Genres

Donald Fagen and Walter Becker were already anachronisms when they met as jazz-obsessed teenagers in the late ‘60s and began to write the droll, harmonically complex songs that made Steely Dan one of the greatest and most unique bands of the ‘70s. So it’s not surprising that the duo who worked tirelessly to get the best performances out of skilled session players never had much interest in hip-hop and the art of sampling. They even made it difficult to clear samples; they negotiated for the entire songwriting credit and publishing for the Lord Tariq & Peter Gunz hit “Déjà Vu (Uptown Baby)” and only allowed a “Kid Charlemagne” sample on Kanye West’s “Champion” after West sent the duo a passionate handwritten letter. But even Steely Dan’s stingy attitude towards sample clearances hasn’t stopped dozens of artists from doing the necessary paperwork to obtain use of the band’s gloriously recorded jazz-rock grooves (though De La Soul may not have, which could be why one of the most famous Steely Dan samples, the “Peg” loop on “Eye Know,” isn’t available on streaming services). But while the Dan’s tightly syncopated grooves and densely detailed arrangements clearly attract crate-digging producers the most, Donald Fagen’s voice figures into a surprising number of samples, boasting “Yes, I’m gonna be a star” on Amiri’s “Star” or chanting “They don’t give a fuck about anybody else” on one of Super Furry Animals’ biggest UK chart hits. The Steely Dan songs that have been sampled by multiple artists offer a case study in how many options the band’s rich arrangements offer to beatmakers. Lord Tariq and Peter Gunz went for the obvious but irresistible opening bars of “Black Cow,” while MF Doom zeroed in on a lovely keyboard flourish that happens just once in the song’s bridge. And where Audio Bullys looped the hypnotic guitar lick from “Midnite Cruiser,” legendary Atlanta production team Organized Noize played the riff at three different speeds to create a whole new chord progression for Sleepy Brown’s solo track “Dress Up.” Becker, sadly, passed away on September 3, 2017. But his music lives on—and continues to find new audiences—through the many hip-hop, rock, and R&B tracks collected here.

The ’80s were a busy era for artists dusting off vintage tunes. This shouldn’t come as any surprise seeing as how those years were rampant with nostalgia. As Simon Reynolds charts in his book Retromania: Pop Culture’s Addiction to Its Own Past, the decade coughed up numerous revivals, whether we’re talking rockabilly, traditional country, or Tin Pan Alley pop. Even politics turned nostalgic, with Ronald Reagan riding a wave of longing for the innocence and simplicity of the good, old days (whatever that meant) into the White House. (In fact, Reagan’s 1980 campaign slogan was none other than “Let’s Make America Great Again.”) Margaret Thatcher tapped near-identical sentiments during her overlapping run as prime minister. As for music, though, the Brits were less obsessed with the past, though they did launch several trends heavily indebted to older styles such as ska, Northern soul, and musty psychedelia. Moreover, there was a deep fascination with the fashion and culture of England circa World War II, something that inspired numerous musicians, including Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark.But despite these cultural developments, nostalgia can’t totally account for the existence of a track like the Pet Shop Boys’ earworm “Always on My Mind,” a transatlantic smash in 1987 and arguably the synth-pop duo’s most enduring recording. There’s something more complex at play here than the kind of retromania baked into, say, Phil Collins’ slavish tribute to Motown, “You Can’t Hurry Love.” Coming of age in the era of new wave, a movement that could be both deeply nostalgic and boldly modernist almost ot the point of self-contradiction, The Pet Shop Boys fully conflate looking back with leaping forward. If the song’s syrupy strings, horn stabs, and crooning vocals channel the dramatic flair of Elvis Presley’s version, a schmaltzy, adult contemporary ballad that snuck into the Top 40 in 1972, its metronomic pulse, Italo disco-flavored gloss, and automated percussion all ooze robotic futurism.Perhaps this is too rich of a comparison, but a fitting analog is the luxurious art deco portraits of Tamara de Lempicka. By collapsing the Renaissance’s naturalism into early modernism’s geometric abstraction, the Polish painter, active in ’20s and ’30s, produced a strangely alluring vision that erased the hundreds of years separating 14th-century Florence and the city of the future as depicted in director Fritz Lang’s Metropolis. It’s in this setting that “Always on My Mind” finds a fitting home.The Pet Shop Boys weren’t the only synth-pop act to achieve this uncanny union. In fact, they were working from a template established earlier in the ’80s. Marc Almond and Soft Cell deserve bigtime credit for their transformation of “Tainted Love,” a then obscure ’60s soul hit for belter Gloria Jones, into a marching anthem of heartache riddled with the kind of bleeps and blops more associated with Atari games than pop hits. Naked Eyes’ re-imagining of the Burt Bacharach and Hal David-penned “Always Something There to Remind Me,” arriving two years later, in 1983, is significantly more naturalistic sounding, yet the video blew up on MTV and served as further proof that the proliferation of affordable synthesizers and drum machines was swiftly making over pop. After all, even a thoroughly DIY outfit like Denial could acquire the technology needed to morph The Mamas & The Papas’ folk-rock gem “California Dreaming” into a bleak dirge reflective of synth-pop’s dystopian side.We should now circle back around to new wave, from which synth-pop emerged (though post-punk, David Bowie, and Roxy Music definitely shaped it, too). New wave churned out a wealth of novel covers in the ’80s. Admittedly, they’re not as sublime in their blend of past with future; that’s because new wave, thanks to its pronounced rock feel, leans towards the naturistic. Nevertheless, there are a handful of cuts that are relevant to the discussion at hand. Devo, of course, nailed the concept of computerized rock with 1977’s landmark take on “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction,” but the quirky brainiacs also tackled a wonderfully bopping rendition of the New Orleans R&B nugget “Working in a Coal Mine” that sounds as though its sheet music would consist of nothing but ones and zeroes. And then there’s Bow Wow Wow’s “I Want Candy.” Not a synthesizer is to be found on it; however, by swapping the original’s stomping, Bo Diddley beat for a frenetic, African groove nicked from the ritualistic music of Burundi and the Zulus, they achieved a singular sound that, while looking back to ancient sounds of indigenous African culture, charges full steam ahead into a future where pop takes on a global, post-everything dimension. In this sense, “I Want Candy” very much warrants a spot among its synth-pop cousins.

All of us have our own personal soundtracks, the streams and playlists that run through our heads, especially in situations that demand a more deluxe treatment. For some, ideas about what that sound had to be was forged by obsessive viewings of the very coolest ‘80s cinema on worn and battered VHS tapes. Driven by sleek machine-made rhythms and slathered in washes of vintage synthesizers, it’s a sound that evokes the sight of neon lights reflected on rain-slicked city streets as you drive through the night in a black Maserati (though a Ford Focus will do if there’s nothing left at Hertz).That’s certainly the sound favored by Daniel Lopatin, the Brooklyn-based musician and producer better known as Oneohtrix Point Never. The sibling movie-director team of Josh and Benny Safdie tapped him to score their 2017 film Good Time, a grubby, thoroughly New York-y crime story that stars a plausibly messed-up Robert Pattinson as a small-time crook trying to take care of his mentally disabled brother during a long night of bad luck and worse decisions. While the film’s visual style evokes the grittiest ‘70s flicks of John Cassavetes, Lopatin’s music might’ve been perfect for a Michael Mann thriller. Indeed, the soundtrack demonstrates Lopatin’s love for Tangerine Dream, the German synth pioneers who famously scored Mann’s 1981 movie Thief and whose epic “Phaedra” was memorably repurposed for the Safdies’ 2014 drug-addict drama Heaven Knows What.Good Time is also part of a wider resurgence for the moody, menacing synth-rock sound that was de rigueur for movies of an earlier era. The electronic soundscapes of Tangerine Dream and Jean-Michel Jarre have become touchstones for a new generation of scorers, along with Vangelis’ sumptuous music for Blade Runner and Giorgio Moroder’s more propulsive accompaniment for Midnight Express, American Gigolo, and Scarface. Of course, the god of the form—partially because he was the rare filmmaker who created his own soundtracks—remains John Carpenter. Such was the worship and influence of his minimalist synth scores in recent years, Carpenter felt compelled to begin a full-fledged music career in his seventh decade, recording two albums for Sacred Bones.Lopatin’s hardly the only contemporary musician to believe that nothing sets a movie’s mood better than a synthesizer arpeggiator. Other new masters of the aesthetic include Kyle Dixon and Michael Stein (Stranger Things), Richard Vreeland a.k.a. Disasterpeace (It Follows), Cliff Martinez (Drive), and Jon Hopkins (Monsters). It’s been further explored by Portishead’s Geoff Barrow and Ben Salisbury, whose mesmerizing Drokk comprises their rejected score for the 2012 sci-fi thriller Dredd, and Zombie Zombie, a French electro-garage duo with a penchant for roughing up Carpenter themes in much the same way that Lopatin sandpapers the pristine surfaces of Tangerine Dream for Good Time.So even though it’ll never be 1985 again, there’s no better time for you to get behind the wheel of the hottest car you can find and drive into the night.

Oh, I’m tired of looking for homeAnd asking about my loved onesMy soul is woundedSo the Syrian singer Omar Souleyman cries on “Mawal,” the penultimate track off his 2017 album, To Syria, With Love. After six years of war in his home country, the man known among Westerners for his dabke jams, for his laments to heartsickness, and for his ubiquitous keffiyeh and sunglasses can hold in his feelings no longer—he misses home.The war in Syria has spurred a global refugee crisis, stoked xenophobic and Islamophobic fears across Europe and America, and prompted U.S. president Donald Trump to add the Levantine nation to his list of countries thrown onto a controversial travel ban. But Syria’s musical traditions offer a much-needed escape from the horrors of war. Indeed, as this playlist shows, there is much to explore, from honey-voiced pop stars like George Wassouf and Assala Nasri to classical and folk traditions championed today by the likes of Ibrahim Keivo and the Orchestra or Syrian Musicians (members of whom performed a much-heralded concert last year in London with Damon Albarn and other guests as part of the musical collective Africa Express).Even before the war, Syria was never given a good rep in Western media representations; talk was all about Bashar al-Assad and the “axis of evil.” But in the Middle East, this country is famed for its rich traditions of art, music, and culture. Indeed, the capital Damascus contends as one of the oldest cities in the world, while the major city of Aleppo was famed as a center for sacral chants and the poetic and musical form called mowashah, preserved for centuries among Sufi and Christian musicians. Today, the situation may be incredibly dire for millions of Syrians, but there’s still the music, helping us heal from yesterday to today.

Click here to subscribe to the Spotify playlist.In an era where singles carry the industry, and albums are just collected singles, and mixtapes are albums, TDE in 2016 approached their releases like Def Jam in 1998 — stuffing them to the gills. Each album featured the patented TDE approach of Two Songs For One, pioneered on Kendricks "Sing About Me, Im Dying of Thirst, the 12-minute capper on Good Kid, Maad City and followed by the seven-minute "Prescription/Oxymoron" on Schoolboy Qs Oxymoron. Check the track totals and album lengths this year:Ab-Soul, Do What Thou Wilt.: 16 songs, 77 minutesIsaiah Rashad, The Song’s Tirade: 17 songs, 63 minutesSchoolboy Q, Blank Face: 17 songs, 72 minutesKendrick Lamar, untitled unmastered: 8 songs, 34 minutesHaving the patience to make it past 10-12 songs in one sitting for any music fan is trying. TDEs position is its better to have more and not need it than to not have enough. Long gone are the days of GZAs philosophy of making albums "brief son, half short and twice as strong.” Blank Face would be a top 3 album if it closed with the title track, and Ab-Souls fascination with Lupe and Eminem would be better served in under 40 minutes.This would be a deterrent if not for the artists themselves choosing to eschew the pop charts they so clearly had their eyes on in the aftermath of Kendricks breakthrough Good Kid four years ago. Schoolboys Blank Face was a popcorn movie of an album, action-packed, fun, violent, and full of beloved heroes like Tha Dogg Pound, Jadakiss, and E-40. Isaiah Rashads The Suns Tirade was breezy and introspective, more than capable of soundtracking cookouts for the next 5 years. Ab-Soul doubled down on his Conspiracy Brother impulses on his third album Do What Thou Wilt, becoming the millennial Ras Kass in the process. And Kendricks untitled unmastered, while sloppy in parts, was an interesting bookend to Pimp a Butterfly — 34 minutes of outtakes and "How the hell was THAT not a single?" moments jampacked into 8 songs.This playlist is the easiest way to enjoy the high points from TDEs best overall year top to bottom without having to take on too much Netflix truther documentary talk from Ab-Soul, nihilistic glee from Schoolboy, unfinished jazzy ruminations from Kendrick, or mumble mouthed charm from Isaiah.

Matching guitar crosstalk with a lead singer whose pinched tones were like balsamic vinegar on the arugula-dry instrumental bits, Television remain sui generis. My introduction was their 1992 reunion album, which, I swear, deserves to be embraced as fully as their seventies work. As cool as an Old Fashioned on a terrace in January, this eponymous album puts a parched Tom Verlaine against his and Richard Lloyd’s excess; it’s the equivalent of watching Maureen Stapleton Interiors and her uninhibited red dress dancing. And Lloyd’s fiery rhythm work had just gotten a full workout on Matthew Sweet’s Girlfriend. This is the sort of band that spells “glamour” with a u and comes up with solos to match; this is the sort of band whose songwriter-guitarist comes up with a phrase as piquant and lyrical as his best lead line.I included Verlaine solo tracks because they’re essential.Visit our affiliate/partner site Humanizing the Vacuum for great lists, commentary, and more.

For the most spectacular comeback of my lifetime, Tina Turner copped not an inch to the Madonna market. She sang Terry Britten and Graham Lyle’s “What’s Love Got to Do With It” from the point of view of a middle aged woman who has seen enough bullshit from young songwriters and producers, many of whom are more desperate than lovers; she has learned to live on reflex. So few popular songs take this point of view that thirty-three years later the triumph feels more earned than ever. Fortunately, Tina Turner kept going. Her best material embodies wanderlust, intrinsically and conceptually: she travels from producer to producer, like her women do for kicks, often ending up burned but with a je ne regrette rien attitude.Visit our affiliate/partner site Humanizing the Vacuum for great lists, commentary, and more.

Replacing the beret for a skull did wonders for Tom Waits’ cred. Movie ballads, sea shanties, Keith Richards collaborations, Delta blues, eating worms for Francis Ford Coppola — he’s beat you. His voluminous catalog defeats me; I relied on the CD-R I burned in the early 2000s of the beer ‘n’ Beats stuff and have fitfully kept up with his career since he and wife/chief collaborator Kathleen Brennan released album after album of songs about brawlers, boozers, and bastards this millennium. I prize Bone Machinemost, bought in January 1993 and to my ears the peak of his clink-clank ethos whose shrewdness allowed him to issue more than a few maudlin things that attracted him to Rod Stewart (I adore his “Downtown Train” by the way). He let Marc Ribot pull Beefheart-inflected melodic noise from his guitar, allowing him the space to treat percussion like a second lead. Give him this: he found a way to fuse Flannery O’Connor, Howlin’ Wolf, and Streisand.Visit our affiliate/partner site Humanizing the Vacuum for great lists, commentary, and more.

In 1990 when I discovered Consolidated and Meat Beat Manifesto, Nine Inch Nails didn’t come up. Melodic, entranced by rock star poses, Trent Reznor had no patience for the happiness-in-slavery submission to beats and noise of industrial, which marked him as a star from the beginning—NIN, not Consolidated, were asked to play Lollapalooza in 1991. I’m not a fan—this kind of hysteria makes me question the idea of sex itself, for if you’re heaving and shouting and lisping and drooling so strenuously, you must be more desperate than I need at the moment. But I can’t deny Reznor’s manipulation of self-destructive zones that stop just short of demilitarized zones. His most sustained recording is Broken, when he figured out the connections between Adam Ant and Adam and Eve. I wish I had seen his 1995 tour with David Bowie, with whom he formed a poignant bond: a tour that didn’t deserve its slings, according to the clips I’ve watched.Visit our partner site Humanizing the Vacuum for great lists, commentary and more.

We’re supposed to be living in the age of infinite, unimpeded access to the entire history of recorded music. The reality, of course, isn’t so simple. If streaming services are the new record stores, they can be just as susceptible to supply-side issues as their brick-and-mortar predecessors. In other words: sometimes, the album you really want to hear isn’t in stock. In the streamiverse, certain artists’ discographies can resemble digital Swiss cheese, particularly if they bounced between number of labels over the course of the career, and especially if some of those labels went belly up. Historically, reissues have taken the form of lavish packages that come loaded with outtakes, rare photos and detailed liner notes, and that often still is the case. But in this day and age, “reissue” has also just become a fancy code word for “old album I can now stream on Spotify.”As such, some of the year’s most welcome new arrivals to the streaming world were technically reissues of once-lost records whose preceding reissues had also gone out of print, such as Simply Saucer’s crucial early ‘70s proto-punk document Cyborgs Revisited or pre-teen disco-punk diva Chandra’s 1980-era Transportation. 2018 also proved that there are still obscure private-pressed singer-songwriters (like Colorado-based pro-rock-climber-turned-troubadour Pat Ament), ‘70s space-rock groups (Canada’s Melodic Energy Commission), ‘80s post-punk bands (New Zealand’s Nocturnal Projections) and unsung ‘90s grunge groups (Australia’s Magic Dirt) out there waiting to rediscovered; still unsung funk auteurs deserving to be rescued from the crates (Tim Jones a.k.a. Preacherman); still no limit to the synth-fueled freakery lurking in the back catalog of late electronic-music pioneer Bruce Haack (check the proto-rap jam “Party Machine”); and still no bottom to the well of wiggy grooves emanating from West Africa in the 1970s (see: the Benin-focused second edition of Analog Africa’s Africa Scream Contest series).Among more high-profile reclamation projects, The Beatles’ 50th-anniversary White Album box set proved to be the rare classic-rock cash grab whose bonus tracks are just as mythical as the original material. (On top of providing fans with official versions of oft-bootlegged curios like “Revolution 1 - Take 18”—which connects the familiar acoustic sing-along with the sound-collage chaos of “Revolution 9”—the alternate Take 10 version of “Good Night” suggests Ringo invented the third Velvet Underground album a few months early.) In some cases, reissues transported us back to a watershed moment in rock history, be it Detroit’s mid-’60s garage-band scene (via a pre-fame Bob Seger’s band the Last Heard) or Neil Young’s infamously rowdy post-Harvest/pre-Tonight’s the Night residency at the Roxy in Los Angeles circa 1973. With others, we revisited notoriously mercurial bands at a key early stage in their evolution, like when The Flaming Lips started to dress up their psych rock with bells and whistles (on the ‘92-era gem “Zero to a Million”) or when Brooklyn bruisers The Men started to infuse their punk-rock roar with more emotional undertones on “Wasted.” And then there were reissues that gave us an intimate audience to private moments of creation—like Prince’s largely improvised Piano & A Microphone1983, Julee Cruise’s early ethereal demos, or the 25th-anniversary excavation of Liz Phair’s lo-fi Girly-Sound Tapes, which was perfectly timed to reify her profound influence on a new generation of confessional indie-rockers.But some of this year’s most notable archival projects were less about satiating completists than commemorating lives cut short far too soon. Women guitarist Chris Reimer—who passed away suddenly in 2012 at age 26—was honored with a collection of private home recordings, Hello People, that showcased his budding talents as an ambient soundscaper. The legacy of Ross Shapiro, the late singer/guitarist for Athens indie-rock hopefuls The Glands, was fortified with the release of the outtakes collection Double Coda. The free-ranging career of Chris Cornell was encapsulated by an box set featuring a handful of previously unreleased oddities—including a cover of U2’s “One” that subs in the lyrics to Metallica’s “One”—that present a more playful portrait of the brooding grunge god. And a survey of Joe Strummer’s solo career, 001, was capped with the 1988-era castaway “U.S. North,” a valorous 10-minute cavalry charge that marks a rare reunion with Mick Jones, suggesting the sort of epic rock music The Clash might’ve headed toward had they survived into the late ‘80s. It’s a reminder that the best reissues and compilations don’t just preserve history, but allow us to imagine an alternate one.