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SPEW pronounces the 21st-30th best albums of 2017. Shazam!

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(Steven J Wilson)

21.    Wire – Silver/Lead (Pink Flag)
          Wire are one of my staples, consistent and consistently surprising: https://spewrocks.blogspot.com/search?q=wire




22.    John Murry – A Short History of Decay (TV)
         And then I wrote … https://spewrocks.blogspot.com/search?q=john+murry


23.    Whiffs – Take a Whiff (High Dive)
          I liked it then https://spewrocks.blogspot.com/search?q=whiffs … I like it now. 


24.    Aldous Harding – Party (4AD)
Not that anyone asked, but if Aldous Harding reminds me of any of her contemporaries, it’s Cate LeBon. They both have this striking ability to swing from the confidential to the bel canto stentorian more than once over the course of an album. Harding’s songs, mostly accompanied by her guitar and piano, are koan-like without being obscure. Harding uses space deftly, yet her spare arrangements sound full, partly because her voice is so personal and pre-possessing. I’ve seen Party described as everything from alt-country (she’s from New Zealand) to Goth. And I guess it’s all true, Harding’s songs and performances are declarative without being rigidly defining; she makes room for you in these songs - It’s a skill, people. 

25.    Low Cut Connie – Dirty Pictures 1 (Contender)
Were the cake as good as its ingredients Low Cut Connie would be the saviors of rock n’ roll. Not quite, their composite of Stones, Jerry Lee, and ‘Mats only occasionally lives up to its lineage. But close gets a cigar because these Philly believers are pretty damn good. On this, their fourth album, Low Cut Connie dig deeper, get more soulful, and even show a working class embattled patriotism, providing roadhouse kicks and something almost like vision. 
26.    Kevin Morby – City Music (Dead Oceans)
Kansas City kid, Kevin Morby moved to New York right after he got his GED. With Cassie Ramone from the Vivian Girls he formed the Babies, a refreshingly, unaffected rock band that released two albums. Going solo in 2013, City Music is his fourth solo record, and his best. Recorded with his live band it’s a compelling mixture of introspection and sinewy rock that Lou Reed would have enjoyed for its sly intelligence. 


27.   Courtneys - II (Flying Nun)
These three women sound like a Flying Nun band, veering between power pop and buzzing shoegaze, complete with breathy female vocals floating on the band’s bed of distorted, jangly guitars. A Vancouver band recording for the New Zealand label, the Courtneys measured pop aggression is more market friendly than most of the Nun stable because the Courtneys drive the groove home. Singer and drummer Jen Payne sings about infatuation and heartbreak and the usual ‘girl group’ emotional menu, but the band powers these songs well beyond twee. 

28.    Endless Boogie – Vibe Killer (No Quarter)
The concept almost seems like a joke. Endless Boogie = Blues Hammer. Ha ha ha. But these guys, who all started jamming at the record store in Brooklyn (can’t remember which one), take the most searing parts of Canned Heat’s “Endless Boogie” and the Stones’ “Midnight Rambler” (the sped up part, all wailing harp and guitars) and jam on their facsimiles ad infinitum. You’d be excused for thinking that sounds dull. It’s actually strangely mesmerizing. This is their third album, featuring the closest thing to tunes they’ve arrived at yet, without sacrificing the drone-buzz that stoner rocks you into nirvana. 


29.    JD McPherson – Undivided Heart and Soul (New West)
I gave JD’s first two records a little more respect. His first was a co-number one, his second a top ten record for Reverberations, my older blog. This is a really good record, good writing, inspired performance, and maturity that occasionally slides into mannerism. Such are the perils of excellence, if this were the first thing I ever heard by McPherson I’d think it was amazing. And it kinda is. 

30.    Joan Shelley – s/t (No Quarter)

When an artist goes the self-titled route for a fifth album it suggests either a lack of inspiration or a belief they’ve done definitive work. It’s safe to say that the latter applies in the case of Joan Shelley. Jeff Tweedy’s attentive, but unobtrusive production focuses on Shelley’s guitar playing and riveting vocals. Hers is a voice that’s ice and fire, a Yankee emotional analog to the incomparable Sandy Denny, with a similar emotional range, her songs expressing romantic isolation, romantic gratitude, and most points in between.
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The people have spoken.

The Dream Syndicate make a pretty awesome new album. Let us now praise not all that famous men (and a woman) ...

(Steven J Wilson)
  Let’s talk about the Dream Syndicate. They have a new album on Anti-Epitaph. You know, what gradually became viewed as Steve Wynn’s band. Until it was, well, Steve Wynn’s band and he had a solo career. Sigh. The guy has never made a shitty record. Some are better than others, but so are your mornings. Anyway, let’s talk about the Velvet Underground. You know you want to. Everybody does. They were great. Yup. They made a mindfuck of a debut album that set the template for everything left of center since. But damn it, in 2017 people get to have a variety of opinion about which of their four ( VU being almost a fifth, the others being live records) being the best Velvets album.  Among the tiny brain trust of alternative media, no such discussion is allowed when it comes to the Dream Syndicate. Nope, they made a revelatory debut (and their debut is most like the VU’s debut - not insignificant, since the Velvets were an acknowledged inspiration to the DS) - then it all went do
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Cancer Rising, Goodnight Grant, So Long Jessi

(Steven J Wilson)
A few weeks back my urologist cut something out of my bladder. A papillary carcinoma, I think it is called. One more box to tick off on my Medical History, one more reason I’ll never buy life insurance: Cancer. Oh, I’m alright. Doc’s pretty sure they “got it.” Of course, having a cam and a cutter crammed up my prick may be a little more frequent feature of my life. But, so it goes. It goes, that is, until you’re gone. Grant Hart is gone. 56, cancer. Jessi Zazu is gone. 28, cancer. I scroll through my Facebook friends – Jesus, lots of gone ones. Most gone to cancer. Devin, Greg – hell, so many. Shit’s in my family, too. My in-laws and my sister-in-law have had their battles with the stuff. My mom was lost to cancer, at 73. She’d be 100 in October. My dad followed her three years later; he was 87. He would have been 109 yesterday if he was from the Caucasus Mountains and ate lots of yogurt. Cancer? Nope. Heartbreak. It happens. Saul Bellow understood. Oh,
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John Murry, gutter Gothic poet from Tupelo.

(Steven J Wilson)
A call went out from central casting for a singer-songwriter. A particular sort. The call out read as thus: Wanted, man in black type figure, roots in the Deep South, profound experience with drugs and heartbreak, think Flannery O’Connor protagonist who time warps into a Lou Reed fan. John Murry applied. He got the job. All other interviews were canceled. Based on his previous solo recording The Graceless Age , his previous work with Memphis legend/recluse Bob Frank, and his resemblance to Hazel Motes … well, it was no contest. The first thing I had to get over about John Murry was how fucking much he sounds like his friend Chuck Prophet. I think they must share a larynx.  The second thing I had to get over about John Murry was how close in sensibility he is to Nick Cave. The American South and Australia have a lot in common. Most of it ugly, but damned if it doesn’t make for great lore.  Okay, I’m over it, whatever it is. A Short History of Decay is  a collection that ins
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