Top 40 Tracks of 2014

(stand-alone single on 4AD)

 

Grimes' Go, a collaboration with producer Blood Diamonds, is something of a musical paradox. On the one hand, it's a passionate love song about wanting to follow your dreams; on the other, it's a track with at-times aggressive electronic input and Major Lazer levels of bounce. On paper, it sounds like a recipe for disaster of Skrillex proportions. In practice, however, the contrasting elements balance each other out perfectly.  Go has recently been described by Grimes as "a one off […] like Phone Sex"; it's disappointing to learn that the project is not, as originally hoped, a taster from Grimes' next album (which is now alleging to feature glam rock). But if there's one modern-day artist that can pull off glam rock whilst maintaining respect from her fans and critics, that artist is Grimes. One thing's for sure; we'll never be too sure what to expect from her next. Craig Stevens

 

(from “Too Bright” on Matador)

 

After two records of gentle, open balladry, Michael Hadreas came out stronger than ever with newfound confidence in the show-stopping Queen. A song about what he describes as experiencing “gay panic”, Hadreas identifies himself as an effeminate male without the slightest apology. He makes his point by highlighting a series of pejorative connotations such as “cracked” and “riddled with disease”, and goes on to describe such statements with a brazen, “don’t you know me”. It’s an empowering affirmation, though it’s easy to dismiss how it also furthers Hadreas’ musical template - an odd synth part meshed with a fuzzed-out guitar provides a profound sense of alienation, of not giving in to all the malicious stares with an all-encompassing bravura. It’s an unwelcome reminder on how little things have changed. Juan Edgardo Rodriguez

 

(from “Lost In The Dream” on Secretly Canadian)

 

Once in a while comes along a track that thrills, stimulating senses you didn’t even know you had. Taken from the enormously popular Lost In The Dream where Adam Granduciel catapulted The War On Drugs into the higher echelons by tapping into a sound reminiscent of Bruce Springsteen meeting Dire Straits in all their glory, it’s somewhat of a riposte to ex-band member Kurt Vile’s excellent Wakin’ On A Pretty Daze from last year. It’s a simply stunning seven minutes of uplifting brilliance set to an infectious, uptempo beat that even at this length feels too short. The more compact Red Eyes from the same album has taken more plaudits, but for a full length, highly addictive guitar workout you don’t get much better than this, the band providing the perfect canvas for Granduciel to flex his considerable soloing muscles, his dextrous fretwork creating an enthralling experience; captivatingly brilliant. Graeme Marsh

 

(from “You’re Dead!” on Warp)

 

It’s tempting to call Never Catch Me the best Kendrick Lamar song of 2014 (sorry, i), but it’s hard to commit to that when the end product is undeniably Flying Lotus at his best. Sure, you could argue it’s Lamar’s greatest performance, with his high-wire flow deep in the infra-red and his lyrics at their most caustic (“I got mind control when I'm here, you gon' hate me when I'm gone / Ain't no blood pumpin' no fear, I got hope inside of my bones”), but it’s Steve Ellison’s lush-yet-anxious beats – which are the tightest and most fully realised to be found on his post-mortem odyssey, You’re Dead – which give the track it’s afterlife-level ascension. Though tucked into an album obsessed with death, few tracks from this year could be said to feel this utterly alive. Peter Quinton

 

(from “Complete Surrender” on Caroline International)

 

The third full-length release from the Sheffield favourites may not have matched the consistency of its predecessors but to this critic's ears, Complete Surrender's high points - namely this and Suffering You, Suffering Me - just happen to be the best non-St Vincent songs released in 2014. Like 'genius' and 'classic', the word 'timeless' is thrown around far too often in music criticism. Not Mine To Love is a song that truly deserves this descriptor. The majesty of Rebecca Taylor's heart-breaking vocal set against a sumptuous, expertly judged arrangement, is arguably the most beautiful thing I've heard this year. While the flaws of its parent album may prevent Not Mine To Love reaching the global audience it deserves, those in the know will cherish it for years to come. David Coleman

 

(from “Here And Nowhere Else” on Wichita / Carpark)

 

Quality guitar music is nowhere near as rare a find as the music press often makes it out to be in 2014, as some of the year’s best releases came from raucous axe-wielders. But even still, I’m Not Part Of Me still feels like a rare treat in today’s landscape: a near perfect pop song – complete with catchy hooks that grow grander and grander each minute – dressed in unhinged, rabid punk angst. Of course, this is to be expected from Dylan Baldi, who made this songwriting approach his signature since day one, but it’s on I’m Not Part Of Me where all of these elements come together in just the right way to make perhaps the quintessential Cloud Nothings song. Peter Quinton

 

(from “Queen Of The Clouds” on Island)

 

There are few things as great as a good break-up song; a track that can capture the bitterness, grief and anger so perfectly, and melodically, that it inspires a sense of arms-in-the-air euphoria. One thing that’s almost as welcome, but rare, is a remix that is both sympathetic to the original’s intent and brings something genuinely new and worthwhile to it. Matching Swedish singer-songwriter Tove Lo’s exceptional songwriting talent (which she’d already displayed in work for The Saturdays and Girls Aloud) with a fittingly woozy synth shuffle that seemed entirely fitting for her monologue of heartbreak, overindulgence and slightly depressing seediness, production duo Hippie Sabotage’s touch of pop sheen turned an overlooked single in to one of the year’s biggest surprise hits. It’s an ugly thing, but beautifully rendered. Mark Davison

 

(from “Lost In The Dream” on Secretly Canadian)

 

If album opener Under The Pressure is a sign that the Bruce Springsteen revival might be under way, then Red Eyes is the one that seals the deal. The airy synth pads and surefooted beat hark back to ‘80s stadium rock, for sure - but there is plenty here to celebrate in its own right. Like former bandmate Kurt Vile, Adam Granduciel has a fine talent for dragging out ideas for longer than they sound like they should work. The vocal refrain is so irresistible that it reverberates around your brain long after the album has finished. And the ecstatic bursts of noise that follow each verse feel like a celebration. Joel Stanier

 

(from “1000 Forms Of Fear” on Monkey Puzzle / RCA)

 

Whenever I find myself listening to mainstream radio, I end up picking apart what I'm listening to, because I do that to all music; but usually, I end up empty-handed. It makes sense that Sia, one of the most in-demand songwriters in the game, would have written a song that so skilfully subverts the party anthem, ubiquitous in chart-pop. Like Kendrick Lamar's Swimming Pools (Drank) before it, Sia takes all the brash, noisy trademarks, the lingering musical and lyrical hedonism of the contemporary charts and uses them to study the vulnerability of its subject. She absolutely belts out its instant-goosebump chorus, desperate yet triumphant, with forced, hysterical euphoria. I doubt she’ll win any of the four Grammys she’s up for – except the Best Video category, which may as well be in the bag already – but for me, she’s head and shoulders above the competition. Stephen Wragg

 

(from “Lost In The Dream” on Secretly Canadian)

 

From the moment its shimmering guitar chords and heart-wrenching piano melody wash over you, it’s clear that The War On Drugs are bringing their sound to a whole new echelon we never even imagined they’d reach. In a sense, Under The Pressure comes from a very similar place as all their previous work; it’s blend of heartland rock and shoegaze as apparent as ever. But rather than simply mixing the two, Under The Pressure completely transforms these influences into something that’s part rock song, part otherworldly presence – think of a Tom Petty or John Mellencamp song stretched, blurred, and illuminated until it resembles that of the Aurora Borealis. Add in a dose of Adam Granduciel’s anxiety-ridden lyrics and instrumentals, and you’re left with perhaps the most massive and most intimate AM rock song ever written. Peter Quinton

 

(from “To Be Kind” on Young God / Mute)

 

One of the most concise and comprehensive exercises from Swans' newest entry in the hugest-record-ever competition, To Be Kind, listening to Oxygen is like watching the forging of some terrible machine – thick atonal chords, jagged rhythmic skeletons. With each new instrument added to the mix, new beats are accentuated with brutal mechanical heft, engineered for maximum visceral impact. Michael Gira fills his vocals with unhinged, manic vocal tics, somehow yelling with both the force of the oppressor and the recoil of the oppressed in one exultation. It’s hard to explain to people what I actually get out of listening to this band, but by the height of Oxygen’s cacophony, Gira bellowing, “BREATHE IN! BREATHE IN!”, saxophone tone clusters dragging you over the coals, feverishly heavy drums – there’s something primitively significant about the whole ritual, a monstrous secular liturgy, an invocation of elemental power through music. Stephen Wragg

 

(from “Morning Phase” on Capitol)

 

It’s impossible to talk about Beck’s 12th LP (yes, twelfth!) without referring back to Sea Change – the record where he reined in his boundless innovation and instead focused everything on laying each fibre of hurt out for the world to see. Morning Phase is without doubt more accommodating and hopeful than its twelve year old cousin, and its opening track Morning is quite simply gorgeous. An exquisite chord progression is as far away from urgent as Beck has ever been, and is precluded by a swelling of vivid strings that ooze hope. He tentatively asks, “Can we start it all over again?” before laying himself bare with an unequivocally beautiful chorus. The answer is most definitely a resounding yes. Carl Purvis

 

(from “St. Vincent” on Loma Vista / Republic)

 

Rattlesnake instantly separates St. Vincent's fourth album from the rest. Whereas her past three openers started off gently, this track throws you into a jittery, jolting synth melody. Then again, how calm would you be if you ran into a rattlesnake by yourself? Annie Clark herself sounds on the edge of panic, like she sang this immediately after escaping the snake in question, before her heartbeat slowed down. "Sweating, sweating, no-one will ever find me," she sings, her guitar shuddering out notes in a barely controlled pattern. In spite of the frayed sounds, St. Vincent's gift for mixing melody and madness is at its strongest. Top it off with a grungy, burning solo and you have the perfect start to one of the year's best records. Joe Marvilli

 

(from “To Be Kind” on Young God / Mute)

 

Swans’ brilliantly uncompromising thirteenth album arrived with all the mainstream accessibility of a Brazilian swimsuit model. Sandwiched between tracks that are twelve and 34 minutes in length lay A Little God in My Hands, which managed to cram all the carnal cacophony, droning riffs and deranged imagery into a more consolidated package. Gnarled guitar lines give way to a din of strings and synths replete with Michael Gira’s abrasive vocal tone and dissonant auto-harmonies. Unstable bells chime and horns swell until the amorphous pulp of sound disintegrates into a single chord strum resembling a busted child’s toy. You’ll never hear it following Charli XCX on the Top 40, but by Swans’ standards, it’s positively poppy. Ben Jones

 

(from “1989” on Big Machine)

 

In an era of media saturation where our stars are accessible 24/7, self-awareness is now an extra string that needs to be added to an already full bow. With Shake It Off, Swift proved once and for all that she could poke fun at herself, and that was sufficient to cement her place in pop’s A-list. Of course, it helped that it was an irresistible tune, full of bounce and pep, and a chorus we could all sing along to. Pop songs of defiance and strength are usually fuelled by righteousness or anger, but on Shake It Off, Swift barely acknowledges her detractors. As anyone who’s ever read the bottom half of the internet knows, “haters gonna hate”, and nothing will change that, so why bother even trying when “you could’ve been getting down to THIS. SICK. BEAT”? Joe Rivers

 

(from “Nikki Nack” on 4AD)

 

When Merril Garbus knows what she wants to say, she doesn’t need big words, extended analogies, extravagant compositions, or more than three minutes to say it. Like a traditional playground chant reduced to snappy rhyme and simple rhythm yet whose words are a profound, indirect reference to some much graver event, Water Fountain clangs around with joy and offhand insight. There’s no water in the water fountain, but bloody dollar bills still work in the store, so all must be well with the world. We keep dancing, but the handclaps have long since been shot through with percussive synths and Garbus is spitting out her verses like a lyrical revolver. It’s alright though. She knows what she’s saying. Luiza Lodder

 

(from “Singles” on 4AD)

 

When Future Islands graced us with their now iconic David Letterman performance earlier this year, it instantly raised their profile after years floundering under the Thrill Jockey imprint. What makes Seasons so enrapturing is its simplicity, a disarmingly frank display of pleading heartbreak that’s lead by the brute tenor of passionate singer-songwriter Samuel T. Herring. The soulful, Motown-infused ballad further refines their early electro-funk with its steady, four on the floor beat, with a strikingly universal message that has since become a cherished anthem on all their live shows. Herring strips his heart out with arresting urgency, demonstrating that underneath that roaring, husky frame lies a tender, caramelised romantic that makes every tight-fisted chest pound felt. Juan Edgardo Rodriguez

 

(from “LP1” on Young Turks)

 

For a couple of years, FKA Twigs slowly made a name for herself with beautiful, but difficult, EPs of forward-thinking R&B, and equally striking and cryptic accompanying videos. Two Weeks, however, was the catalyst that propelled her from recurring name on ‘ones to watch’ lists to tabloid gossip page fixture. Perhaps this could be attributed in part to a canny release strategy; its Aaliyah-indebted skewed-pop sound was perfect for the dog days of summer, and the viral-friendly video saw Twigs finally show the world her (undisguised) face (again and again, as the former dancer took on every role). Mostly though, it’s just because it was a truly great song, which managed to combine extreme confidence and a touch of filth with a sense of childlike, innocent giddiness, often all at once, while still retaining something of her sophisticated, cold intellect. Which is certainly no mean feat. Mark Davison

 

(from “Benji” on Caldo Verde)

 

Most of Carissa’s lyrics, about Kolezek’s second-cousin dying in a “freak accident fire” speak for themselves, but I’ll highlight, “She was only my second cousin but it don't mean that I'm not here for her or that I wasn’t.” Anyone who has ever lost a relative and then wished they knew them better knows this feeling: maybe I don’t belong at the funeral; I don’t have a memory to share; I hardly knew them; am I less sad than I should be? Kolezek is sincere about such possibilities throughout Carissa, and those doubts make the enjambed follow-up vital: “…or that I wasn’t / Meant to give her life poetry or to make sure her name is known across every city.” Not just Carissa: his mum, his dad, Jim Wise, Micheline, the Newtown victims, and all the unforgettable characters that populate Benji, too. Honest, touching, repentant, contemplative — everything Benji is at its best. Forrest Cardamenis

 

(from “St. Vincent” on Loma Vista / Republic)

 

One of the more irritating recurring characters in end of year retrospectives is the jaded critic. He or she (usually the former) can be found endlessly moaning about how the last twelve months were a bit of a let-down. Often there will be a large side order of nostalgia for the good old days, which typically coincides with said critic's own youth. If it wasn't for St Vincent's stellar self-titled offering, I would be nailed on for the curmudgeonly role this time around. Nothing in 2014 grabbed me quite like this record and Digital Witness was the gateway drug that triggered my full-blown addiction to all things Annie Clark. It truly is an irresistible meeting of art and pop. David Coleman

 

Annie Clark's rumination on our reliance on technology takes top spot but do you agree? How did your favourite fare? And can St. Vincent make it a clean sweep when we publish our Albums of 2014 list later this week? Stay tuned to No Ripcord to find out.