The black Radiohead?

TV on the Radio is this generation’s Radiohead. Yeah, that’s right. You heard me. I’ll say it again so it will have a chance to rest upon your mortal ears and soak into your soul to be processed, and then thrown back at me like Linda Blair throws pea soup. You may argue TVOTR are from the U.S. and therefore not quite as cool, classy, and intelligent as their rotten-toothed counterparts. To that I say ladies and gentlemen, TVOTR are cooler because they are black. Yeah, that’s right. You heard me. You better get used to this sorta thing if you’re gonna read these rants again. Oh, and not only are they black, they look borderline homeless. Maybe they were a few homeless friends, singing important soul songs on some dirty street of some major city when a chubby, computer nerd with tattoos walks by and asks them if they want to start what will be the defining band of the early 2000s.
Radiohead is the type of band that is in an undefined category of rock; a place where sounds seem to be pulled out of thin air and contorted until they become part a melody. They are expanding the balloon of music around them to the busting point, and their songs will be covered by kids starting generation defining bands for decades to come. TVOTR are doing the same as we speak. True, they have yet to write a concept album (see OK Computer), or an electronic album (see Kid A), but they are throwing music in all new directions and placing the bar almost too high to even do pull-ups on. They are experiment without sacrificing melody, they use electronics without selling their souls. They will be around as long as indie rock is.

a spoon full of whiskey makes the sex go down

Jack White’s newest supergroup, The Dead Weather, would like to personally thank whiskey, cigarettes, and the devil for aiding them in the fight to keep rock n roll dirty and sexy. They will never be the White Stripes when it comes to innovation and the saving of rock music as we know it (remember the late nineties, early 2000?), but they are sludge factory of sex, smoke, and sweat that restores my faith in rock. White returns to the drums, his first instrument, stating that it is easier to produce songs when you control the rhythm and backbone of every song. Allison Mosshart of The Kills provides the sultry lead vocals, while White spits dueling backing from behind the kit. Mosshart seems liberated as White’s mistress of darkness than in her day job with the Kills. Dean Fertita is White’s guitar and organ puppet, laying down those distorted-with-dirt licks that we’ve all come to love from the Stripes. The guitars, not quite as stripped and simple as the Stripes, grind and moan with White’s seventies rock beats. Live, Mosshart resembles a better looking Mick Jagger, failing and dancing about almost preaching the faith of filth to the audience. Jack White can’t help himself; coming up to the forefront to rip the closing track “Will There Be Enough Water?” The answer: no there will never be enough water to put out White’s guitar inferno. Ladies, they will wet your panties, and gentlemen, they will pitch your tent. So put on their new album Horehound and grab a partner “by the hair, and hang [them] up from the heavens”.

Tired of Michael Jackson?

Yeah, we all are. But just in case you thought you've heard every Jackson cover/remix/tribute, you probably haven't heard Discovery's rendition of "I Want You Back". It's hardly recognizable in all of it's electronic bliss. Oh and by the way, you may have never heard of Discovery, but you may have heard of Wes Miles of Ra Ra Riot and his good friend Rostam Batmanglij of Vampire Weekend. Jack White couldn't even put together an indie supergroup like this one...or could he?

The Best? Maybe

Arguments over the interwebs have already started about what will be the best album indie album of ’09. Will it be Dirty Projectors random art-soul on Bitte Orca, or Animal Collective’s gorgeous psychedelic landscape called Merriweather Post Pavilion? Maybe another near perfect installment from America’s Radiohead, Wilco, or Grizzly Bear’s wondrous take on noire Brian Wilson? My pick for the debate isn’t necessarily the best, but it does have my vote for the saddest album of the year. Deer Tick’s Born on Flag Day is everything country used to—and should be: fuck, man, my life sucks, and I think about it too much so let’s crack open a beer, (you can hear that refreshing crack-fizz of a cold, cheap can on the final track, Strung) and spend a “sleepless night, painless and drugged”. You can almost smell the cheap beer and whiskey on the John Joseph McCauley III’s campfire crackle voice as he sings bittersweet sorrows into your ears while dirt plumes off the instruments with every guitar twang. The drum beats are as empty and hollow as McCauley’s hope. This will be the soundtrack to every guy getting dumped at the end of the summer by his girl who’s leaving town. It will be playing at the end of every late-night cookout, when all but three dudes are left, sitting around drinking bud out of cans and talking about how they’re not getting laid tonight.