Unwrapping top 10 CDs

Bruce Asato • The Honolulu Advertiser

By Derek Paiva
Advertiser Entertainment Writer

But mostly, it was a year when well-made, if not exactly ground breaking, rock, hip-hop, country, and even jazz continued to kick the stuffing out of any dance-pop not strung along by the tinnish vocals of J. Lo or Ashanti. (Now, now children. Some battles must be saved for next year.)

Teen pop, I'm happy to say, continued its silent slumber with the fishes.

Here are my picks for the 10 best CDs of 2002.

Even the continued multimedia juggernaut of fellow Detroit native Eminem couldn't overshadow the accomplishments of this most transcendent of garage-punk duos in 2002. To listen to the third album by the intentionally ambiguous pairing (Are they brother and sister? Are they former husband and wife?) of Jack and Meg White is to be reminded that the best rock 'n' roll often comes in the most wonderfully frill-free packaging. Meg plays the drums and sings backup. Jack plays guitar (occasionally piano) and sings lead. Bass? We don't need no stinkin' bass. The deceptively simple-sounding result is a 16-song collection of three-minute masterpieces, bursting with inescapably catchy melodies, trash-talking fuzz guitar riffs and whacked out grad-party, garage-band drumming. Jack's ear-splitting Billy Corgan-on-speed wailing is at its best on single-of-the-year "Fell In Love With A Girl," but the CD is rife with just-as-superb, punk-infused anthems, tinged with clever bits of folk, blues and country. Released independently last year, the album got noticed big time in 2002 thanks to a spiffy major-label re-release. Meanwhile, rock radio and MTV have been fawning over "Girl." Argue if you will about about ranking a 2001 CD as the best of 2002. I'll be falling in love with "Girl" all over again.

"Don't Know Why" may be the second-best single of the year, but it's only one of, say, 14 reasons why this stunning debut by the daughter of sitar legend Ravi Shankar spent much of the fall in my CD player. Just 22 years old, Jones and her drowsy, alluring voice lend weight to a handful of evocatively jazzy original compositions and add mature sophistication to a trio of classic jazz and country warhorses. Cocooned by the always smooth production of Arif Mardin and backed by some of the best jazz musicians around, Jones' voice is elegantly surrounded by — but never lost in — expert instrumentation. Her intimate, piano-based originals (written with guitarist Jesse Harris and bassist Lee Alexander), all too easy to underrate at first, grow more enchanting with each listen. On the simply gorgeous "Don't Know Why," Jones's breathy, Mona Lisa smile of a vocal makes what first sounds like a missed romantic liaison with some loser at a hotel bar eventually sound like the loss of the love of her life. Her pathos-filled reading of Hank Williams' "Cold Cold Heart"? Oooh, shivers.

Sophomore slump? Not when these newly designated British masters of lush melancholy dream pop arise dazed from a recording studio. "Yellow" and maybe "Trouble" on Coldplay's well-received 2000 debut "Parachutes" were exceptional tracks that signaled a band with more up its overcoat sleeves than was promised by the Radiohead-lite tag it got saddled with. Vocalist Chris Martin's sublime, yet eerily Thom Yorke-ish falsetto added to the confusion. But who could've expected the epic torrents of piano and atmospheric guitars, crisply poignant lyrics and rock-god bravado of simply amazing songs such as "Politik," "God Put a Smile Upon Your Face," "Amsterdam" and the mournful should've-been-a-hit "In My Place"? True, Martin's baleful moan sounds like that of an ex-boyfriend kicked to the curb so many times that his drycleaners know him by name. But a rush to the head? Definitely.

Eminem for a best-actor Oscar? Please. Instead, pray that the gods of hip-hop (Are you listening, Dr. Dre?) drag Em kicking and screaming back into the lab to start work on a follow-up to this amazing bedside diary of self-pitying, self-loathing, and self-aggrandizing voyeuristic pleasures. Though not as groundbreaking and consistently clever as 2000's best album "The Marshall Mathers LP," "Show" rewards with Em escorting us even deeper into his twisted trailer-park psyche. Regardless of color, Eminem remains one of the most savagely talented and creative lyricists in hip-hop. Add a track or two as brilliant as "Stan" or this fall's "Lose Yourself" (and lose supremely untalented homeboys D-12 once and for all) and "Show" might have easily grabbed the top of this list. Let's all hope Em doesn't quit his day job just yet.

Jeff Tweedy & Co.'s wildly eclectic mélange of beautiful noise is an extremely satisfying "(expletive) you" to former label Reprise on a couple of levels. One, because the band was unceremoniously dropped from the label after turning in this sonically adventurous musical document of midlife crisis, overwhelming self-doubt, and nostalgia for Kiss covers. And two, because "Yankee" (eventually picked up by boutique label Nonesuch) debuted on Billboard's Top 200 album chart at No. 13, and became a cause for critics, and even the subject of a documentary. Listen to "Heavy Metal Drummer" close enough and I swear you can hear Reprise execs typing out their resumés.

A few misguided music scribes foolishly scolded the Chicks for trying to grab a little "O Brother, Where Art Thou" bluegrass momentum and cash for themselves with their sixth release. Oh brothers (and sisters), pull your heads out of your behinds! The always wisely unpredictable, million-selling trio actually avoided taking the beckoning pop route with this stripped-down, sometimes somber, blend of acoustic guitar, fiddles and endearing harmonies. Inspired lead chirping by Natalie Maines — especially on bouncy opener "Long Time Gone" — makes for the Chicks' best album yet.

OK computer, compute this! A quasi-concept album cum psychedelic space opera about a courageous female Japanese state employee who dares to take on an army of invading mechas who believe they have real emotions. What should stink as badly as, say, Styx's "Kilroy Was Here" (you remember "Mr. Roboto," don't you?) is instead a trippy blipping-and-bleeping opus of layered synths, mannered guitars and catchy, strangely life-affirming lyrics. You'll laugh, you'll cry and you'll wish there was a movie for it.

Was it worth it? The almost two-year wait, that is, for hip-hop's most adventurous vocalist/songwriter/producer to "work it" on another CD's worth of ingenious lyrical acrobatics and inspired sampling choices? Just see if you can handle waiting as patiently again for Elliott and production partner in crime Timbaland to lay down the "gadonka-donk-donk."

The Icelandic Radiohead. The Icelandic Pink Floyd. Pretentious music for Bjork's loo. All were easy critic's labels to pin on the atmospheric instrumentation and high-pitched, largely incomprehensible Icelandic vocals that color the strangely beautiful electronic dirges on Sigur Ros's third CD. Still, it debuted on Billboard's Top 200 at No. 51 without the benefit of a hit single — or a single song title, for that matter.

Bright Eyes is actually just Conor Oberst, a deep thinkin' 22-year-old Nebraskan singer/songwriter/multi-instrumentalist/producer wunderkind who just might be the next Bob Dylan. That is, if folks can devote more than two minutes of attention to his raw, extremely literate vocal manifestos, over-the-top instrumental showiness and penchant for patience-testing epics. One can dream, though.