The Flaming Lips, Embryonic (Warner)
…BECAUSE OLD IS THE NEW BOLD
Twenty years ago, I got to see The Who and The Rolling Stones play (separate) concerts at Exhibition Stadium, and even back in 1989, both bands already looked like desiccated dinosaurs to me — Pete Townshend played most of The Who show on acoustic guitar to avoid aggravating his tinnitus, and when Mick Jagger declared, “here’s one from our new album, Steel Wheels,” he might as well have been saying, “Now would be a good time to get a hot dog.” So it’s pretty astounding to me that The Flaming Lips are at the same stage in their lifespan — 25 years in — that the Stones and Who were back then, but have hit the quarter-century mark with the boldest, most compelling and downright disorienting music of their crazy career. It would’ve been easy for The Flaming Lips to ride their post-Yoshimi success by churning out more cutesy, quirky pop for the Spongebob set, but on Embryonic, they willfully burst their inflatable bubble with mutant stoner-metal (“Worm Mountain”), Dark Side of the Moon Safari android ballads (“The Impulse”) and deep-fried, scrambled-brain meltdowns (“Powerless”). The Flaming Lips have always sung about the inevitability of death; on Embryonic, they vividly approximate the panic-stricken, heart-pounding terror of its imminence. STUART BERMAN




Dirty Projectors, Bitte Orca (Domino)
…BECAUSE INDIE ROCK NEEDS MORE MARIAH CAREY
Dirty Projectors’ mastermind Dave Longstreth is a mad scientist of a musical genius — I was absolutely convinced of that back when the Brooklyn-based Yale dropout was covering Black Flag’s Damaged from memory and writing concept albums about Don Henley. But with Bitte Orca, Longstreth proves his worth as a brilliant pop alchemist, blending influences and techniques as diverse as Mariah Carey, Talking Heads, free jazz, operatic vocal harmonies and Thom Yorke’s sense of suburban anxiety for a record that’s totally listenable and thoroughly catchy — I’ve witnessed even the most slanted and disenchanted, indie rock-weary writer become obsessed with “Stillness is the Move” after just one listen. Bitte Orca is also a perfectly realized ensemble performance, in which Longstreth beautifully exploits the vocal talents of bandmates Angel Deradoorian and Amber Coffman while turning unlikely ideas into radio-ready epics. I dare you to find a melody as heart-meltingly gorgeous as the chorus to “No Intention” or a guitar solo as unhinged as the one on “Useful Chamber.” Sure, in 2009 Dirty Projectors graced the pages of New York magazine almost as often as Mayor Bloomberg or Bernie Madoff, but in DPs’ case, you should believe the hype. CHRIS BILTON




Slayer, World Painted Blood (American)
…BECAUSE THRASH METAL IS THE NEW BLACK (METAL) (AGAIN)
At 25 years old, sinister thrash-metal overlords Slayer have never slowed down. They have, however, struggled to maintain their crown. Over the last decade, their listless albums resulted in the venerable quartet being outshined by their juniors, a big lesson they applied to their 11th studio effort, World Painted Blood. Backing off of — but not entirely abandoning — the detuned, progressive tendencies that have marred their past few releases, World Painted Blood finds Slayer revisiting that which made them so striking to begin with: bitterness and rage, ear-splitting hyperactivity, crushing half-time riffs and enduring evil. As drummer Dave Lombardo stated before the album's release, World Painted Blood boasts key elements of the albums that make up the Slayer Trinity: Reign In Blood, South Of Heaven and Seasons In The Abyss. From the cryptic “Unit 731” through the venomous “Americon” and explosive “Psychopathy Red,” he's right. The album's fast, furious and frenetic nature reveals that the Slayer we know, love and have missed since the 1990s hasn’t gone away. KEITH CARMAN




Buguinha Dub, Vitrola Adubada (Les Cristaux Liquident)
…BECAUSE IT WAS THE INTERZONE’S GREATEST HIT THIS YEAR
This little gem of Brazilian dub speaks to two major trends of 2009: freely downloadable albums (of which it was one, via French netlabel Les Cristaux Liquident) and World Music 2.0. This year hasn’t seen the tipping point where free, internet-only full-lengths will be treated with the same gravity as conventional releases. But that time is coming soon, an era that will only help spread World Music 2.0 — namely the dancefloor-oriented, peer-to-peer global musical exchange which underpinned the success of Buraka Som Sistema, among others. WM2.0 isn’t just booty beats, either; so many combinations of technology, geography and inspiration are now possible. Vitrola Abubada sidesteps contemporary perceptions of Brazilian music with this imaginative dub album in the tradition of 80s trailblazers African Head Charge: lots of indigenous melodies and percussion, topped with spliffed-out vocal samples. What we have here is a virtual Brazilian/Jamaican/French summit; a suitable soundtrack to the 50th anniversary of William S. Burroughs’ Naked Lunch. DAVID DACKS




The Spits, School's Out (Recess)
…BECAUSE YOU DON'T NEED AN ART DEGREE TO GET IT
At this irritating point in history, where fusing musical genres is as respected as fusing atoms (and often produces results as dull as Wyclef reading a book-on-tape), The Spits put out an album that does what they have always done — a spooky, speedy fusion of keyboard rock and brain-damaged garage opuses. This is what makes them stand out: without bending to trends or navel-gazing, they produce catchy, fun music that sounds like it was recorded in a tin can while being as far away as possible from shoegaze grunge pretending to be punk rock. It wastes my time in the best sense of the phrase and isn't as simple as it seems, while maintaining a sound that deserves as much attention as any bongo playing, bong-hitting bearded band of college graduates. NICK FLANAGAN




Every Time I Die, New Junk Aesthetic (Epitaph)
…BECAUSE DEFEATISM HAS NEVER SOUNDED SO FUN
Tiger Woods’ demons are friendly ghosts compared to Keith Buckley’s. On Every Time I Die’s fifth record, the sardonic screamer confesses to his infidelity (“Why do I give myself away?”), crippling pessimism (“Where do you get off loving life?”), low self-esteem (“I’m worth nothing to me”), and all-around degeneracy (“I’m a coward, a drunkard, a crook”). But while nobler men might search for inner peace, Buckley cedes control to his demons (“I’ll continue to stumble around as long as everyone cheers me on”), letting them steer his band headfirst into a collision between modern hardcore and rock ’n’ roll. These are sneering devil-may-care anthems, with riffs that are twisted like Caligula’s sexual habits, rhythmic shifts that are as unpredictable as Tony Montana’s temper and more fist-pumping, headbanging moments than at a Motörhead gig. No point fighting the good fight anymore, Tiger. Just kick it like these boys do: morals low, balls out and tongue firmly planted in cheek. ALEX NINO GHECIU




Ghostface Killah, Ghostdini: The Wizard Of Poetry In Emerald City (Def Jam)
…BECAUSE RAP’S BIGGEST KILLAH WORSHIPS YOUR STRETCH MARKS
Quoted this year saying that he hadn’t shot anyone “since the early ’90s,” Wu Tang Clan member Ghostface Killah risked his gangsta cred to deliver a soft serve blend of rap and R&B. What resulted is the most mature relationship album of the year. Though the emotional tumult and power dynamics of love have confused many a thug, they’ve never been so expertly personified on baby-mama-drama ballad “Baby,” in which Ghostface admits to the pressures of fatherhood and imitates his girlfriend’s cravings for Popeye’s fried chicken. XXX rap track “Stapleton Sex” explicitly details the act itself, reveling in rough-hewn wordplay too wickedly dirty to reprint here. Still, it’s the rapper’s Joycean attention to detail, backed up by old school R&B samples, that melts hearts — particularly on the standout track, “Stay,” in which he admits “I’m not a cold blood killer baby, I cry too.” Love according to the gospel of Ghostface is a Dreamgirls DVD and a foot massage. It takes a real man to admit that they need that just as badly as anyone else. CHANDLER LEVACK



Junior Boys, Begone Dull Care (DOMINO)
…BECAUSE SOME POPPIES DESERVE TO BE TALL
The bloom is off the rose: Jeremy Greenspan and Matt Didemus are no longer new enough to be a considered a novelty by our fickle media (while their second disc was shortlisted for the Polaris Music Prize in ’07, Begone Dull Care only made the longlist). But I suspect Junior Boys don’t care. Their loyalty is to Hamilton and to Canada, the one they grew up in before they made records, and their third album — partly a tribute to NFB animator and Canadian émigré Norman McLaren — displays the kind of quixotic brilliance that Canadians usually need external validation to recognize. Screw us, then: if the blossoming arpeggiators of “What It’s For” and Greenspan’s yearning lyric on “Hazel” aren’t just as moving as some yokel doing a hand-me-down Gordon Lightfoot impression, then my Canada doesn’t include guitars. DAVE MORRIS