Top Ten Albums of 2002

(of the 1% we actually heard of those released in the world . . . . in no particular order)

by Dominic Pettman

Missy Elliot - Under Construction

Described as a return to the Old School, it's more a case of the alumni motivational speaker turning up wasted with a mean-looking posse and showing the new kids how it should be done. Timbaland proves once again that he has more tricks up his sleeve than every other hip-hop producer put together, while Missy pokes fun at herself for losing so much weight. It has fewer killer tracks than her other albums, but is probably her most consistent all-up.

Cinematic Orchestra - Every Day

Alexei Sayle once said that "there are two kinds of jazz . . . and they're both crap." Usually we agree, but this homage to all that can be great about down-to-mid-tempo jazz is simply sublime. Whatsmore, it's equally perfect for a hot mid-winter candle-lit bath, or waiting for a summer lunch date in a Tuscan courtyard. Really, this is why we have ears.

Beck - Sea Changes

Well, here's a turnip for the books! Beck goes all sincere and sad. (Of course he's done a melancholy album before, but that felt more like a conceptual experiment in form.) . . . But with Sea Changes it seems that the old clichéd equation, broken heart = artistic inspiration, is true; as Beck abandons his 80's pastiche phase - "spray paint the vegetables" - for one of the great woe-is-me breakup albums of recent times. Some critics have attacked the lyrics on this album for being cliched, but that's exactly the point. Heartbreak is something we all go through, it's familiar territory, and that's why we seek out albums like this one to wallow in . . . even when things are going fine. Nevertheless, no doubt he'll find love again soon, and the next album will be an upbeat collection of glitch sea-shanties.

Amon Tobin - Out From Out Where

So I've been free-n-easy with the superlatives for this Top Ten list, but Amon Tobin leaves me speechless. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . (oh alright! I'll try.) . . . . Having seen him play last month I can say he's even better live than on record, but this new album is the closest thing to being abducted by funky cyborgs and force-fed through an elaborate machine designed specifically to rock your mojo gland, before spitting you out the other end covered in machine-oil and honey . . . or something. . . . . Which is just to say, Amon Tobin is making beats like no other on the planet, and if you don't like mine, then you'll have to come up with your own lame metaphor to describe the unprecedented.

Chris Whitley - Rocket House

Maybe not technically one of the best albums of the year (whatever that may mean), but we thought we'd give him a gong for being so consistently talented and creative, despite the deafening silence that greets each new Chirs Whitley release. Here he adapts his wonderful bluesy-voice and memorable melodies with understated trip-hop production for a solid album of minor gems. Maybe this description makes the record sound a bit too much like another middle-of-the-road café album, but Whitley is the anti-Moby to us. Whatsmore, he sings lyrics like "baby's got a gun, it's time to go." No doubt, this is autobiographical. Keep it real!

Beth Gibbons and Rustin Man - Out of Season

It took me a few listens to appreciate this collection of stripped down torch-songs and agree with the salivating critics, but I now see how it is a charming step forward out of the Portishead prison that Beth Gibbons painted herself in to (with the help of the media, of course). With the Talk Talk influence drifting confidently around the edges, thanks to Rustin Man, this album is a perfect companion for autumnal, reflective evenings. . . . I'd say something funny if I could, but it's just so damn lovely that I think I'll leave it at that.

DJ Shadow - Private Press

Pretty much the Second Coming in this household. After playing Entroducing enough times to probably get myself into the Guinness Book of Records, I had endured many years of waiting like a fervent disciple for the second "real" album. This involved patiently watching DJ Shadow produce many-a-side-project while avoiding the reason he was put on this earth: to make magnificent mind-movies for the headphone crowd. The very fact that this album wasn't an anti-climax means that it lived up to the most intense anticipation possible; and I only have one thing to say to those who were disappointed . . . . listen to it again, you pillocks! (Granted, the car chase song should have been a B-side.) The overall construction is just as complex, just as intelligent, and just as soulful, without sounding like Entroducing 2. Many of the tracks are made for restless urban crawling (provided you live in New York or Tokyo, and not Canberra or Fresno), while others sound like an important exercise in historical salvation. Philosophical literature at 33rpm.

Lovage - Music To Make Love To Your Old Lady By

Ok, ok . . . technically this was released in November 2001, but I didn't discover it until this year, and I'm beginning to run out of obvious contenders. Lovage is another in a long line of projects by Dan the Automator, and sounds very much like a companion volume to Handsome Boy Modeling School, only more coherent and focused. Weirdo-for-hire Mike Patton provides the testosterone-fuelled vocals, while Jennifer Charles (from Elysian Fields) whispers, pants and whimpers over the silky seductive sounds that stretch from beginning to end. Simultaneously ironic, playful and sexy, there are moments of genuine insight to the existential ludicrousness of erotic life. Philosophical literature to get laid to.

Múm - Finally We Are No-One

So we all know by now that Iceland has produced more than its fair share of interesting musicians; Bjork being the most obvious, but Gus Gus and Sigur Ros being others. Now we have Múm, who take the Verspertinish post-organic scratchings of the Elfin Goddess herself, and twists them into their own bizarre and autistic aural shapes. They sound to me like a couple of twin sisters, a bit like the spooky ones in The Shining, whose parents died in a car-crash. Now they have inherited a giant mansion overlooking some treeless glacier, making hauntingly beautiful compositions with old-laptops and dusty accordians rescued from the attic. They don't talk to anyone, except the mute house-keeper, who buys them oatmeal, band-aids and blank CDs from the nearest village. . . . But that's just my impression.

The Flaming Lips - Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots

I haven't even managed to hear this yet, but I'm sure it deserves to be here.