My Top 10 Albums of the 90s: (9) In the Aeroplane Over the Sea - Neutral Milk Hotel

[This is the second in a series of ten posts. The list'll be revealed as entries are written.]

In the Aeroplane Over the Sea opens with the simple sound of Jeff Magnum: an insistently strummed acoustic guitar and vocals that from the outset sound endearingly strained, even when they aren't reaching into their upper register. As the album evolves, and increasingly complex sounds begin surrounding him, that core fortunately remains unchanged. Aeroplane is an amazingly personal album, one that stakes its entire identity on the hypnotic pull of Magnum's songwriting. What's immediately striking is his capacity to come across as soul baring through lyrics whose literal meaning is unrelentingly obscure. Indeed, though the album was inspired by Anne Frank's diary, distinct references to her emerge only occasionally, and all of the words are more evocative than they are descriptive. Yet this never weighs the album down; remarkably, in fact, it’s rarely ever even noticeable. Certainly, this is in part due to the singular strength of Magnum’s songwriting, reminiscent of Syd Barrett in its way of simultaneously suggesting the innocence of childhood and something more darkly unsettling, without any feeling of incongruity. Just as important, though, are the distinctive sounds used to embellish the otherwise stripped-down recordings. Arrangements vary in style and tempo to suit the individual nature of each song, and for every moment of hushed calm , there's another that rocks surprisingly hard. The instrumentation is even better tailored, and appropriately kaleidoscopic: fuzzed-out guitars and basses intersect with waves of organ, accompanied by the now-famous horn sections, which alternately shiver and soar, as required. But best of all is the use of the singing saw, whose dulcet tones provide an astonishing duet with Magnum's voice, producing the most stunning signature moment for any instrument in popular music since Brian Wilson had employed an electro-Theremin on "Good Vibrations" 32 years earlier. Unfortunately, again like Wilson (though thankfully, without the mental health concerns), following the album's release Magnum would go into a self-imposed exile from music-making, one which has effectively persisted ever since. One can only hope that the inspiration that led him to create In the Aeroplane Over the Sea one day compels him to record again, but even should that never take place, the album constitutes a formidable legacy all on its own.

My Top 10 Albums of the 90s: (10) Loveless - My Bloody Valentine

[This is the first in a series of ten posts. The list'll be revealed as entries are written.]

Loveless is an album like few others: one tied inextricably to a genre by people who have little interest in the rest of said genre, and one whose actual admirers seem to be vastly outnumbered by those content to rave about its “massive influence”  without discussing the music of which it’s comprised. So while it’s easy to talk about Loveless as the apogee of shoegaze, or to get lost in the album’s enormous production costs and the toll it took on its record label (Creation), it’s more instructive to examine it for what it is at its core: a meticulously constructed, imposingly dense, yet deceptively accessible suite of ethereal noise. Loveless was the brainchild of Irish guitarist Kevin Shields, a perfectionist whose obsessive in-studio tendencies were exacerbated by the illness of drummer Colm Ó Cíosóig, who was rendered largely unable to contribute to the recordings. Shields’ love of tightly interweaving arrangements would lead him to layer track upon track of sampled drums and heavily distorted guitar, lending the album an almost tidal ambience that, remarkably, retains its freshness 20 years later. The key to the album’s appeal, though, is Shields’ melodic sense – especially, his gift for creating melodies so gentle that they strengthen the album’s most thunderously piercing moments by contrast (and vice versa). This can particularly be traced to the vocal tracks, handled by Shields and guitarist Bilinda Butcher. In both cases, the highly feminine vocals – softened in studio to the point that they’re more instrumental than communicative – float dreamily through the sea of guitars, to an almost Impressionistic effect. This carefully assembled haze is heightened by the ease with which all of Loveless’ tracks flow into one another, and the cohesion it features despite the presence of at least three strong singles (“Only Shallow,” “To Here Knows When,” and “Soon”). In the end, Loveless proves to be as impressive an album as it is a landmark, and deserves to be experienced on its own rewarding terms.

The Cable Guy

Less than a week after the widely unexpected rise of the San Francisco Giants to the top of the baseball heap concluded (and concurrent with a strong opening charge by the Golden State Warriors), the Bay Area is faced with one of the least likely stories in all of sports: the Oakland Raiders are 5-4. For any other franchise, a 5-4 record would be at best a promising start. But these are the Oakland Raiders – a franchise that in the past decade has set the undisputed gold standard for the worst #1 draft pick in NFL history, and has become the first team ever in the league to lose at least 11 games 7 years running. That 5-4 record, then, is an astonishing achievement, especially given that it includes an emphatic overtime victory against the division leading Kansas City Chiefs last week. Yet more surprising than the team's success itself is the fact that it's come under the guidance of head coach Tom Cable.

Cable's credentials were as good as any that owner Al Davis was likely to find to helm his rudderless ship when Cable took over as interim head coach in 2008. By then, he had 7 years of coaching experience in college football and 2½ in the pros to his name; he was also well used to the way games were run in Oakland, having served as offensive line coach throughout Lane Kiffin's rocky tenure under the headset. More troubling was the baggage Cable dredged in his wake. Early on during his first training camp as head coach, Cable was involved in an argument with assistant coach Randy Hanson which ended with Cable punching Hanson in the face and fracturing his jaw. Soon after, news outlets began reporting physical abuse charges leveled against Cable by two ex-wives and an ex-girlfriend.

Meanwhile, the team itself continued on in its standard comedy of errors. Quarterback JaMarcus Russell, who was already frequently being cited as the biggest bust pro football had ever seen, supplemented his abysmal on-field performance with insubordination everywhere else, skipping practice to visit Vegas, persistently gaining weight, and otherwise exhausting the patience of the rabid Raider fanbase. The team would go on to pick wide-receiver Darrius Heyward-Bey in the 2009 Draft – letting his higher-rated counterpart Michael Crabtree fall to the cross-bay rival 49ers – and finish 5-11 in Cable's first full tenured season. Everything seemed to be proceeding according to fractured plan: to the casual observer, the franchise under Cable appeared, if anything, to be spinning further out of control than ever before.

Yet soon after, things began clicking into place. Russell was let go. The team weathered a tough opening to the season, in which it let a number of close games slip away, and then exploded on October 24, shell-shocking the Denver Broncos by a final score of 59-14 – the highest point tally in franchise history. Two impressive wins later, the Raiders hit their bye week with the playoffs in sight for the first time in what feels like an eternity. All under the watchful eye of Tom Cable's ever-present game face.

How is it, then, that Cable has managed – at least for the moment – to return the wayward Raiders to respectability, despite doing everything in his power to prove to the outside world that he's an objectionable human being? Some have suggested that the on-field success is the result of a roster that’s finally been allowed to gel, with a stable set of dependable athletes made cohesive by the overdue removal of the prima donna Russell. Others say it's the discipline that's been brought to the table by Cable's (apparently) iron fist that’s forced his ragtag crew to keep their minds on the field, instead of being swept up in the Felliniesque circus of Oakland football. Both are excellent points. The team is anchored by a set of solid players who, if unspectacular, nonetheless do their jobs well. And at least in the span of the three recent wins, the Raiders have persistently appeared to have arrived on the field with a game plan. Yet these wins have suggested something even more important, a profound change in personality – one which befits the Raider franchise and can be traced directly to Cable.

Historically, the Raiders have proudly been the assholes of the NFL. If the legendary Minnesota Vikings teams of the late 60s and 70s were famous for their cohesive, physical defense – the "Purple People Eaters" – the contemporaneous Raiders were better known for their unified desire to leave their opponents incapacitated. Nor was this reputation unearned: safety George Atkinson KOed Hall of Famer Lynn Swann for two weeks in 1976 with a hit to the head, and defensive end Howie Long was intimidating enough that he's in Chevrolet commercials to this day, doing nothing more than giving looks that let you know he'd deck your grandmother if he felt so inclined.

Tom Cable's troglodytic antics have no place in the modern, civilized world, but he's found the perfect home for them with the Oakland Raiders. Of course, this isn’t to suggest that kindly disposition was the problem holding this team back since 2002 (or, it should be explicitly noted, that Raiders fans endorse the deplorable practice of hitting women). The recent history was the consequence of incompetent playing and worse coaching, and it's the reversal of that trend that's given the Raiders a chance to compete this season. But the team has made an important statement. These aren't Vince Lombardi's soldiers, and they're not Bill Walsh's kids: they're Tom Cable's angry-ass motherfuckers. And that, for the first time in an eon, might prove to be enough to push the Silver and Black's season into January.