Transition, self reflection, found percussion.

"Transgender Dysphoria Blues" has been eagerly anticipated for a while now, because of the backstory: lead singer Laura Jane Grace (formerly Tom Gabel) came out as transgender in 2012, and this was to be the first album since that revelation. So many questions: would her voice sound different? (Nope. Still freakin' unreal and focused.) Would the band's sound be different? (Yep. Stripped down, more punk, less produced.) It still carries a strong pop sensibility, but lyrically, it's more emotionally-charged and brutally honest than ever before.



One listen to "Eighteen Hours of Static" by Big Ups, and you might feel like you're in high school again—in the best, bright-eyed-and-idealistic-school-kid kind of way. Because Big Ups is punk with socially-conscious lyrics designed to make you feel things about stuff. And with their pitch-perfect, ultra-earnest delivery, it's hard not to. In their slower, more subdued moments, like the beginning of the track "Wool," they call to mind Fugazi, but they often switch gears and tempos mid-song, quickly careening off into frenzied distortion.

Here's the deal with Willis Earl Beal (that entire preceding phrase needs to be a book title someday): this guy started out in Chicago, attracting attention and an audience by posting flyers. FLYERS. On his album "Nobody Knows," he pairs his evocative baritone voice with a songwriting style that calls to mind "Bone-Machine"-era Tom Waits in its eccentricity. Though he sometimes performs with Cat Powers, as good as she is, she seems to detract from the main event. Beal's lyrics are shockingly (and refreshingly) frank, and his recurring theme of disconnection is something that's very relevant. This is experimental music with soul.

The first song I heard from the latest Cass McCombs album, "Big Wheel and Others," is a track called, "There Can Only Be One"—a sweet, bouncey, Dylan-esque love song with a bass line carrying the melody. And I'm sure glad I didn't stop there: McCombs is a skilled storyteller, and a master of using traditionally country guitar effects in a modern way. It's an ambitious album, both for the artist and for the listener, at 85 minutes long. But this is one that grows on you, and reveals itself over time in subtle and surprising ways.

Friends, fathers, jagbags.

Imagine you're a new father, but even more than that—more than keeping another human being alive—you're also a singer-songwriter. Imagine you record an album's worth of demos at your kitchen table, singing and playing in hushed tones because shoosh, you'll wake the baby. Imagine that someone deems your songs worthy of an actual album release. Imagine the warehouse that's storing your stock of CDs burns to the ground. That's the story behind the original 2009 recording entitled "Bad Debt" by Hiss Golden Messenger (guy's actual name: M.C. Taylor), now finally seeing the wide release it deserves. It's uncomplicated, intimate and lovely.

When "Scenario" by A Tribe Called Quest came out in 1992, I was bowled over by then-new Busta Rhymes. "Who IS this guy?" I remember thinking. I mean, Q-Tip's got the husky, boyish sound on lock—his voice is already so stand-out—and along comes another equally unique, Chuck-D-level voice? It felt too good to be true. And now, with the release of "The Abstract and the Dragon," a retrospective of the Busta/Q-Tip rhyme relationship with some new tracks to boot, it's an embarrassment of riches. Much of this is their legendary collabs, but the new stuff—like "God Lives Through," an old track with new verses thrown on it—is just as good.

Here's the thing to know about the writing of Stephen Malkmus, whether with Pavement or his current band, the Jicks: it's mad Easter-eggy. You'll find plenty of surprises and delightful references if you look, and you won't have to look hard. On his latest, "Wig Out at Jagbags," it takes many forms. On the track "J Smoov," for instance, a sad trumpet plays what can be best referred to as the "nanny nanny boo boo song." This is what has always gotten me about Mr. Malkmus—he's able to throw so many jokes at you that you can barely keep up, and yet you find yourself marveling at how gorgeous and heart-string-pulling the guitar chord structures are.

Taryn Miller is an up-and-coming songwriter in the LFK (Lawrence, Kansas—can't imagine what that F is about). She goes by the name Your Friend and has a singular-sounding voice that's lilting, melancholy, clear as a bell...Bon-Iver-esque in the best possible ways. She pairs it with reverbed-out guitar and manages to get a lovely, much larger sound than your average solo performer. I definitely dig the effect of all that reverb on her voice, but I'm excited to hear what else she has to offer, because hers sounds like a voice that would sound great completely devoid of effects.

An aside: Elliott Smith.

While the intent of this blog is to feature new (and new-to-me) music that I like and recommend, I'd also love the opportunity to talk about the influence that a single artist has had on my life, at a very visceral level.

Most people know how it ended for Elliott Smith. He stabbed himself in the heart, or at least that's what's believed to be true, even though it sounds unbelievable. Another theory is that his girlfriend murdered him, but given his own history of suicidal tendencies, that seems less likely.

There are a lot of male singers whom I've loved dearly who have taken their own lives. Nick Drake. Jeff Buckley. Mark Linkous. And while I still get wrecked thinking about those particular musicians and all that potential squandered, with Elliott Smith, it's different. It's like he was a friend, because he kind of was.

I was late to his music, and when I finally took my friend Al's advice that yes, this was a person worth listening to and yes, it might be depressing and quiet but just do it anyway, I found myself starting out with XO—an album that's the perfect midpoint in his career between his lo-fi beginnings and his over-produced, overly-orchestrated later years.

I was in a crap relationship. The kind that's doomed from the start, where you're together for all the wrong reasons for way too long, the kind where all your friends are like, "Really?" But they don't say anything, even though they probably should. The kind where you don't act like yourself, which should be Clue Numero Uno that you are not, how you say, meant to be. The super-fighty kind. Being generally non-confrontational,  this left me in a constant state of discomfort and second-guessing. Not, "Why is this guy a dick?" but, "What's wrong with me that this guy doesn't love the heck out of me?"

There was a day when I was driving down to Said Ill-Fitting Boyfriend's house, and "Waltz #1" came on. And it stayed on, for about an hour, on repeat. Somehow, I'd started the drive to his house, and the song came on, and suddenly I was just bawling. Just driving and bawling and talking to myself. And making u-turns. I'd drive toward his place, I'd make a u-turn, like, "Fuck that guy." I'd drive away, I'd make another u-turn, like, "Stop being dramatic." The song would end, I'd hit the back button and restart it. Like I was looking for an answer.

With the music you love, you always make it about you. And right then, and for the four-ish years surrounding then, Elliott Smith was writing for me. Those words, and the way he set them perfectly to almost-whispered vocals and lush guitars, well...he might've written it, but it was about me. So basically, we were tight. And because we were tight, I figured, who better to look to for an answer?

"Every time the day darkens down and goes away
pictures open in my head of me and you.
Silent and cliche, all the things we did and didn't say,
covered up by what we did and didn't do.
Going through
every out I used to cop to make the repetition stop...
What was I supposed to say?

Now I never leave my zone, we're both alone
I'm going home
I wish I'd never seen your face."

Not many lyrics, but "Waltz #1" didn't need many lyrics. It said what it needed to say, lyrically and musically. And in doing so, it was the benchmark for bad relationships in my twenties. I figured that if any relationship was bad enough that it felt like this song, then I knew: must abort. Leave immediately. Or not so immediately, but dammit, eventually. Grow a pair and leave.

Many eventuallys later, I drove to that guy's house and dumped him. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, I'm certain—like in about a billion ways certain—that we're both better off. And I wish I could thank Elliott, but you know.