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Richard Cory

Eleven years later, he had never written anything as good. He knew this. For eleven years, he had published dregs, remnants.

He had chased something he'd already forgotten. He had never been as close as on that first night. Larry Twin wished he had brought it to the bar; showed it to Lula. He wished he had showed it to everyone. He wished it had stayed. It falls away so fast, slips like ice in a hot hand. All you'll remember is the rhythm. The singer knows he is being foolhardy - not just fancy-free, reckless, but hardy as a fool. He knows he is singing a love-song to a lover who has not been loyal; he knows he is giving his catchiest chorus to someone who doesn't deserve it.


But he doesn't mind. He just wants to get back to that place, running through the dry bright sunlight, with small fast plans, toward kisses with bumping teeth. His band-mates, the Vaccines, they are like: whatever. They are like: whatever, man. They are like: just tell us when we can start playing. They've got hooks ready, riffs stored up; they've got a tambourine beat they'll throw onto anything that moves. C'mon, they say, let's just become famous already. The National - "Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks" [ buy ] Fruit do not know a single thing about love and longing, about loneliness; they do not know busy concert-halls and warm streets at night; they do not know mystifying conversations and opaque texts, waiting and wondering, and biking as hard as you can.

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Fruit do not know anything about searching another person's eyes. They know nothing about calling someone's name. Sometimes I am a single, perfect, burnished purple plum. Zola Jesus - "Lightsick" [ buy ] It's only the piano that keeps this from becoming maudlin - played failingly, stammeringly, losing the battle as Nika Roza tries to win the war. Willow Smith - "Whip My Hair" [ whip it ] You'd have to be crazy to deny Willow Smith's bizarro triumph a spot in the year's best songs - it's a demented hook, inescapable after yr first exposure.

But just here, at the peak of the song, right around , the whipped cream and firework recede ever so slightly and Willow is briefly allowed center stage. She steps up to the challenge And then she is gone, swallowed up by the tide of beats and her own mechanical voice quoting Devo and evoking Salt and Pepa and she does not know these bands but she has said the words into a machine that spat her out again and now her voice, her REAL voice in the climax of her first song is drowning under the weight of her infinitely echoing false voice and this song that is hers is absolutely not hers at all.

It's that half-scream, the best that she could do, that is the reveal; the look behind the curtain. It is about when he was a teenager living in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, and he fell in love with a girl who lived on a military base. Her father was a helicopter pilot. When Osama Bin Laden threatened to blow up Alex's school, the principal declared a holiday.

This is a true story, I think. These years later, Alex lives in Montreal.

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There is no sand, no gleaming bone-white city. There are boulevards garlanded by falling leaves, and places to lock your bike, and girls who say Bonsoir. Alex says Bonsoir back.


It means Good evening , and Alex cannot help, now and then, from imagining a hidden bomb. Sufjan Stevens - "I Walked" [ buy ] Sufjan is still his own worst enemy, direly excessive, but even at five minutes, "I Walked" feels edged, charged, precise. With groans, bumps, scattering synths, it's seething soul music, a song of deep confusion. The Octagon - "Easton" [ buy ] Brambled, messy and sincere. I can say words like 'nirvana' and 'constantines'; I can say names like 'Lou Barlow' and 'Eric's Trip'. Ariel Pink - "Round and Round" [ buy ] I've never been sold on Ariel Pink's hollow Eighties pastiche, but "Round and Round" crystallizes as a consummate blend of blurry nostalgia anthem and gentle joke.

He drinks and he kisses me when he is drunk, and his cheeks are flush and warm. His hands are big and strong, and he laughs so his teeth show beneath his moustache. He will sing as he cooks, and we often cook together, with the help of our sons. The government is mean, but my husband does not get upset, he lifts his eyes up and thanks the Lord for his job and his family.

He smokes too much, I do not like his breath when he smokes. Frog Eyes - "Flower in a Glove" [ buy ] A song from the edge of apocalypse, when everything can still be saved.

Nine minutes long and I gobble it down. Dan wrote about this. A Malian singer with a valley of a voice, a band with exquisite unrestrained chops. An even bigger surprise was that Timbuktu Tarab , her album, is not an anemic imitation - it's great. This track's my highlight, just crackling with energy - shined and urgent, flying. The debut's due on 4AD next year. Warpaint - "Undertow" single edit [ buy ] A song of seduction, of taking; the grimmest sort of serenade. What's the matter? You hurt yourself? An old-fashioned indie-rock sound, bassline playing tricks with the light.

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I love the rending doo-wop, the clumsy squelching, the aspiration to more than before. Their debut is due next year. Dan did it good. Your breath like grassy breeze, your stare like taut string. The clouds lap like sky waves against the back of your head, bursting behind your hair. Suddenly, like blowing out a match, you disappear. But only your body; your clothes, your rings, your gold tooth remain.

I will put it all in a small bag, take it home, and leave it by the front door. In case you ever return. No flattery, just backflips; the tang of novelty-rap, sure, but the1shanti evokes the mincemeat chaw of MF Doom, even MIA's elastic flow. When he tells the story of the Bean, his little clone, it's as if he knows he's getting distracted, knows he's digressing, yet it doesn't matter. He's having too much fun. He'll wriggle through the seaweed, gather nonsense.