1) Peter Gabriel, “i/o” / Gabriel’s 1986 smash “So” remains one of the most formative listening experiences of my life. What a wonder to go forward and backward in time from that monument to enjoy the fathomless pop Gabriel creates.
The master’s first record in some 21 years adds worth and dimension to his already impeccable canon; these songs, presented in two mixes apiece, both create surface tension and delve into the deeps of a phrase, a chord, an emotion.
2) Derek Webb, “Xmas Songs” / Look, I love the holly and the jolly Christmas rock as much as the next person. But I also want to sink into the season, to really sense December—both its chilly ache and warm consolation—around me.
Derek Webb offers the best possible sinking feeling on this collection of four seasonal cuts. The album’s bookends deliver standards in decidedly un-standard ways; their growing dissonance lives beneath melodies built out by a digitally-tuned choir of voices. Webb also crafts, for my money, one of the saddest Christmas songs on record (“Chasing Empty Mangers”) and a swinging tune that’s deceptively bittersweet (“Cocktails and Carols”). The EP, though brief, honors the spectrum of sentiments we innately know this time of year.
3) waterbaby, “foam” / Such an unforced beauty marks the 2023 EP from this Stockholm, Sweden-based artist. waterbaby’s songs chase a cool glide, yet call listeners close to drink in as many narrative and musical details as they can.
4) Maylis de Kerangal, “Eastbound” / One of the last novels I read in 2023 (I’m being optimistic about the next two weeks!) ranks among my favorite: French novelist Maylis de Kerangal writes a relatively brief yet perfectly-paced account of a Russian conscript ready to desert and the French woman who shelters him aboard a train. Never sacrificing a moment’s tension, de Kerangal writes exquisite, often sad-eyed descriptions of nature and the world, only underlining the story’s stakes.
5) Benjamin Woodard, “Everyday Miracles” for Bull / This Woodard short story beautifully lives within an economy of grief: bare-minimum miracles, comfort cravings, whatever we need to get by. The near-miss moments and surprising sustenance we derive in the days after losing someone come through with remarkable, empathetic detail:
I count out the 34th street in the town directory (officially a “lane”), where we see two old men strolling the sidewalk, pelting each other with snowballs scooped from car hoods, but no miracles. I take us to the urgent care clinic, hoping a physician assistant will be cracking an impossible medical situation, only there are no patients, and the front desk employee says she has no time for antics. We even visit the sculpture garden in the park to see if any of the stone faces are weeping blood, yet all that we discover are a trio of horny teens making out in their anoraks.