Top Songs of 2014 (Subconciously ranked.)

I guess I’m supposed to do some sort of year-end round-up thing. These things always feel kind of forced and I really, really loathe pitting art against art in some kind of relative combat. This isn’t a competition. So, in the spirit of that, he is a short list of songs from this year that had a lasting effect on me. They are in no order except the order that they appeared in my head. I suppose that might be a gauge of how much I loved them, so maybe that’s my subconscious ranking them as such. There you go.

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Sturgill Simpson – Turtles All The Way Down

Remember when the Highwaymen released “The Highwayman?” That was some real bad-ass mystical reincarnation shit. Maybe the titular Highwayman has found his way back in the form of Sturgill Simpson. It’s entirely possible, right? Who else has the balls to making such traditional country music singing about the positive elements of psychedelics? This isn’t about drinking beer down at the fishin’ hole shit, this is some serious expand-your-mind-and-learn-yourself-and-you’ll-love-your-brothersandsisters stuff here. Obviously all of this is just shtick if it’s not being delivered by an incredibly talented performer and writer, both of which Simpson most assuredly is. (Listen to “Just Let Go.” Fuck) His album Metamodern Sounds in Country Music is pretty much great across the board and worth your $10 on bandcamp. It’s amazing watching this guy gain so much steam with no radio support whatsoever. Thanks Joe Rogan for using your mighty reach to bring the good Sturgill to the people. (Props to Rob Porter for the cover photo.)

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Pemberton 2008, Ultimate Disaster, revisited.

Today marks the beginning of the resurrected Pemberton Festival. While part of me is sad I cannot attend, a larger part of me is still scarred from the horror I witnessed at the festival's first try. The following was written the day after my arrival back home after the festival. I can't stress enough THIS IS A REVIEW OF 2008! I'm sure the organizers have got their shit together this time. I mean, it can't possibly be this bad again.

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Something new for your ears - Clinton Fearon's "Goodness"

I pride myself on following a variety of genres and I dig musicians who experiment outside of their comfort zones. But I really dig and have an intense appreciation of my fellow music fans who dedicate themselves to one aesthetic or sound and know a ton about it or the musicians who do what they do, honing their craft, taking their time to create something beautiful and undiscovered in an already established framework. (I know that sentence was a long and maybe hard to follow, but please bear with me.) The artists that manage to do this consistently throughout their careers are few and far between. Even more rare is the reggae artist that manages this feat, as reggae is one of the most rigidly defined genres around and can sometimes hamper an artist's ability to sound fresh. With Goodness, the powerful Clinton Fearon - he of reggae legends The Gladiators - has proven himself to be among those few artists that continue to create music that sounds both old and new, that is at once familiar and invigorating.

Reggae historian and guy who changed the path of my writing, Roger Steffens said to me that reggae music is "the sound of the beating human heart at rest." It is music born out of struggle and pain, but rather than just reflect that pain reggae seeks to flip it upside down and destroy it. From darkness comes light. From the opening notes of "Blame Game" it's clear that Fearon is a protector of the light, of the good roots of well, roots reggae. When Fearon sings "Don't get stuck in the road, stuck in the road/Playing the Blame Game, that dirty old game," it is the sound of man with wisdom to impart. The result of a life lived thoroughly. Lyrically, Goodness is full of wisdom - each little bit delivered with the love and compassion of a loving grandfather. (Surely Fearon must be a frontrunner for World's Coolest Grandpa, if he has grandkids, of course. I can't confirm or deny this at the time of writing.) Even obvious tidbits of wisdom like "When you're feeling sad, talk with a friend" ("Talk With A Friend") come across like much-needed reminders to take warmth and love from the people and things right nearest to you. Like Fearon singing on the title track "Goodness, goodness, goodness, rising up slow...," this music doesn't need to move along at a frenetic pace to do what it needs to do.

But let's not forget, as it is music from born of struggle, reggae can't exist in any meaningful way if it doesn't address problems directly from time to time and the moments when Fearon does turn his eye to more social worldview are some of the most arresting here. The tale of poverty and subservience "Poor Nana" slinks along through the drudgery of unglamourous of unpaid labour. When Fearon sings "United we stand, divided we fall/Why can't we understand that life is for one and all?" his voice is wrought with both frustration and hope. "Come By Yah," is unwavering in its anti-power stance, even as it breezes along at a hopelessly breezy pace with Fearon strong in his peaceful resolve in the face of tyranny, "The people that in are control they seem to have no soul/To hold and keep them power they treat us way too cold/But we won't loose our mind, we won't be unkind/Dem a go run run run..."

Even with the tastily, simple, relatable lyrics, the music is the star here. Fearon wrote, composed and produced the record himself and Goodness sparkles for it. Fearon is a master craftsman, not jumping on trends and shifts in style but rather honing and perfecting his traditional music. The production is clean, with crisp drums holding the beat, walking basslines strolling all around the place and windy-guitar licks adding radiant splashes of colour. (Check out the liquidy guitar work on the burner, "The Hunter.") Fearon is proof that mastery is as important as experimentation, and that the best artists solidify the best parts of themselves as they age.  

BUY GOODNESS AND CHECK OUT CLINTON FEARON'S TOUR SCHEDULE HERE!

All hail the ruler of Wicked City, King Krafty Kuts!

For years Krafty Kuts represented the great divide between one of my greatest friends and I. He had stolen my friend from the comfortable groove of the classic hip-hop and reggae that formed much of the basis for our friendship and dragged him into (What I perceived to be) the cold, ruthless clutches of electronic music. All I heard about was how great Krafty Kuts was. He stood at the gates of my aural Mordor, along with Stanton Warriors, as the guards to some terrifying hellscape, waiting to pierce me in the ears and take away my great love in life if I dared to venture too close. Also, the guy goes by Krafty Kuts. Read that three times. Think about it and realize what an easy target that is to make fun of. It's nearly impossible to discuss something you're afraid of with such a ridiculous name and not bring attention to it.

(Mixes, tracks and photos abound within.)

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I think about Bob Marley on his birthday and would like to share some of those thoughts.

"Bob Marley became the voice of third world pain and resistance, the sufferer in the concrete jungle who would not be denied forever. Outsiders everywhere heard Marley as their own champion; if he could make himself heard, so could they, without compromises. In 2096, when the former third world has overrun and colonised the former superpowers, Bob Marley will be commemorated as a saint." - John Parales

Few albums have the ability to grate my nerves like Legend. For the longest time I held it as a shining example of everything that people misunderstood about reggae. I knew so many people who had that album, and no other, and claimed to be a fan of reggae. There was no Lee Perry on their shelves. No Burning Spear. No Toots Hibbert. Not even Bunny Wailer or Peter Tosh. It was simply Legend. Every reggae band I saw in concert had at least one Bob Marley song. Street performers all played "Three Little Birds" or "Redemption Song," the latter being especially bothersome as a "guy at the party with the guitar" song. It was Bob Marley overload. Everywhere I went I was inundated with Marley and his most famous songs. I began to actively avoid and resent not just Legend, but the entire Marley cannon. Then one day I was in the record store and I was compelled for some unknown reason to pick up Burnin', the seminal Wailers record. This was shortly after I had begun smoking cannabis on a regular basis and by the time the final notes of what is now my favourite Marley song, "Rastaman Chant," came to an end I knew I had fallen into a serious rabbit hole.

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