin you / How can you say he will haunt you / When you can go back to him anytime that you want to?" Rarely does this much passion come out in a demo; it shows that what Dylan cast off is better than the best things most artists can come up with.

Your doctor knows it keeps you calm

I decided this week that Entertainment Weekly, a magazine that avoids being a People- or Us Weekly-esque tabloid only because they actually print reviews, should really just give up and join the increasing number of tabloidlike magazines littering our cultural blandscape.

How did I come up with this monumental discovery? Well, it seems these cultural commentators, who apparently get off to the idea of interviewing Will Smith because, well, "he's just so durned charming," rated one of the best records of 2004, the Polyphonic Spree's Together We're Heavy, as the second-worst to come out that year, second only to the semi-joking release of William Hung's Inspiration.

Excuse me? Okay, I know that everyone's entitled to his or her own opinions, and those opinions may rightfully be presented in the press. I've no problem with this, and in fact challenge everyone to go out and speak his or her mind on any and all matters. However, there is a major prerequisite for such speaking: the orator must be informed about that which he or she speaks.

As I write this, I'm now listening to "Section 11 (A Long Day Continues/We Sound Amazed)" on my Yahoo! radio, and I'm reminded of when I first heard it, driving home from Best Buy in my parents' (now-wrecked) minivan, nearly pissing myself because the reprised what I have long considered their best work, "It's the Sun," as part of an extended introduction to their record. So yes, I'm biased--I'm a fan of very few bands, but the Spree is one of them. And, like any good fan, I get upset when my favorite's unfairly criticized.

But I'm not doing this like Dave Matthews' fans, nor like those who might put Matchbox 20 up as a pinnacle of musical achievement. Hate to sound like a dick, but I know better. As Lester Bangs once (kind of) said (well, the movie reincarnation of him, anyway), "We're smarter." And I know for a fact that critics deriding this band for being "artificially happy" are critics who are far too sour on the experience of life to find anything worth celebrating.

My religious beliefs combine elemens of Zen Buddhism, Pantheism, and Paganistic Witchcraft, so whenever I've looked out off the top of a mountain, or down from an airplane, or at a gorgeous sunset, or at a blue-black sea of stars, I've felt at one with the divine. And it's been in those moments that I've been the most happy--when everything has seemed perfect. I like looking at things, hearing them, feeling them, knowing they're around me (which, to be perfectly honest, is the reason I rarely ride the subway here in Chicago).

Now, you're probably wondering just what in the blue hell any of this has to do with music, let alone the Polyphonic Spree. Well, what I'm saying is that for me, these are things in life worth celebrating. For others, there are other elements, but when I make that connection is when I feel whole. I have to believe that people like Dean Of All Things Musical Cristgau hates life, since the only band he seems to esteem is the Mekons, a once-great band whose subsequent releases get more and more tiresome as time goes on (experimental punk rock can only go so far before it goes into a territory that should only be populated by Television, Fugazi, and maybe--maybe--Mission of Burma, only because they were the first ones to really make the connection between punk and offshoot reactions to punk).

What really bothers me, however, is that there is any number of fools in the world who don't judge a band on the music it performs. Now, I'm not just making the argument that pretty boys can't play (it's not entirely true). But I dare anyone out there in blogland to prove that something besides musical prowess made the cover of Iggy & the Stooges' Raw Power the sexiest ever. I challenge any and all readers here today to equate the musical brilliance of Uncle Lou and his Velvets with the way they looked onstage. And let's not even venture into the territory of My Bloody Valentine; Kevin Shields wasn't (isn't? Haven't seen you perform for a long while, Kev. Bring back MBV!) only a lifeless performer, he was downright boring--but the music coming out of his guitar was insanely brilliant, so it didn't matter.

In addition, lots of bands I've seen also do some pretty weird shit onstage. When Ozomatli opened for Dave Matthews and Ben Harper in 2001, they came out chanting Native American tribal shit. Me, I thought it was damned cool; but a lot of workers around me were thinking, what the fuck is this? Meanwhile, did anyone see Kanye West and Jamie Foxx at the Grammys? If that wasn't weird, I don't know what is. Maybe weird is only reserved for Pink Floyd, who frequently has employed lazer light shows, gigantic balloons of animals, balloon-like pyramids, and strange, slightly horrifying vides, in its live shows.

But Kanye's sold around fifteen million (maybe more, even) records in just over two years. Ozomatli opened for Dave Matthews Band, but they're big enough now to headline on their own and sell out theaters in Hispanic neighborhoods all over the U.S. And The Great Floyd is one of the most recognized and influential bands in the history of rock.

So anyone who wants to claim the Polyphonic Spree is a crap band because they seem cultish is hitherto prohibited from claiming they like any of the afore-mentioned bands (or the Beach Boys, since Mike Love used to dress up like a genie in the '70s. Or Jimi Hendrix, 'cause he lit instrumental fires onstage. Or Johnny Cash, because he dressed up all in black--that's weird, isn't it? And it's a uniform...). The point is, you have to examine the music.

Which, supposedly, is what EW did. But they were in the group of critics saying that it's fake optimism. Apparently, the reviewers at EW have never seen a live Spree show. You never leave feeling like anything less than a million bucks. It's like the musical equivalent of that happy goo in Ghostbusters II. And there's nothing wrong with a positively cheerful message. It worked for Pearl Jam's second-best record, Yield; Common's best, Be; the classic People's Instinctive Travels and the Paths of Rhythm by A Tribe Called Quest; and anything done by bands like the La's and Dead Moon.

The orchestration is far superior to things that similarly psychedelia-tinged bands like the Apples in Stereo or the Flaming Lips (though the Lips remain a better band until proven otherwise). The choir is a beautiful addition, and the band makes no bones about having a choir (unlike Dave Matthews or Pink Floyd, who use choirs all the time to varied effects but never make the members of those choirs full-time). And yes, the lyrics are a bit tepid at times, I'll admit, but they're all just varying on this theme of awakening and happiness, of sunshine and glory. Even without that mea culpa, there are far worse lyrics out there (such as just about anything Chris Martin penned for X&Y, which still made my top ten last year).

For those who don't like psychedelic pop, who aren't wowed by the Beach Boys or moved by the elements that make musicals so great, you're not going to give a damn about the Polyphonic Spree, and that's okay; they're just not your cup of tea. But if you're going to criticize the band and put their phenomenal record in the same breath as the horrendous sideshow that was William Hung, there should be a damned good reason (for example, I'd put Vertical Horizon in the same breath because they never once use a hook in any of their songs, which is necessary to make a song even listenable). There was no reason to say that about Together We're Heavy. Even if a critic didn't like it, I don't think anyone else, even the scroogiest of cynics, would have said it belonged at the bottom of the barrel with an American Idol reject.

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Today' s DIJ: "It's OK," Dead Moon (Crack in the System).

I first heard "It's OK" as a tag for Pearl Jam's live rendition of their arena-rock classic "Daughter." They were paying an homage to their Seattle roots, saluting protogrunge post-punks Dead Moon. Eddie Vedder seemed to know that this song was their crowning achievement. Based on a very simple guitar riff that sounds almost stolen from Mission of Burma, the guitar cycles around as the singers intertwine in slightly off-key harmony that works far better than it should. But best of all is the bridge breakdown: "This is my choice / This is my voice / In a world demanding of me," she sings, and it couldn't sound any more inspiring. Inspiration is key, and everyone who's ever felt a pull towards positive, uplifting music (or has ever needed a mid-week pick-me-up and has no way of getting laid) should put this tune on and pump it up.

Scottie doesn't know

Scott McClellan, as I've said umpteen times on this blog, is the single worst thing that could've happened to the Bush Administration.

About five, six years ago, Bush was virtually untouchable. Ari Fleicher was in control of the press, Scott McClellan was in the dark, and presidential ratings were in the high eighties. Ever since McClellan took over, the president's lost over 50% of his approval rating, and things have just been falling apart piece by piece for the administration.

There's a reason for that. As long as reporters think they're getting honest, truthful answers from the Press Secretary, they're going to report sympathetically about that man or woman's boss, the president. McClellan, however, is defensive, derisive, and condescending to the White Hosue Press Corps, and he's been caught in several lies (Plamegate, Iraqgate, and now Cheneygate...as an incidental note, part of the reason Nixon was taken down was because he, too, had a horrendous press secretary, so it's appropriate that we use the -gate suffix all over the place).

Scott McClellan is incompetent, and I have no idea why George Bush, no matter how closely his IQ resembles that of a monkey, would keep around a guy who can't hold a press corps together with two rubber bands, some glue, and a Richard Dean Anderson in Walker's clothes. Reporters like David Gregory from NBC News are going apeshit on the guy because he cannot report anything of substance.

Has anyone out there in blogland seen the episode of The West Wing where, in a flashback, Josh does the press briefing for C.J.? She calls Josh hostile, and uses that as reasoning for him to not do the briefing, even though C.J. has just had, as she puts it, a "woot canaw." He does it, and he nearly creates a scandal because of his incompetence in dealing with the press.

Amazing how television can sometimes predict the future, isn't it? Star Trek: Deep Space Nine did the same thing, prediciting the security measures taken for the "War on Terror" in a two-part episode during Season Four. Amazing that these also reflect the idiocy of the current administration, not anyone else.

As another side note, I just want to say now that Ira Stephen Behr needs to come back to the Trekiverse and give us some good stories; Brannon Bragga did a decent job after the Rick Berman debacle that was Enterprise and most of the Next Gen movies...Ira, please, if you're out there, please please pleasepleaseplease come home! And bring Nick Meyer with you. We can save Star Trek yet!

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Today's DIJ: "Venus Stopped the Train," Wilco (Not for the Season: The Yankee Hotel Foxtrot Sessions)

There are few songs that are better in their demo versions. Some songs only exist in such a medium, such as Nirvana's (really, Kurt Cobain's) demo for "Do Re Mi," others as inferior versions, like David Bowie's original demo for "All The Young Dudes." But Wilco's original session for this song, which eventually came out on the Jay Bennett/Edward Burch record The Palace at 3AM, is far superior in its demo form. The version of "Venus" with Wilco leader/despot Jeff Tweedy on vocals is built on the same melancholy piano riff, but Tweedy's voice lends much more poignancy to the song. Whereas with Bennett, "Venus" comes off like a man despondent and pathetic, Tweedy brings, as the song puts it, a "soft sadness" with his boyish voice and the distinct utterances that fall below the cigarette smoke in the Loft studio. Couple that with bassist John Stirratt's incredible falsetto harmonies, and the Jay Bennett/Leroy Bach sections towards the end, and you've got one of the finest songs ever (not completely) produced.

Wet matches and a bottle of Mr. Clean

The Polyphonic Spree is coming.

Okay, not yet, not on tour, and not the entire band. But according to the blog set up for their forthcoming (and highly-anticipated by anyone with any semblance of musical intelligence) record The Fragile Army, the band's choir is going to record their parts for the album in Chicago. Oh, the wonders that they will see! I'm a Chicagoist, I must admit; I believe Chicago is the most inspirational and wondrous city on the planet, with only one city even coming close, Amsterdam (the king of European cities, and not just because of the coffee shops).

But this whole thing also worries me just a smidge. I mean, the best part about watching and listening to the Polyphonic Spree has always been that you feel like ten million bucks afterwards; it's among the most uplifting music ever created. The thing is, Chicago doesn't generally breed that kind of positivism. Certainly, we can do the uplifting thing (witness Corgan's "Tonight, Tonight" or Tweedy's "Nothing'severgonnastandinmyway (Again)"). But those songs I consider true indicators of Chicago's inspiration are generally beautiful in their defiant grey not-quite-pessimism. I'm constantly reminded of Wilco's "Hell Is Chrome" and "Via Chicago," Common's "Chi City" and "The Corner," and the Chamber Strings' "Make It Through The Summer." These aren't necessarily depressing songs (well, except for "Via Chicago"), but they're certainly melancholic, "Hell Is Chrome" taking it to extremes. It should be pretty interesting to see what that quality does for the choir's sound.

Maybe they'll record at the Loft. How awesome would that be?

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Today's DIJ: "That's When I Reach For My Revolver," Mission of Burma (Signals, Calls and Marches)

A roommate and I were having a wonderful conversation one afternoon about our mutual love of punk and power pop when my iTunes switched, for some unknown reason, to this classic Mission of Burma cut. He loved the song, and then, out came the commentary that made me undersand why "That's When I Reach For My Revolver" was such a masterpiece: "The difference between punk and post-punk is that punk's all about the chorus, whereas post-punk is all about the buildup to the chorus."

This song illustrates that perfectly. It's not that the chorus ("That's when I reach for my revolver / That's when it all gets blown away") is an afterthought; in fact, it's one of the greatest ever written. But the chorus, which doesn't even begin until we're already a minute into the song (contrast with the immediacy of the chorus in the Ramones' equally-brilliant "Judy is a Punk"), is amplified by a fabulous drum roll, thundrous guitars, and a bass line that McCartney would give up his left testicle to be able to play. It's a punk song, to be sure, but it does something that punk's immediacy willfully neglects: the use of dynamics and buildup.

This is not a joke, so please stop smiling

Arrested Development, one of the greatest shows in television history, may be seeing its last light of day on network television tonight.

That's one of the saddest statements I've ever posted on here, but it's absolutely true. If you're reading this today, I suggest you watch Fox from 7-9 CST tonight, as it could very well determine the future.

I don't know why piece-of-shit shows like Friends, Two and a Half Men, and American Dad are somehow getting better ratings than Arrested Development (not to mention all three CSIs, which I consider the worst things on television, along with everything else airing before 10:30pm CST on CBS, any traditional laugh-track-oriented NBC sit-com, every single reality show--especially the horrendous Skating with Celebrities, which for some reason classifies "celebrity" as someone who's been on a hit television program twenty years ago, thus qualifying Dave Coulier, the least talented of the three Full House men--ever, Fox's megahit American Idol, everything on the WB, and pretty much everything else on Fox's own roster). It is, in fact, the smartest, funniest, and (surprisingly) most eloquent program airing right now.

The obvious appeal is to Art Freaks who loved the intelligent but ridiculous madcap humor of the Oxford-educated players in Monty Python's Flying Circus. But there's appeal for literally anyone if only they'd give the show a chance. I know I need not say a word to those who truly love The Daily Show and the first decade or so of The Simpsons, since most of you are smart enough to be watching (and there's a ridiculous amount of overlap between the two groups). But if you're wasting your time watching Family Guy, think of all those side-gags you love so very, very much, and imagine them performed by real-life actors. If you're intrigued by the mystery of CSI or NCIS, why not go back and figure out the mystery of "Mr. F," a character earlier in this, the third, season? If Lost (an admittedly great program, one I resisted as I did the Harry Potter series, only to, as with Harry Potter, get hooked on the damned thing so as now I have to follow to its conclusion, even if it is treading dangerously near jump-the-shark territory) is your cup of tea, I guarantee you need to watch this show, because after this past Wednesday's episode, I'm pretty sure we're all in need of a good laugh (incidentally, I'd like to give a shout-out to Roxann Dawson, formerly B'Elanna Torres of Star Trek: Voyager, who directed Wednesday's episode. Great job, Roxann!). If you like those non-laugh-track untraditional sit-coms NBC offers, like Scrubs, The Office, of My Name is Earl...wait a tic, why the fuck aren't you watching?!?! Arrested Development is right up your alley!

But if you, like so many others in our increasingly stupid country, are more interested in American Idol, Skating with Celebrities, Dancing with the Stars (which, by the way, is simply an adaptation of a horrendous program I had the misfortune to watch every Thursday night in Spain, Mira quien baila), Survivor, or any of the other multitude of shitty reality program that litters the vast wasteland that is nework television, don't bother. Just pick yourself up off the couch, walk over to your window, and look down. If the drop looks like you could scramble your brains by falling out head-first, I encourage you to take every opportunity to attempt the experiment of what happens when you open up the windw and lean forward as far as possible. If, however, the drop does not look like it could knock some frigging sense into your toolish, corporate, soulless drone of a personage, go to your local grocery store and buy a turkey. Proceed to clean it out using water from the faucet. When clean, preheat the oven to 450 degrees. Then, stuff the turkey through the backside with your head and stick in the oven. Allow to cook for at least four hours.

Now, you may be thinking to yourself, gee, Brendan, why the hell are you being so harsh? It's just television. And you're right, to a certain extent. But there's a dearth of arts forming in this country. President Bush wants to give more money to those studying mathematics and science, but he wants to cut the National Endowment for the Arts. In what universe does this make sense? Art is the highest form of culture. And it's time that the science and business worlds sucked on my fat hairy balls for a change. As most scienists and mathematicians will admit, if Newton, Einstein, or Hawking hadn't lived, someone would eventually have come up with similar theories because science lays all the answers out for us and waits for us to discover them. If Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart hadn't lived, however, most of the music we know and love today wouldn't exist. Can you imagine that? Neither can I. Thank the gods we won't have to.

Which brings me back to Arrested Development. It's a sad state of affairs when the combination of Dave Coulier and Nancy Kerrigan is more popular than the combination of Ron Howard and Henry Winkler (it worked before, and it worked again in the first two seasons of Arrested Development). And if the show goes, another of the great artistic achievements of the television age will go down the tubes while seventy billion people continue to tune in to watch a show in which young black women attempt to imitate Whitney Houston, young white women try to be Celine Dion, young black men go towards being Bobby Brown, and young white men try for the Jordan Knight crap. Folks, when the hell are you going to learn that watching (and voting for) American Idol only further condemns music to banalities like a song that came out just two years ago but VH-1 already felt confident enough was one of the most awesomely bad songs ever made, past Idol winner R(e)uben Studdard's "Sorry 2004." You're singlehandedly sending music back to that period between 1958 and 1962, the post-Buddy Holly, pre-Beach Boys American pop wasteland. Hope you're happy.

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I've decided it's important to help the cause of bringing good music to the masses. As a result, I'll be suggesting Desert Island Jukebox (DIJ) selections in every entry, beginning with today's.

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Today's DIJ: "Jane of the Waking Universe" by Guided by Voices (Mag Earwhig!)

It's two and a half music of lo-fi dreampop bliss. Guided by Voices may be one of indie rock's more overrated members, but when they were on, they were really, really on. "Jane of the Waking Universe" is no exception, and, in fact, is as touching as it is beautiful. In under three minutes, there's a beautiful, dreamy, anthemic riff, the titular chorus (replete with mid-'70s-esque Beach Boy harmonies), a verse, a bridge that ranks among the greatest of all time, and a killer guitar solo. But perhaps the best part of the song comes directly after the solo, when the rhythm electric guitar breaks down with the bass and reprises the intro before being met by a chorus of classic-rock-style drums into an outro chorus. "Jane of the Waking Universe" is about as perfect as songs can get.

See those superstars

The Olympics are coming.

Since 1996, I've had a strange affinity for the Olympic Games. My '96 reasoning was quite simple: I was caught up in the middle of the postpubescent marketing of gymnast Dominique Moceanu. In '98 for the Winter Olympics in Nagano, it was the flu that had me watching most of the games, figure skater Tara Lipinski that had me begging for more (well, that and my loathing of Michelle Kwan. I really don't have a reason for that, but to this day, I support all American skaters except her. Which is why this year I'm gunning for Sasha Cohen to win gold). The 2000 and 2004 Summer Games weren't all that impressive, but the City By The (Salt) Lake did a helluva job organizing the '02 Games.

Which has made me wonder: why do I favor the Winter Olympics over those based in the summer? I think it's because the Winter Olympics are more impressive, more exciting. In the Winter Games, you've got killer events like figure skating (which trumps anything gymnastics can offer, except that rad shit the guys do on the pommel horse), speed skating (a much more athletic activity than track, and that's coming from a former track guy), skiing (who doesn't love skiing?), hockey, snowboarding, bobsled, skeleton...the list goes on and on. And the U.S. hasn't achieved some sort of ridiculous dominance yet. Look no further than hockey: unlike basketball, in which pro athletes compete more for the U.S. than for anyone else, there's an even distribution, which opened up one of the most exciting hockey finals in history in '98, when the Czech Republic beat the holy hell out of everybody to win gold.

So yes, the Olympics are coming. In two days, no less. And frankly, Mr. Shankley, I couldn't be more ready.

Life is for the living

The year is just over a month old now, but I'm already excited as hell for what's coming. We're talking new musical releases from the Polyphonic Spree, the Flaming Lips, Weezer (it had better be better than Make Believe), and many, many others. And with the always-craptacular Grammys on the horizon this week, I thought it was high time I made my picks for the year that was 2005.

TOP TEN ALBUMS

This one's always a hoot, possibly my favorite thing to pick in a year. But it's also always hard as hell to do, as favorite records of the year can change on a daily, weekly, and monthly basis (not to mention yearly. I'm still not convinced that my 2001 pick of Bob Dylan's "Love and Theft" was the right call). But here we go...

1. Kicking Television: Live in Chicago, Wilco. Okay, people are going to accuse me of always picking Wilco, mainly because this would be the fifth album of theirs on the list and third to register at number one (see also Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and last year's superior follow-up, A Ghost Is Born, plus other top-ten finishers Summerteeth and Mermaid Avenue, Volume 2). In truth, Kicking Television isn't superior to either other number-one finisher in the Wilco catalogue; what it is is the best live record since Nirvana's MTV Unplugged in New York in 1994. Tweedy & Co. reinterpret a number of songs for the revolving door that is Wilco, including a rad triple-harmony coda on "Hell is Chrome" (which makes a brilliant song even better), an acoustic rendering of "Airline to Heaven," and a thunderous version of "Spiders (Kidsmoke)" that makes the version on A Ghost Is Born seem positively antiquated by comparison. No, it's not Wilco's best record. But this year did not see a more entertaining album released.

2. Get Behind Me Satan, The White Stripes. Jack and Meg's fifth studio album is their best, hands down. Forget the faux-blues of Elephant, the post-rock wannabes of White Blood Cells. Good though those records were, it seemed Jack White was a one-trick pony, as Elephant played like White Blood Cells II, which played like Deje Stil II. No longer. Maybe working with Loretta Lynn gave him a fresh start; maybe it's his growing infatuation with folky country, which is more in the vein of the Meat Puppets than Led Zeppelin. Whatever the case, "Little Ghost" is a joyous romp, the band's best song since "Hotel Yorba," and is actually bettered by the record's closer, "I'm Lonely (But I Ain't That Lonely Yet)," a throwback that's as serious as it is wink-of-the-eye ironic.

3. Twin Cinema, The New Pornographers. The opening title track is the best song of the year, one of the best pop songs ever recorded--the kind of insta-classic that Weezer's "Buddy Holly" was in 1994. Twin Cinema is being praised for the wrong reasons mostly, however. The album's depth doesn't matter; neither does the fact that the Pornographers have gone down a seemingly increasingly dark melodic path. What matters in all of power pop is the hook, and there are more hooks on Twin Cinema than most bands can come up with in their entire existences.

4. Extraordinary Machine, Fiona Apple. I feel dirty just putting the name on here. Ms. Apple's mid-90s smash Tidal was such an overwrought piece of post-Alanis B.S. that I could've cried; "Criminal" still gets some of the lowest marks I can possibly give it. But her '99 sophomore effort, which, for brevity's sake, I'll refer to only as When the Pawn..., was a drastic and brilliant improvement (not that there was really anywhere to go but up). When she went into the studio with WTP producer Jon Brion, the two put together a veriable art-rock symphony--and it was, of course, summarily rejected by her label. An online petition ensued, and 2005 saw the release of a re-recorded and remixed version of the record. And it's really, really good. Apple's always at her best when working with killer melodies inside her holier-than-thou Stipesque lyrics, and EM contains her most stunning achievement yet, the randy and rancid "Not About Love," which, though better in the Brion version, is still phenomenal in both ambition and execution. And, as usual, her vocal deliveries are near-perfect.

5. Be, Common. There's not much you need to say about this fabulous record. "The Corner" is an unbelievable song, probably the best hip-hop could offer last year. "Chi City" is the best homage to Chicago since Billy Corgan sat down in his Michigan Avenue apartment to write "Tonight, Tonight." And the production is deftly handled by Kanye West, who had one helluva year. Read on.

6. Late Registration, Kanye West. Yes, I'm putting hip-hop records back-to-back. I'm not doing that for any particular reason except that Kanye's record was the sixth-best record released last year, and Common's was the fifth-best. There's nothing on here that's as good as his breakthrough single "Jesus Walks," but "Goldigger" is one of those pop hits that gets welcomely stuck in your head, and Kanye was able to show off his ability to find the perfect hook in every single one of the songs. In fact, he might have had it over Common if not for those damned sketches, which, as with Eminem and OutKast, really only hurt the record.

7. LCD Soundsystem, LCD Soundsystem. This record's gotten a bit more hype than it's deserved from critics, but only a little bit more. It's a cool-sounding record that melds Pink Floyd with Kraftwerk with The Streets with Usher in a thoroughly confusing and mesmerizing fashion. LCD Soundsystem is, at the very least, the coolest, freshest-sounding record of the year, even if it's not the best.

8. X & Y, Coldplay. It's a sad day for music lovers everywhere when people are maligning this wonderful third effort from the British band. Granted, X & Y is no A Rush of Blood to the Head, which is a near-perfect pop record. But Coldplay is starting to grow into its "biggest band in the world" pants very nicely and without the kind of kitch that greeted U2's ascension to the same (only Achtung Baby, half of The Joshua Tree and All That You Can't Leave Behind, and Zooropa are indicators of the brilliance Bono and Company are capable of; certainly they should not be praised for the overbearing, overwrought, and woefully dreadful How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb). But Coldplay always remembers how to do the balladry right. "Fix You" is one of the best songs the band has ever done, building to a powerful coda with four-part harmonies that probably made Brian Wilson shit his pants when heard. "Swallowed in the Sea" is horrific when lyrically dissected ("I could write a song / A hundred miles long / Well, that's where I belong / And you belong with me / Not swallowed in the sea" is my vote for worst lyics on a great record this year), but it's got a great hook, fabulous melody, and convincing Bono-meets-Thom-Yorke vocals from Chris Martin. Many claimed this was the make-or-break record for Coldplay; if it was, they succeeded brilliantly. However, if, as I've been saying all along, it's their fourth record that's going to make or break them, the next release should be even more interesting.

9. Throw Down Your Arms, Sinead O'Connor. Now, you fascists at NBC, not to mention Frank Sinatra, you dead asshole, do you see why Sinead tore up the photo of John Paul II? Granted, it was a poorly-timed stunt, but it actually had reason behind it, and Throw Down Your Arms proves it. In her best record since I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got, Sinead has reinvented herself yet again, this time truly embracing rastafarianism and working with some heavies in the reggae and dancehall worlds. Her anger isn't anywhere near the top anymore, and her music shows a deft defiance of everything that she's done before, from the pop-princess balladry of "Nothing Compares 2 U" to her beautiful collaborations with the Chieftains. And best of all, she does so without irony, without pretense, and without kitch. Welcome back, Sinead.

10. Another Day On Earth, Brian Eno. The master returns to the top ten. The author of such classic records as Ambient 1: Music for Airports, Another Green World, and Apollo: Atmospheres and Soundtracks (the last of which featured one of the ten greatest songs ever written, "An Ending (Ascent)"), Another Day On Earth has Eno revisiting his glammier days of the early '70s, from the Roxy Music records to his first couple of solo releases. And unlike his ambient works, ADOE has many more hooks than Eno has seemed capable of in a long time. Kudos on a job well done.