The eMusic Dozen: My Dozen

Looking over the list of records I've chosen, every single one creates its own private world, with its own language and logic. At its best, the song-poem — basically a hustle in which the mark pays to have his words put to music with the so-vague-it's-not-illegal promise of riches — combines the naiveté of the lyricist with the punch-drunk cynicism of the anonymous assembly-line studio musicians, and ends up with something you've never heard the likes of before. It could be the weird and beautiful "Little Rug Bug" or "Ecstasy to Frenzy," or it could be the way-way-out "Beat of the Traps" or the various history lessons ("Jimmy Carter Says Yes," "Richard Nixon," "The Moon Men").

Emotionally, I would prefer to be recommending Compilation, which is how I first heard them, on a cassette no less, which only increased the mystery surrounding this New Zealand trio. But that record in its entirety can be found within Anthology, so this will do fine. I've spent more time loving the Clean in the last 25 years than any other band, and I probably can't describe why. But when any one of them — Hamish or David or Robert — start singing, I melt. Their songs — four random favorites: "Point That Thing Somewhere Else," "Getting Older," "Anything Could Happen," "Drawing to a Hole" — sound like they were plucked out of the air, rather than written. All three band members have made more music on their own and with other groups than they have as the Clean, and most of it's great, but something happens when they get together that is not only unmatched on their work apart from each other, but is unlike anything else I've ever heard.

If the Pretty Things had been from the American South this might be the album they made instead of Parachute. I got the first Glands record from Bar/None and liked it, but it became one of those CDs lost in the tide. Then we saw them in Nashville while we were down there recording. At some point Georgia said to me that they were like a cross between the Cars and the Soft Boys and I acted like I knew just what she meant, especially when, within minutes, they were covering "Just What I Needed." But nothing prepared me for how sensational this record is. Every time I get ready to listen to it, I think that "Swim" is my favorite song, but then as each one starts I realize: No, that's my favorite. (But it's really "Swim.")

I guess this is Isaac Hayes's second record, but it's the first one I heard of. Previously, he had been a behind-the-scenes guy, playing piano for Stax and co-writing "Hold On, I'm Comin'" and "Soul Man," among many others. So where did Hot Buttered Soul come from? It's as if Carole King had released Electric Ladyland instead of Tapestry. If you love pop music and long songs as much as I do, then this one can't be beat. You're bound to know a bigger Jimmy Webb fan than me, but what Isaac Hayes does with "By the Time I Get to Phoenix" is so fantastic, somehow completely over the top and sincere. The country and soul hybrid has been done many times before and since, by artists as diverse as Ray Charles and Gram Parsons, but never like this. Only slightly less mindblowing is "Walk on By."

I first heard of Michael Hurley when he was on the Youngbloods' Raccoon Records, but I guess I didn't love Good and Dusty or High on a Ridgetop enough to explore the rest of the catalogue. A terrible decision! I finally heard Michael Hurley on 1976's Have Moicy!, and ever since he's just been one of those guys I seem to like — as the Spiral Staircase put it so eloquently — more today than yesterday (but not as much as tomorrow). I've never encountered anybody in less of a hurry than Michael Hurley; he always seems a second or two behind, like he's not quite seeing or hearing the same things we are. This one's got a rerecording of one of my Top Two of his, "Hog of the Forsaken" — love the way his voice can't quite hit the high notes.

This is the culmination of the first phase of Lambchop's existence, that period when a bunch of friends, many of them musicians, would get together every week and seemingly Kurt Wagner'd find an instrument for anyone who dropped by. Listening to it now, one can imagine that Kurt knew they were about to move on and took one last snapshot of the group. The five covers (including one by Dump) and the "Soul Finger"-inspired party instrumental that wraps things up make you feel like you've been fortunate to eavesdrop on a moment in time that passed before anyone involved even knew. Best of all, "The Saturday Option" is one of my very favorite of Kurt's songs.

I can't think of Thelonious Monk without thinking of Terry Adams and NRBQ, and it's pretty hard to pass up the Thelonious Monk Trio record and its version of "Bye-Ya," which I heard NRBQ play many times before I ever heard Monk. But a few things make me go with Monk's Music. I love the unusual small big band lineup: two tenors (John Coltrane and Coleman Hawkins) instead of Monk's usual one, plus trumpet and alto. The Knicks fan in me demands a record with that Madison Square Garden staple, "Well, You Needn't." And then there's the opening cut, "Abide With Me" — a brief (under a minute) horns-only hymn that gets me every time; it's never far from my brain. Reminds me of the Beach Boys' Friends record, which similarly begins with the tantalizingly short "Meant for You."

In 1991, the Mummies opened for Mudhoney at Maxwell's on New Year's Eve. Four guys in filthy mummy suits, totally ferocious assault on '60s garage punk. It should be the kind of thing that can only work live, but "Your Ass (Is Next in Line)" and "Stronger Than Dirt" make quick work of that theory. And just in case this Dozen hasn't been personal enough, I want to publicly thank them for helping me shovel the sidewalk in front of our house on their next visit to NYC, during one of the many blizzards of 1993.

OK, I've got some idea how the Clean pull it off — three people appearing to think with one brain, jumping off from the Velvet Underground and British beat music. But how do William Parker and the other 16 members of Little Huey do it? The liner notes provide an answer of sorts, but like Penn & Teller, the explanation only makes things more confounding. Wholly improvised, though calling upon some composed parts — right? — the results are raucous and poignant and thrilling. William Parker's like a modern day Sun Ra, holding together not only this band, but countless other ensembles, and in fact the entire annual Vision Festival, in the face of widespread indifference, by some otherwordly force of will. Obviously it's overly simplistic to suggest he's acting on his own, but he does seem to be everywhere at once.

As if the Sun Ra world wasn't expansive enough, covering standards from the big band era through Disney and some of the wildest, freest recordings ever made, this collection goes so far out it has to be heard to be believed. If you don't want to hear a song called "Muck Muck" as performed by Yochanan (The Space Age Vocalist), then we have nothing to talk about, and I will have to insist you stop reading right now. Two versions of "I'm Gonna Unmask the Batman" (OK, one of them's "I Am Gonna Unmask the Batman"), one a wild Sun Ra stomp, the other a Lacy Gibson blues number with Buddy Guy on guitar. Doo-wop! Sun Ra does doo-wop: love those Cosmic Rays and Qualities cuts. If you don't want to hear a song called "Teenager's Letter of Promises" as performed by Juanita Rogers & Lynn Hollings with Mr. V's Five Joys, then really, I'm serious this time, stop reading. "Rocket #9," "Love in Outer Space," "Disco 2100" — and that's still just scratching the surface.

Eleventh Dream Day started around the same time as our band, and like us there was a married couple at their core. And they, too, had an unsatisfying tenure on Atlantic, although they didn't have Matador as a buffer. You can’t blame everything on the major label (or rather, you can if you want, but we don't know for sure), but by the time they were through with Atlantic and vice versa, drummer/vocalist Janet Bean was more occupied with being a guitarist/vocalist in Freakwater, bassist Doug McCombs was having more success with Tortoise, and Wink O’Bannon had one foot back in Louisville. Improbably, to put it mildly, the band responded with far and away their best record. (It remains my favorite.) With John McEntire recording, they suddenly sounded completely at ease making a record instead of simply recording live in the studio. Every song sounds different and though it’s a far more somber album than any of its predecessors, “Orange Moon” might be their most intense rocker ever.