By Scott
King’s X, Three Sides of One (2022).
When this album appeared in September, I could hardly believe it had been fourteen years since their last one, and it put me in a weird mood thinking about all the things that’ve happened since then. But then I got down to listening, and it felt like being in the presence of old friends. Three Sides of One is more than a nostalgic treat, though; it’s great on its own and, surprisingly, among King's X’s heaviest and most hard rocking. I love the title, too: King’s X is one of those power trios whose individual members each make a distinct, unmistakable, and irreplaceable contribution to their overall sound, and these three guys have been at it for a long time.
Porcupine Tree, Closure/Continuation (2022).
Another long-awaited release, the band’s first since 2009’s The Incident. Like that album, this one has a meandering proggy sound, and the songs are less compact and catchy than on certain previous Porcupine Tree albums or even some of band leader Steven Wilson’s solo albums. Closure/Continuation takes a little while to sink in, but it rewards repeated listens. I suppose it isn’t clear if this will be the last Porcupine Tree album or the beginning of a new era—hence the ambiguity of the title—but I say, keep’em coming.
Devin Townsend, Lightwork (2022).
Just about anything Devin Townsend releases will end up on my favorites list, and while I’m still digesting Lightwork, I’m starting to think that this is one of his best ever. Townsend’s restless style can be eclectic to a fault, and often he’s too prolific for his own good. But Lightwork is focused and purposeful, and even restrained in places, in a way that never restricts Townsend’s omnivorous sound. The companion album, Nightwork, is totally justified: it has more metal than Lightwork and more of everything else, too, without seeming like a hodgepodge of studio leftovers. (I’ll add an honorable mention here for his Galactic Quarantine, a 2021 live album recorded, amazingly, by musicians in four different places, with a great set list that includes Strapping Young Lad songs alongside solo stuff.)
Meshuggah, Immutable (2022).
There are moments when Meshuggah sounds like a physics experiment about to go terribly wrong, and there are moments when, despite all the odd time signatures and extreme polyrhythms, their music just washes over you like the cold, dark, crushing ocean. Immutable evokes that latter mood more often than the former, even though you might still give yourself a headache trying to count out the measures. But this album is a reminder, for me, of how a band whose unique sound could easily have become a gimmick long ago instead keeps putting out amazing work.
Chris Smither, Call Me Lucky (2018).
Smither has been around for a long time, but I just started listening to this album recently. His version of the Beatles’s “She Said She Said” got my attention—I’ll take it over the original—but the whole thing is great, especially his eerie, bleak version of “Maybellene.” Smither sings with a weary wisdom that you can’t fake (even though many singer-songwriters try), and I foresee spending 2023 going through his discography.
The Naxos Early Music Collection (2019).
Every year I make a resolution to expand my limited knowledge of classical music, and every year I pretty much fail to do anything about it. But in 2022, I went back a little further, historically, and found myself listening to this hefty box set of medieval and Renaissance music, along with another Naxos box set of Monteverdi’s madrigals. I mostly listened to this stuff at night, with headphones, while I was falling asleep, and I can tell you that weird things happen when you drift off, then suddenly wake up again while listening to Gregorian chants or something else that was composed half a millennium ago. I wouldn’t say I love everything in here, but it’s been an interesting journey.
Crowbar, Zero and Below (2022).
Speaking of music that ought to survive for half a millennium. Crowbar’s motto should be, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. It ain’t, so they didn’t!
ZZ Top, Tres Hombres (1973).
Growing up, I knew ZZ Top through their hits, and I always thought they were kind of cool and kind of cheesy. I never felt compelled to investigate them much further. But last year, I bought one of those budget box sets with their first 10 albums, and I was surprised by how much I enjoyed their earlier stuff. Tres Hombres in particular has been in heavy rotation. “La Grange,” of course, is one of their most famous songs, but the openers “Waitin’ For the Bus” and “Jesus Just Left Chicago” make as good a one-two punch as I’ve ever heard. I’ve really come to appreciate Frank Beard’s tight, propulsive drumming on these 1970s albums, too.
Sturgill Simpson, Cuttin’ Grass, Vol. 1 & 2 (2020).
Artists did a lot of things to tread water during the pandemic, and Simpson had the good idea to record bluegrass versions of a bunch of his songs. These two albums are hugely enjoyable, and I’ve found myself listening to them more often than even his most recent proper album, The Ballad of Dood and Juanita.
Elvis, directed by Baz Luhrmann (2022).
I didn’t expect to like this movie as much as I did, but Luhrmann’s hectic, overstuffed style is a perfect match for the Presley myth—and this movie really is about Elvis the mythic figure, the cultural icon, and not so much the historical person. It goes well with Elvis Presley: The Searcher, a 2018 documentary that at times feels like an Official Product of the Presley Estate but at others feels elegiac, even ghostly, thanks to the way it was assembled and the music by Mike McCready.
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