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swanderful1 · 6 years

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Duplicity: Ch 4/?

Summary: Secrets shroud the homes of the idyllic Willow Lane. Its newest resident, Emma Swan is no exception. In a place where perception is everything, the facade begins to crack. And Emma finds herself staring down the deep, dark secrets that the neighborhood was built on and that nothing is as it seems. Not even the blue eyed gardener.

Notes: First of all, a special thanks to my beta @resident-of-storybrooke who is an actual angel and also to @shady-swan-jones for the incredible artwork. Here with an update, just in time for the weekend (and the finale) but while one door closes I'm happy to continue writing and creating using these characters who have inspired me so much.That being said, I hope you enjoyed reading. Thank you for stopping by, I love getting feedback or kudos or just greetings are fun! Hope everyone has a nice weekend!

Disclaimer: I own nothing, all rights to OUAT

The whole thing can be read on AO3 and ffnet

The dinner at the Nolan’s had been a welcome distraction from what Emma was dealing with in her own house. That much was evident the second their front door closed and the lingering silence between she and Neal filled the house with tension so thick it could practically be cut.

Whatever front they had put on in public, had quickly faded.

Emma stomped her way up the steps to the master bedroom and waited to hear Neal’s footsteps behind her.

The walk in closet off of their room was almost the size of their first studio apartment in Boston. It was hard to believe they had gone from living in less than 400 square feet to where they were now. But Emma would do just about anything to get back to when they had been too madly in love to care that the heat hardly worked. Or that the dated floral wallpaper was peeling. Or that the entire apartment always smelled like the Chinese restaurant in the building next door.

“Emma...” he said when he finally came upstairs to their room. Emma was already in the closet, changing from her clothes. “I went to the dinner, everyone had a nice time…”

“Please. I just want to go to bed.” She went back to pulling her silk pajamas from a drawer in the white cabinets of the closet system. An additive that Neal had insisted be put in the house.

“I was late getting home, it isn’t the end of the world,” he said tersely. Entering the closet but staying in the doorway. He knew enough to give her space at least.

“It’s more than that, Neal.”

“Then what is it? Tell me, because I can’t read your damn mind, Emma.”

“You haven’t been here this week! We moved here because of you and so far all you’ve done is come home late if at all.”

“My job is not 9 to 5, you know that. You knew that before we moved here. Don’t act like this is some surprise.”

“I thought that moving here it might be different. I guess I was wrong.”

“What exactly did you think would be different? We moved here for my career. My legacy, my father’s business. You knew that, you knew what my father was like.”

Emma felt stupid, each day that she went along it got harder until she had constantly felt herself wondering why she was tagging along with someone who clearly did not care for her as he used to. In hopes that he would again become the person she had fallen in love with.

“Where do you even go half of the time? You’re never here. You come home late, you smell like booze constantly...”

“Forgive me for working to try to provide a nice life for you.” Under his breath she heard him add, “I would think you would be grateful.”

“Excuse me?” she snapped. All attentions now on him, not the clothes. “Oh, that’s right because I grew up without a home I’m supposed to crawl on my knees over glass to thank you for all of this?”

Judging from his face she could tell that was exactly what he wanted her to do, which only served to anger her more.

“I should be grateful for what, exactly? Moving away from everything I’ve ever known? Spending day in and out alone in this house? Aside from tonight when was the last time we had a meal together? When was the last time we had sex?”

His jaw clenched, and she debated whether or not to say the next part. Emma stepped toward him, her eyes locked with his. Frustration filling her body.

“If I wanted to marry your father I would have.” She pushed past him and walked into the bedroom.

“Everything I do is for you, Emma, for us! Why can’t you see that?”

“No it’s not.” She stared out the bay window before shutting the white curtains. Everything he did was for himself. “Is there someone else?”

She knew the answer, had for a while, but still she asked.

“No,” he said, sounding defeated. He wouldn’t meet her eyes and Emma felt herself begin to tear up. “You’re being ridiculous.”

She said nothing, just stared at him.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” he said with ice in his voice.

“What are you talking about?”

“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about,” he said, only a few inches from her now. “What would you do, if I snuck out of a dinner to sit on a stoop with another woman?”

“Oh for god sakes, Neal, you’re the one who hired him.”

“Don’t make an ass out of me for doing it,” he said. Emma’s eyes widened. He had done it to test her. She was sure of that now. Bring in an attractive gardener to spend time with your lonely wife. Emma’s blood boiled, she couldn’t even look at him anymore.

Killian Jones had been a trap, one that she was falling right into. Emma walked away, not wanting to continue to argue with him. It was exhausting.

Down the hall in one of the guest bedrooms she pulled down the made up bed, and crawled underneath. The house had several spare bedrooms, this one was the furthest from the master. Emma had tried to decorate simply, using white linens and gray furniture.

The moon hung high in the sky and cast light into the windows of the guest room. Emma stared out them and into the clear night, the stars were visible from her new home. That much she liked. What she didn’t like was the irony of her being in the guest room of her own house.

There weren’t many emotions in this world that Emma Swan liked. One of the few things she had control over in her life, and as she grew up, was that of her response to circumstances. Because while there was only so much she could do for her situation, her approach was what she knew she could control. So for a long time, Emma had been in as much control as she could have been.

But then when she was 17 years old, she met Neal. At a bar she had used a fake ID to get into with another guy she had been dating. The day she met Neal was also the day she left behind all she knew before. He swept her off of her feet. She left that bar with him and never looked back.

Neal took her interesting places on dates. He had a car, a run down probably stolen yellow bug that had since been retired. In all of the chaos that was being young and in love he was her stability. And she was his. He had just been cut off financially from his father, the older Mr Gold thinking it would have his son crawling back to work for him. Unfortunately, he had been right. Five years later, after graduating from Boston University, Neal had begun working for his father.

Emma settled into the covers. She breathed in the scent of the lavender fabric softener on the sheets, remembering the time not so long ago when Neal had been her wings. Now, though, he was more like cement shoes.

In the morning Emma woke late. Her watch read that it was 10 am, she had forgotten to set an alarm. Next to her phone and watch though on the nightstand sat a singular Hershey kiss. The tiny piece of chocolate wrapped in its signature foil packaging.

Their relationship was wrought with miscommunication. It always had been. They were both stubborn and shut down from other people. But he had been the person she knew longest. And with that came the responsibility of knowing what pushes the other’s buttons. She knew Neal’s, and he knew hers.

Another thing, though, was that they knew how to apologize to each other.

Emma picked up the tiny chocolate candy and held it in her hand knowing their history with it. Neither one of them had an easy time apologizing to each other but this had always been their way. It was the way he had proposed to her. It was the way he broke the news to her that he had to move. It was the way she apologized for leaving when he had initially told her.

Her heart fluttered a bit, it was the first glimpse of her Neal she had seen in months. And he wasn’t moving mountains, but it was a sign. A sign that he was still the person that had swept her off her feet 10 years ago.

“I didn’t know what time you would be up.” Emma looked up at the doorway and there stood Neal, holding two steaming cups of coffee.

“My alarm didn’t go off this morning,” she said carefully, taking one of the mugs from him as he sat down on the bed. “I’m surprised you’re here.”

“Em… I didn’t like how we went to bed last night.”

“Me either,” she said staring down at the steam coming from her mug. She caught a whiff of something, the barest hint of cinnamon. Her favorite.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his leg touching hers. Finally she looked up to meet his eyes. “For how I have behaved and treated you.”

Emma remained quiet, as she finally watched something formulate behind his eyes.

“And you’re right, I am acting like my father. But you don’t deserve that.” He took her hand in his and felt the ring he had given her months ago. “Which is why I think we should actually get married…. For real this time.”

“What?” she said back, she definitely wasn’t expecting him to say that.

“I know we only did this to appease my dad but maybe we could really marry each other, have a ceremony in our new house….”

Emma was so stunned she could hardly move. She just stared at Neal. Dealing with the whirlwind of emotions that had gone on between them in the past 12 hours.

“Neal…. I…” she stuttered. “We decided we didn’t want to get married.”

“We made that decision when we were 18, Emma, things change,” he said calmly. “It’s just something to consider.”

“Won’t your dad be pissed when he realizes we didn’t actually get married before moving here?”

“He doesn’t have to know… he thinks we eloped so we can just tell him we wanted a real wedding.”

Neal stood up from the bed, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. He drained his coffee and started to leave the room before turning around to face her in the doorway, “I’m gonna start putting together all of that exercise equipment still in the boxes.”

Emma smiled, it was forced but she still appreciated that she didn’t wake up in an empty home this morning.

“Thanks for getting all of that by the way,” Emma said. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Just because we had to move here for my career doesn’t mean you have to abandon yours,” he said. “Plus I liked to watch you on the stairmaster.”

He winked at her and instead of blushing Emma felt unsettled. She didn’t like whatever feeling hit her as Neal left the room.

When they first started dating, Emma had no family and Neal was cut off from his father. So envisioning a big, white wedding was beyond either of their imaginations. That was what they had agreed upon for most of their relationship. But then as they got closer to moving to Storybrooke, the more Neal started talking about them actually getting married.

“It’s a more traditional neighborhood, Em, we should think about getting married,” he had said. Which was, as one can imagine, not the way every little girl imagines herself getting proposed to.

“You make it sound like a business transaction,” she said back and then they didn’t speak of it again. Until one morning in their old apartment when Emma woke up to a diamond ring resting on top of a Hershey kiss on the pillow next to her.

“We don’t have to actually do it, but at the very least we can pretend,” he had said. Emma still remembered that morning, the sound of an ambulance driving by outside the window. “Just like the good old days.”

Back when they first started dating, they went on road trips all of the time. The problem was, they were both too poor to afford anything but the gas and had to shoplift at convenience stores all along the east coast.

They would be fake married, fake pregnant, fake fighting. It was a game. Their game. She considered him as he slipped the ring on her left hand. It wouldn’t be so bad, she supposed.

“I’ll wear one too, Em.” He kissed her wrist and they made love that morning. Too caught up in the idea of another one of their games to recognize that they were older now and there were consequences to their rouses.

She remembered everything about that morning all those months ago. The Boston t-shirt she always wore from Neal, the sound of an ambulance driving by their apartment window. The weather was rainy and gloomy but it made their tiny bedroom cozy.

But now, sitting in their new house, surrounded by Pottery Barn furniture everything was so quiet. And Emma’s mind tried to grab onto something meaningful to remember this particular morning. A sound. A smell. A feeling. But she couldn’t.

Emma was in the office off of the kitchen later that morning. The built in shelves took up the entire wall behind the desk and were filled with books she had collected from thrift stores over the years. Plants were used as bookends. A tiny window gave a glimpse of the front street. It was cozy, and though Neal rarely worked from home he still insisted on a home office. She sipped her coffee and scrolled through page after page of porch furniture. It was the one part of home decorating she had avoided. Mostly because she had no idea what the backyard would look like yet.

An email came up in the bottom right hand corner, signifying that Neal had an incoming message. Emma’s gut told her not to look, not to snoop. She was never that girl who went searching through phones and emails and calls. She liked to think she trusted people in her life. Nowadays though she wasn’t so sure. It seemed more and more like Emma was always on the defense with Neal. And even this morning, when he had been so sweet, it felt like a bandaid.

Against her better judgement she opened the email, and luckily it was only from Target telling him about a sale going on this week. Emma released a breath. Paranoia was not her favorite feeling. But a few messages down in Neal’s inbox she saw a chain of messages from none other than Killian Jones. Curiosity getting the better of her yet again.

Just as she suspected it was message after message of Neal micromanaging the entirety of the project he had given her ‘free reign’ of. All the while Killian Jones being completely receptive. Of course he was, he was a nice guy. Or what she had seen of him at least, and she liked to think that she had some ability to judge character.

Her eye caught on the sight of a message from Neal where he stated the yard would need to be done by the end of May. For some sort of party.

Interesting. He hadn’t mentioned anything to her about a party. One would think….

Unless it was to be some sort of wedding ceremony. Some surprise gesture to get her to marry him. Emma’s breath caught in her throat, she didn’t know if she was being ridiculous or realistic in assuming that him asking this morning was only a formality. Why else would he throw a party without telling her? It wasn’t either of their birthdays, no one they knew either.

It was certainly plausible.

A knock on the door pulled her out of her racing head. Quickly Emma closed the email and went to the door. Just what she needed right now, a fucking visitor.

When she opened the door she found Mary Margaret standing on the other side holding two to-go cups of coffee and a small paper bag.

“Hi,” Emma said a little startled.

“Hi, I come bearing coffee,” said Mary Margaret in her sweet voice.

“Come in, please,” Emma ushered. Out of the corner of her eye though she caught sight of Killian Jones unloading his truck at the Mills house. She would ask him tomorrow if he knew anything about the party, no need to bother him right now.

Emma and Mary Margaret made their way to the kitchen table. The nook was surrounded by windows that allowed for a view into the backyard, which would be lovely someday but right now was just a big project and some dirt.

Sipping coffee there was a silence over them for a few minutes. Mary Margaret looked like she had an agenda for being here, especially since she hadn’t called ahead. But she still came across sweet to Emma, almost like a mother in the way that she acted toward people. Most likely that came from her being a teacher. Even still, it made Emma want to trust her, and it made her want to be around the woman more often.

“I hope you had a nice time last night, I know David and I did,” she finally said, setting down her coffee cup and leaning back in the chair. She wore a soft yellow sweater and white pants. Compare that to Emma who was still in her pajamas, she felt like a bum.

“I did, it was lovely,” saind Emma. “We used to live in an apartment building so there weren’t too many dinner parties going on there. It’s nice to have neighbors we can spend time with.”

“That’s one of the best parts about living here, the neighbors are almost like family.”

Emma went to chime in and say she had never really had a family before, but decided against it. She felt bad enough about bringing up her past at the table last night. The last thing she wanted was for Mary Margaret to feel uncomfortable around her.

“I didn’t mean it that… I don’t want to offend you, of course it’s not the same thing as a fam…” the pixie haired woman stumbled over her words. “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable talking about your upbringing with me.”

Emma sipped her coffee, giving the woman time to find her words.

“What I meant to say was that I want us to be friends.”

“Friends?” Emma asked.

“I feel like I’m really not getting this right..” Mary Margaret joked. “I like spending time with you. It’s nice to have someone new around. And when I moved to this street there wasn’t exactly a welcome wagon.”

“Other than you and Ruby this place seems like a tough crowd.” Emma thought back to her only encounter with the Mayor at her garden party. How cold and icy she was, but had a hard time picturing anyone being nasty to the woman sitting across from her right now.

“There’s a lot of history here, in Storybrooke. Some families have lived here for years, so there’s a lot of overlap.”

“Well, I enjoy being around you as well. Especially if you’re gonna bring me coffee and croissants every time you come over.”

They both laughed at that and the nervous tension in the room eased. Emma liked Mary Margaret, she was a kind person. And the world could use more people like her. People who were just nice. Besides that, it would be great to actually form a friendship with someone. All her life Emma had been strong in so many ways, but friends was not one of them.

Sunday morning Killian awoke alone in his bed. His head was already reeling from the night before. The dinner party at the Nolan’s had been fine as far as cordial events go, but there was something that picked at him about it. The memory of sitting on that front porch with Emma as he blurted out about his dead brother was so out of character for him it was downright terrifying.

So rarely did he share anything about Liam with anyone new. Obviously his friends had known, they had been around when it happened. But Emma didn’t ask for the sordid tales of his past, but she did seem lonely.

Killian pulled himself out of bed and ran his hands through his hair. According to the clock it was 7 am, he had some time before he had to be at the Mills’ house. He was building a new shed for them and finally had all of the clearances to do it. Something that was odd for the Mills house, normally when it came to approval from the HOA the process moved rather quickly.

He quickly showered but when he got out realized he didn’t have any towels.

Thankfully he lived alone, he thought, as he dripped down the hallway to his linen closet where the spare towels were. But when he pulled out the towel something hit his hand, it was gooey and felt like some sort of gel.

“What in the….?” he spat out looking at his hand. The gooey mystery substance coating his right hand. He reached way back, in the depths of the shelving to find an overturned bottle.

It was a bottle of shampoo, well past its prime, that had fallen between the cracks. Not just any shampoo though, what he could smell of it was what Milah had washed her hair with. He closed his eyes and let himself picture what mornings used to be like when she was still alive.

The smell of her dark, curly hair pressed against his nose. The feel of her soft body tucked into his. The way she would pull him closer when it was cold outside. On a morning like today, when he hadn’t shaved for a few days, she would complain about the tickle of his jaw.

Anytime he thought of her though, inevitably his mind would wander to the last time he had seen her. The morning after she had died, he hadn’t even been with her when she had taken her last breath. His last memory of her was the sight of her laid out on a metal table, under a blue cloth, making a confirmation to the detective that she was indeed who her ID said she was.

But the person he saw in that room wasn’t the woman he had fallen in love with, she was a shell of herself on that table. An empty version of Milah. The side of her that was an addict had won out in the end.

Who knew an old shampoo bottle could send him on such a tailspin?

Later that day he was working at the Mills house, distracting himself from the morning. The framework for the shed had been built, and was coming along nicely. That was the thing with Killian, no matter what went on day to day, work could take his mind away from anything.

“Hi Mr. Jones,” came a young voice from across the yard. Killian looked up from his work to see Henry Mills walking toward him. They 8 year old son.

“Hi Henry,” he said back smiling. While Killian wasn’t used to being around kids, most of his friends didn’t have them, Henry was a good kid. “I’ve told you before you can just call me Killian.”

“My mom says I shouldn’t call grownups by their first name,” he said back, kicking a stone with his shoe.

“Well I may be older than you but I’m far from a grownup.” Killian smiled at Henry, who was young but always seemed to have a maturity about him. It was probably because, in most scenarios, he was the only kid around. He was an only child, and there weren’t a ton of other kids on the street to play with. “You can help if you would like.”

“Really?” the kid’s face lit up. As much as Killian should probably just work alone, Henry was always helpful and he couldn’t spend another afternoon watching the 8 year old play alone on his swing set.

As they set to work Killian found Henry to be quite helpful. He sorted screws and nuts and bolts. He held things in place, he acted as an extra set of hands. They worked like that for a while.

“Henry, what did I tell you about bothering Mr. Jones while he works?”

Cora Mills was standing not 10 feet from them and he had hardly heard her coming. In her hands was a silver tray with some glasses and a pitcher of ice water. She was an older version of the mayor. Wearing sensible, tailored pants and a white linen shirt. Her long dark hair was tied up and her lips were painted a bright red. It was awfully formal for a Sunday afternoon at home, but that was the Mills family. They ran the town, and they knew it.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Mills,” Killian said standing from his hunched over position. “Henry was just helping out for a little while, he’s never a bother.”

“That’s kind of you,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Henry, your mother has lunch on the table inside.”

The kid shot up and ran toward the house, waving a quick goodbye to Killian. The young lad had so much energy, Killian felt like it would be a cold day in hell before he could run toward that house right now after working all morning and afternoon.

“You’re very kind to be so patient with him,” Cora said, bringing his attention back to her.

But he didn’t like the way she looked at him, he never did. It was part of his job though, and being that the Mills family were responsible for his brother being so successful he just smiled and endured it.

Monday morning, Killian felt a weird churning in his stomach. He wasn’t inherently a nervous person, but as he made his way to Neal Gold’s house that was exactly what he was feeling.

“You’re awfully quiet this morning,” said Will as they were working in the backyard. The morning had gone off without a hitch but Killian couldn’t help but notice Emma didn’t come out to say hello.

Perhaps he had gone too far by telling her about his brother, perhaps her husband felt uncomfortable with her being alone with him. Whatever it was, he noticed her absence.

“I mean, you’re always a bit grouchy but we’ve been here for a few hours and you haven’t said more than two words,” Will continued. He was one of Killian’s oldest friends. They had met in elementary school, coming from similar toxic family situations.

“I’m not feeling particularly chatty today.”

“Yes because you’re usually such a talkative person.”

“I’m here to work I’m not here to doddle,” said Killian with a hint of irritation in his voice as he continued to dig out places for the posts of the fence. A wood fence that will eventually be covered in natural looking vines, but it was easier to focus on that then his bad mood.

He wiped the sweat from his brow, it was only 11 am and already very warm. If only that pool in the middle of the lawn was full he would jump in right now to cool off. By the end of the week the plumbing for the sprinkler system would be done.

“You know, some people would find your silence off putting,” Will continued to jab at him. “But I love a challenge.”

“You are intolerable.”

“Then fire me!” he teased. Killian at least cracked a smile at that. He worked alone a decent amount, he felt he was more efficient that way. But it was nice to have company every once in a while. However annoying Will was, he was still company. And he was one of the people who dragged him back to work after losing Liam. For that he would forever be grateful.

“I think there’s someone who wants to talk to you….” he heard Will say as he picked up his head. Walking toward them was Emma Swan, long blonde hair free and flowing. She wasn’t in her usual workout gear and ponytail. It looked like she was on her way to something. The purse that hung on her shoulder, he recognized as one he had bought for Milah for Christmas one year. The difference was, the one Milah had was a fake version and Emma’s appeared to be real. A several thousand dollar bag, hanging from her shoulder like it was nothing. That was the kind of life she was used to.

“Killian, can I talk to you for a minute?” her voice sounded in his ears as she looked right at him. He tried to read her expression but her sunglasses masked her most telling feature. Her eyes. Apparently he had frozen in his spot because he felt the gentle nudge of Will on his shoulder.

“Sure,” he said a little too quickly. With the back of his glove he wiped his forehead again before following her toward the porch. When he turned back to look at Will his friend’s eyebrows were raised in such a way that he thought perhaps he now knew why Killian had been so quiet.

Emma led him up the stairs of the back porch and just when he thought she was going to stop there, she opened the french doors and led him inside her house.

The cool air hit him as he stepped inside. Immediately he was conscious of the dirt on his boots that were tracking on the wood floor.

“It’s alright, just leave them on,” she said as if reading his mind.

He took in the surroundings. After many years of working in these neighborhoods, this was the first time he had ever been invited inside. It was just as massive as it looked on the outside. The french doors from the porch led into the space of a large living room, off of that was a sleek white kitchen. But in all of its grandeur, amongst all of the artwork and books, there were absolutely no pictures.

“Would you like a glass of water?” she offered from behind the kitchen island. Emma had taken her sunglasses off and set them next to her bag on the counter. He searched her bright green eyes, but if Killian was being honest they appeared to be a bit foggy. Had she been crying?

He could only assume she was going to tell him off for following her out to the porch at the Nolan’s on Saturday night.

“Sure, that would be great,” he said, removing his disgusting work boots and leaving them by the door. It felt like a crime to wear them in her pristine home. Dragging mud through her seemingly pristine life.

Killian walked over to where Emma stood in the kitchen and reached across the island to grab the glass of water from her. He kept his distance though, this was her home, and god forbid her husband walk in to find the two of them alone in the house together. Killian would never work again.

“Yesterday I was in Neal’s office and stumbled upon something,” she turned and went through one of the doors off of the kitchen. He didn’t know what to do so he just watched as she quickly returned from what he assumed was Neal Gold’s home office. Making a mental note of where it was he looked at the piece of paper in her hand.

“What do you know about this event we’re having at the house at the end of May?” she asked, catching him off guard.

“It was mentioned just in terms of the timeline,” he said back. “Nothing else was told to me about it.”

Emma sighed, setting down the sheet of paper that had the chain of emails between Killian and Neal about the yard. Whatever kind of marriage the two of them had, it clearly was not a very strong one if she had to ask him about an event her husband was planning.

“Me either,” she admitted as she crossed her arms over her chest. The ring on her finger catching his eye. “I don’t like surprises.”

“Maybe it’s some sort of birthday party…. Or anniversary….?” he offered, wondering why she was so concerned about it and also why Killian was the only one she was able to consult. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, love.”

“It’s alright, I just thought maybe he told you.”

He surveyed her again, noting how uncomfortable all of this made her. It was why she had dragged him inside, the idea of not knowing something as simple as a party your husband was planning… well that was probably irritating to her. Perhaps her life wasn’t as pristine as they led the world to believe. In the space of only a week Killian had noticed that. It wasn’t up to him to comfort her, that wasn’t in his job description as the town’s local gardener. But he felt himself wanting to do it anyway.

“Look, Emma…” It felt odd calling her by her first name, but the way she looked at him told her she was listening. “I’m sure it’s just a surprise he’s throwing together. And that whatever it is will be lovely.”

Her green eyes were rather striking to him, as there was something behind them that made him very wary. Fear.

“If he gives any indication as to what it is you will be the first person I tell,” he said scrambling for anything to just wipe away that look of fear on her face. There was so much more to this than a mystery party but right now it was all he had to offer her. “I promise.”

As if all at once she realized just how inappropriate it was for him to be in this kitchen with her right now alone, she snapped out of whatever haze she had been in.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “I didn’t mean to keep you from your work I just… I didn’t want to talk about this in front of…”

“Other people.” He finished for her. Quickly dismissing himself back to the yard where he belonged. But as he worked the rest of the day he couldn’t help but wonder what on earth Emma Swan was so afraid of.

#cs ff #cs au #captain swan fanfiction #cs fic #cs ff au #captain swan #emma swan #killian jones

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tgaoe · 6 years

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Andy’s 2017 Music Report

Favorite Albums, Favorite Songs, and other assorted temporally-specific ramblings.

Preamble

I. Dearth I listened to less music this year than I did last year, partly due to the immense amount of time required to finish my Master’s Degree, and also because I slept better. You may recall from last year’s treatise that I experienced something of a listening renaissance late in the year, turning to music during nights spent sleepless for work-related anxiety. 2017 marked my fourth year in my current job, and the first during which I began to feel confident in my own professional competence. Hence, less anxiety, fewer sleepless nights, less music. So it goes.

II. Duplicity, Disaffection Another reason. Prior to November 21st, I spent an inordinate amount of time listening to a single band, the band that made my #1 record from 2016. They were also my most-listened to band of 2017. I went deep into their back catalogue, full immersion, and I found such joy and pleasure in doing so. The band helped me through a fraught, life-altering personal ordeal. I traveled to see them play and it was cathartic. However, on 11/21 it was revealed that the leader of that band may have betrayed much of what he/they claimed to have stood for as steadfast advocates for kindness, equity, and empathy. The woman or women he hurt are the primary victims, but secondarily his hypocrisy destroyed a community of people who connected strongly with his music. I believe in rehabilitation. But I also doubt I’ll ever be able to listen to this band the same way again, if at all. I share this troubling information because it undoubtedly colors this list. For weeks after the revelation I only listened to songs sung by women, maybe to offset the damage somehow, maybe to avoid connecting with another secretly awful man.

III. Disappointment Last year I wrote extensively about how the absence of releases from legacy acts resulted in my exposure to an unusually large number of new/emerging artists. That trend of exposure continued this year, for unfortunate reasons. Most new releases by old favorites proved little more than pleasant. Though something like 20 albums from 2017 fall into that category, only five or six made my list of favorites, and even some of those did so despite caveats. I suspect this may have to do with the current circumstances of my life more than with the music itself, at least in some cases. For instance, Sleep Well Beast will not appear below, but I am the only National devotee I know who doesn’t love it as much as their previous records. Time will tell, I suppose.

IV. Derelict I devoted significantly less time to this project this year than I did to its previous iterations, probably 20 hours vs. the usual 40-60. I usually track favorites all year and begin writing in October. This year I was much less diligent, not commencing writing until mid-December. It shows, I’m afraid. I did not keep an actual Favorite Songs list, nor did I keep a running record of micro-moments.

Blame the Master’s. Over five months of work my research project ballooned to 18,415 words spanning 118 pages—characteristically about twice as long as it needed to be. It’s a mystery how I mustered the energy to eke out another 6000 words for this thing after all that.

V. Dingus As always, forgive my assumption that readers of this monstrosity possess a certain level of familiarity with prevailing music culture. The writing reads better that way. Also as always, please forgive the preposterous pretense that anyone would want to read this, the bloviations of yet another obsessive 30-something white man desperate for your attention.

My 19 Favorite Albums of 2017

19 favorites because 19 was how many favorites I had.

19 The World’s Best American Band White Reaper Big, stupid, shameless riff rock; a record as fun as its title is ridiculous. The band almost has the chops to live up to it too, blazing through ten hook-dense, hedonistic rockers with fatalistic abandon. No introspection here, folks. The only lesson White Reaper has to impart is, “If you make the girls dance, the boys will dance with ‘em.” Noted, dudes.

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18 Cigarettes After Sex Cigarettes After Sex How to Make the Sexiest Music Ever, Apparently

1) Start with early Interpol. 2) Slow it down. 3) Tighten it up. 4) Strip away the fuzz. 5) Replace Paul Banks with Greg Gonzalez, a man whose smoky, sultry voice I mistook for a woman's until just now. 6) Drop the nonsense lyrics in favor of straightforward stories, proclamations, and invitations, all specific and intimate like the first xx record.

The result: a collection of variations on "Fade Into You" sans twang. Almost unfathomably sexy. The sexiest.

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17 The Nashville Sound Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit I don’t love this album, but I do love all its songs. The Nashville Sound should have been a solo record with an accompanying full-band live release a few months later. The 400 Unit is so talented, so utterly professional that they can’t help but sound canned, over-produced, in a modern studio. Any old band off the street can be made to sound that way. What makes the Unit special is that this is how they sound live. They sound perfect. Perfection on record isn’t much fun.

Jason Isbell is the best songwriter of his generation. Case in point: Leonard Cohen’s “Chelsea Hotel No. 2,” his best song and a contender for best song by anyone, famously concludes with the couplet,

I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel That's all, I don't think of you that often

Isbell manages to casually convey the same sentiment through implication on Sound’s “Molotov”:

Another life but I still remember A county fair in steamy September In the Year of the Tiger, nineteen-something

He remembers, but not that well, not the year. He doesn’t think of her that often.

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16 Need Your Love Sheer Mag The opening salvo of “Meet Me in the Street” and the sort-of title track tells you everything you need to know about Need Your Love, the surprising segue of anthemic nails-hard rebel rock into heartfelt, slinky soul-funk. Sheer Mag is everything 70s rock, all facets, plain and simple, in timbre, tone, and demeanor, fitted to modern pop structure and sensibility. Massive riffs, throaty hollers, cavernous sonics, never not danceable. The last 40 years never happened.

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15 Something to Tell You Haim Four years ago I passionately engaged in a pointless internet debate on the false premise of the superiority of Haim vs. Lorde. Of course this was less about the actual artists than it was the debaters’ desperation for validation of our own tastes and preferences at the expense of others’, which is a stupid thing insecure young white men do for some reason. However, looking back now and comparing the two entities’ work and public personas does reveal fascinating differences in their approaches and cultural placements, especially considering the rollouts and receptions of both artists’ follow-up records. I’ll write more about Lorde later (spoiler), but she crafts songs that achieve timelessness and universality seemingly unintentionally, through trope subversion and highly specific and personal writing. Haim achieves the same through something like the opposite approach.

Every Haim song feels like a glossy new product behind a high-end shop window, displayed uniformly, calculated and designed for maximum value and mass appeal. I’ve said this before, but Haim recordings sound like money, sound expensive. Because they are. Haim recordings are light, airy, sleek, tight, and huge. The lyrics strive for universality by exploring standard romantic emotional states in the most vague, impersonal, situationally unspecific possible manner. We do not know the identity of the “you” in these songs. Hell, we don’t really who the “I” is. We can project whoever we want. These songs are perfect manufactured products. That may read as negative criticism, but it is not. The total orderliness of Haim songs forces order on anarchy. Haim songs make the world simple, make it make sense. Every question has an answer, every problem a solution.

There is an exception that proves the rule here, a more experimental Haim song that towers above the others by subverting those established expectations of order, transcends them to depict in actuality the true messiness of love. That song is “Right Now,” and it is a monster jam, likely the best song Haim has ever written. The structure is confounding, the melodies don’t time out naturally, nothing musically makes sense, is rational, in the same way feelings don’t and aren’t. There is a call-and-response with which it is almost impossible to sing along because the response comes in like half a beat later than every other pop song has trained us to expect. Feedback blares, clicks click, hums hum. “Right Now” is imperfect, and in that it is the most perfect Haim song. It came not from an assembly line, it came from a soul. Or souls. “Right Now” even allows a single reference to an actual specific event, a quiet conversation overheard through a window, which, even though still somewhat vague, gives the song a level of personal meaning to the narrator missing from, you know, every other Haim song. More like this please.

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By the way, this short PTA-directed performance film is incredible, and suggests that everything I wrote in that second paragraph may be negated when the band plays live.

14 Graveyard of Good Times Brandon Can’t Dance Brandon Ayers's collection of mom's basement DIY songs plays as much like a friend's great mix cd as it does a solo artist's album, intuitively-sequenced and formally experimental in the sense that the dude seemingly tries any musical idea that occurs to him, and there are so many here: stoned weirdo neo disco, 80s soft rock, wall-of-sound shoegaze, earnest folk, synthy dance rock, 90s industrial and more, all effortless, catchy and united aesthetically by competent use of limited production resources. Ayers's lyrics are always either smart or hilariously, knowingly dumb as he explores a kind of mundanity inherent to a life of low-budget hedonism, as well as how much he loves his dogs, mom, sister, and grandma. Can't go wrong with that.

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13 Villains Queens of the Stone Age Josh Homme and Britt Daniel have much in common culturally, both mid-40s men who have spent nearly two decades each as highly unlikely sex symbols, sustaining multi-decade rock careers, stalking stages with maniacal, borderline-predatory confidence. But musically they’ve shared few qualities until now. Villians has airless, precise grooves similar to some Spoon records, but, you know, with that Queens menace and evil. The QoTSA has always been a band about perfect playing, but this time Homme brought in preeminent funk racketeer Mark Ronson to help shape Villains. The result is the shortest, most accessible record the band has ever made. Actually, it is not the shortest—it just feels that way. Villians cooks, showcasing the same old Queens, aggressively showy and prone to extended digressions, but with arrangements more focused, lightweight, and compressed than ever before.

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Make sure you stick around for the entire song. Trust me.

12 I Love You Like a Brother Alex Lahey What is happening in Australian that the country keeps producing these witty, confident female punk singer/songwriters? Alex Lahey’s style certainly mines a similar humorous vain to Courtney Barnett, but her approach is more energetic and less erudite. I always feel held at a distance by Barnett’s music; listening to it is almost a purely intellectual exercise. Lahey’s, however, has a casual immediacy that makes me want to smile and laugh and dance.

The title track is both punk as hell and sticky-sweet, a genuine love song from a sister to a brother, insanely catchy and refreshingly sincere. I am no one’s sister, and my brother and I, though we love each other, have never had a connection quite like the one Lahey documents here. Still, I so feel this jam. It follows the album’s opener, “Every Day’s the Weekend,” an actual love song, albeit one about having fallen for a broke, emotionally elusive charmer. “Fuck work, you’re here, every day’s the weekend,” is lyric of such powerful brevity, so effectively conveying the feeling during those times when someone exciting has unexpectedly exploded into your life. The hilarious “Perth Traumatic Stress Disorder,” another gatestormer, follows, and then the album starts to mutate into something more complex and interesting.

I Love You Like a Brother begins as an aggressive punk record, but slowly warps into atmospheric, radio-ready stadium rock. On a couple occasions this may be to its detriment, but as a whole the album serves as a solid testament to Lahey’s versatility as a writer. The lyrics of “Awkward Exchange” are comparatively anonymous to the earlier tracks, but the open sound, dynamic structure, and wordless chants beg for massive festival singalongs. It might happen. It should happen. The two approaches combine on “Lotto in Reverse,” perhaps Lahey’s greatest triumph here, an inward-focused dirge grafted onto a massive, hooky rock song that more than earns its prominent placement on Spotify’s Badass Women playlist.

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11 Go Farther in Lightness Gang of Youths Christian music is terrible, almost all of it. Not just because it all still sounds like U2, but because none of it deigns to explore actual life as a flawed human who happens to be Christian. This is so intentionally. The Christian music industry is insidiously Randian; cynical and deplorable. Gang of Youths is fighting back, hard.

Singer/songwriter David Le'aupepe is a vulgar spiritualist, kind of a like an Australian David Bazan or Sufjan Stevens in the way he publicly struggles to reconcile his faith with his human proclivities. His studious lyrics often recall very early Bruce Springsteen, with their expansive vocabulary and wide-ranging cultural literacy. The band met in church (like U2!), yet the man swears with relish and documents his perceived failings as well as his issues with the spirtual institution to which he belongs. Get a load of this, from “Perservere,” which is actually my least favorite song on the album:

But God is full of grace and his faithfulness is vast There is safety in the moments when the shit has hit the fan Not some vindictive motherfucker, nor is he shitty at his job What words to hear, and I’m a mess by now 'Cause nothing tuned me in to my failure as fast As grieving for a friend with more belief than I possessed

Imagine that at Sunday service! If all Christian music was this nuanced and genuinely introspective then, well, Christian music wouldn’t be a ghetto. It would just be more music.

This album is long, almost feature-length, most of its 16 songs stretching beyond five minutes. Fortunately, the wealth of ideas and arrangements sustain the length, if only just barely. Gang of Youths are adventurously egalitarian in their consummate unoriginality, adamantly subscribing to the notion of Ecclesiastes 1:9, content to let Le’aupepe’s compelling narratives give the band identity as their arrangements freely pillage ideas from the most successful indie rock bands of the last decade, mostly those who can now fill arenas; the Killers, the National, Arcade Fire, Bon Iver, LCD Soundsystemm Bloc Party. My favorite songs here pound forward relentlessly like Titus Andronicus. On some songs Le’aupepe’s words tumble out uncontrollably like Gareth Campesinos, on others his voice could be mistaken for Matt Berninger’s low growl.

Also, I’d be remiss to not mention how appealing I find it that there are no white people in this band. It’s rare and refreshing to hear this kind of massive music from a cultural perspective so different then my own.

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10 Hot Thoughts Spoon Spoon is a band of consummate constants and variables. The band knows exactly what defines it, what listeners like, and they always deliver while also changing just enough to surprise. Every record, every song, reliably has three particular elements: an airtight hard rhythm groove, simple, catchy, repetitive; a masterful command of pop structure; and Britt Daniel’s enigmatic brand of ultracool, vaguely sexual vocal swagger. The other sounds around those elements, the atmospheres and tones, change with each record. Hot Thoughts delves deeper into the psychedelic G-funk timbres the band played with some on They Want My Soul, as Daniel continues to explore nonthreatening, acceptable ways to express desire. In short, it’s another Spoon record, and it rules.

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9 Strangers in the Alps Phoebe Bridgers I keep coming back to lyrics. Lyrics draw me in like nothing else, the more smart, personal, and specific the better. Lyrics don’t come more specific and personal and smart than Phoebe Bridgers’s. She tells vivd stories, recounts memories of events and emotions by conjuring indelible, detailed settings and images with devastating depths of feeling, mostly over quiet, close-miced acoustic guitars underlaid with noninvasive strings and other atmospherics. Prepare to be haunted.

Though she sometimes doesn’t bother and the songs don’t suffer for it, as on the incredible “Smoke Signals,” Bridgers can also write the hell out of a chorus. Try not to get “Motion Sickness” stuck in your mind.

Strangers in the Alps does take a production risk I would understand some finding off-putting. Sometimes sound effects supplement and/or match lyrical events; a plane flying overhead, a boot crunching leaves, the kind of thing. It’s strange at first, but ultimately sets the album apart from others by similarly earnest stool-seated strummers.

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8 Near to the Wild Heart of Life - year’s best title Japandroids I’ve seen this band play three times. The third was this year. Those previous had been with friends, and before the shows we drank and goofed around, celebrating our affection for each other and getting just the right level of lit up. This year I took a vacation day from my professional job, drove to St. Louis alone, and waited in line alone while reading a screenplay by one of the guys I used to go to shows with, eventually watching the show alone while nursing a single beer. It wasn’t the same. But it was still good.

Japandroids write what they know. Seven years ago what they knew resulted in a masterpiece, an album more relatable to me at the time than any other. Indeed, Celebration Rock remains my all-time favorite record, its ragged, propulsive riffage and emotional narratives of kinetic nights with close friends still have the power to take me back to that time, when I had more energy and a will to wildness. However, over the long interim between albums, the Japandroids’ lives and mine ceased to resemble each other. My closest friends moved. I have bills and a career and a generally pleasant, stable life—one distinctly not wild. Meanwhile, those dudes are evidently still globetrotting, every night out there swilling top-shelf tequila to nurse the heartache of intercontinental romance, living hard and loving harder. I no longer relate. As a listener I’m an observer now when I was once a participant. However, while I don’t connect with latter day Japandroids experientially, in a way the fact that Wild Heart still plays great for me despite that suggests that Japandroids is a legitimately great band on a musical level, rather than one just great for its ability to bash out messy, meaningful feelings..

These dudes are not shy about their laziness as songwriters, at least in terms of prolificacy. They release music as soon as they’ve reached the requisite minimum quantity of great songs, and it takes them forever to do so. Like the two previous Japandroids records, Wild Heart has only eight tracks, and they cheat even to amass that many. While Celebration Rock included a (totally awesome, raucous, thematically-appropriate) cover song, this time one Wild Heart track is an interlude, barely a song (“I’m Sorry [for Not Finding You Sooner]”), and another is just bad, sounding like a high school garage band trying hard to write a Japandroids song (“Midnight to Morning”). They really shouldn’t have let that one through. But man, the other six songs still kill with the same ferocity as before, some with an increased sense of melody and hook, and they all sound great live and feel great to shout along with, which, let’s be honest, is mainly what this band is for, and has always been for. The shouting just means a little less to me now.

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7 Don’t Be a Stranger Nervous Dater Rachel Lightner has the gift, my favorite gift. She expels what she considers her worst qualities, and she does it through great songs; extremely catchy, smart, driving, dynamic punk songs. She does it publicly, with casual confidence. She makes it look easy and, most importantly, normal. Feeling how she feels is not unique. Sharing those feelings legitimizes them, creates a community around them. I mean, look at these lines:

Cause when things get quiet I feel uneasy I need my friends or at least just the sound of the TV To keep these things in my head from screaming “You’re inadequate! You’re a piece of shit! You could run forever but you’d never get away with it! And if people really knew who you were, They’d probably cover up the ground that you walk on with spit!”

If you can’t relate, then I envy you. If you can, and if you like punk, you need this band.

The players behind Lightner are also great, building arrangements that match incidental turns in the lyrics. The lines above are from the title track. Listen for how the song bends and nearly breaks as the narrative does the same, then recovers before almost breaking again. The band follows a formula, each instrument doing a specific job. Drums, bass, and one guitar lock into rhythm, while a lead guitar incessantly plays highly-involved tasto solo hooks. The band rarely veers from its set aesthetic, and when it does, it does so with purpose.

Occasionally a male member of the band will cameo, supplementing Lightner’s self-excoriations with early-2000s emo-screaming in the background. It’s a signifier that, intentionally or not, effectively ties Lightner’s music back to that era, an era that very intentionally excluded and delegitimized women’s voices. As has been proven time and time again in recent years, that was stupid. Women do it better. The contemporary women making emotional, personal punk music are doing it so well that nobody’s come up with a term like “emo” to dismiss it. I love being alive right now.

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6 Big Fish Theory Vince Staples For when people ask what kind of music I like, that impossible question almost only asked by those who do not share the obsession, I have developed a stock answer of surprising accuracy. The smartest versions of punk, rap, and country. Country is a fudge, designed to open up a conversation about what “smart” country is. Dorks call it “alt-country.” Anyway. That’s a separate essay. You may have noticed that Big Fish Theory is the first rap record on this list. I am not tapped in to most contemporary rap. The slow, repetitive codeine scene doesn’t do it for me, and rap is more about single songs and premium playlist placement than it is about albums now. The album-focused rappers are dinosaurs. Four fossil-rap acts made solid records this year, and three made my list. Ranking them was difficult, and I am not at all confident in my final assessments. Vince Staples could have ranked highest another day.

Some days I like Big Fish Theory more than DAMN. Vince Staples’ world is less complicated, more concentrated and angry. Some days unnuanced anger is what I want. For fuel. Case in point, compare the two’s thoughts on the President and the country. First, Kendrick, hinting and contemplative:

Homicidal thoughts; Donald Trump's in office We lost Barack and promised to never doubt him again But is America honest, or do we bask in sin?

And Vince:

Tell the President to suck a dick, because we on now Tell the one percent to suck a dick, because we on now Tell the government to suck a dick, because we on now

And, of course, both men appear on “Yeah Right,” every bit as glorious a linguistic whirlwind as could be expected.

Also, I don’t know another rapper more musically experimental, forward-thinking, and adventurous than Vince Staples, including Kendrick. Vince is admirably without ego here (humble!); often letting the music overtake his voice, having faith in listeners to look up his words if they so desire. Much of Big Fish Theory is essentially modernized Chicago house with rapping, while also proudly West Coast. And it bangs, hard.

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5 Melodrama Lorde This one took time. It took reading younger people’s perspectives to appreciate, grow to love. The first listen felt cold, staid. Pure Herione had been an instant rush, a loud announcement of a new, exciting pop personality, fully steeped in enthusiastically appropriated pop tropes of the time and letting Ella Yelich-O'Connor’s novel personality shine atop it all. Melodrama is different. She doesn’t shine, she seethes and writhes. She’s growing up in front of us, with surprising, precocious wisdom and emotional maturity.

There is nothing particularly contemporary about the sound of Melodrama. It’s less jokey, more earnest than Pure Heroine. And ultimately, despite that it does not provide the same sugary pleasure rush of its predecessor, Melodrama is far superior. It doesn’t sound like a time period, it sounds like first love and first heartbreak, because it is the manifestation of those. It sounds timeless, orchestral without an orchestra, because it is those things.

One track is a notable exception to the timelessness, and that makes it almost impossibly special. I will elucidate later in the Favorite Songs section.

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4 DAMN. Kendrick Lamar Has there ever been an artist so deft at balancing/blending pure creative expression with commercialism? Until DAMN., Kendrick had achieved that balance through compartmentalization, by creating knotty, esoteric records, masterpieces, while also featuring on the most crass chart-bait singles imaginable. Another case in point: Kendrick made “For Free?” and appeared on the “Shake it Off” remix the same year. DAMN. inextricably fuses the two compartments without compromise. Almost every second of the album is both at once. Every song has earworm hooks and brain-breaking lyrical density. The record is jammed with potential singles, yet still works as a whole… even when listening to the tracks in reverse order. All hail. DAMN. is unquestionably the best album of the year, but even so, and even though I flew 1500 miles to see him play it live his hometown… it is not my favorite this year. DAMN. somehow isn’t even my favorite rap record, a late-breaking change-of-heart that took me by surprise.

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3 RTJ3 Run the Jewels It’s too long. Let’s get that out of the way. But it’s all essential. For months I said that cutting “Hey Kids” and “Thieves!” would have made a better record. I was wrong. “Hey Kids” is the weakest track, for sure, but Killer Mike’s verse is straight up canonical, despite the relative frivolity of El-P’s bars and the idiocy of Danny Brown’s feature. “Thieves!,” on the other hand, after some close-listening and Genius deep-diving, is one of RTJ3’s best tracks, a massively ambitious dystopian sci-fi narrative that subtly riffs on Hamlet. Part of that ambition is manifested in a structure quite different from the straightforward presentations we’re used to from these guys; listening without the proper context doesn’t provide the furious pleasure typically associated with Run the Jewels.

Killer Mike & El-P were in an unenviable position prior to releasing this album. RTJ1 surprised everyone, even its makers; a no-stakes lark that happened to be much better and more special than that due simply to the sheer volume of talent involved. Expectations for RTJ2 had been high as a result, and they were exceeded as the band chose to treat the project with seriousness and gravity, leveraging their newfound fame and cultural relevance/reverence for conscientious advocacy. The result, RTJ2, is an unimpeachable classic, one I will listen to for the rest of my life. How could they top it, or even match it, without repeating themselves? By ratcheting up the ambition even further, and with it the risk.

Run the Jewels had been many things on their first two records; angry, funny, aggressive, stoned. Introspective was rarely one of those things. On RTJ3, the duo turn their focus inward, exploring feelings, emotions, and motivations as they apply to the external world in a manner they had never done previously. They also continue to make hilarious dick jokes.

The first and last four tracks are the best work they’ve ever done, the bookends especially. I didn’t appreciate just how great “Down” is until seeing the group close a couple live sets with it. The friends with whom I saw those shows and I were confused by that choice, but it caused us, or me at least, to listen to the song differently, to consider it as the type of song to close a set. Turns out, the choice was a great one. This band has become a band about hope manifested as anger and action, and no track conveys that notion better than “Down,” no RTJ album does it better than their third.

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2 Turn Out the Lights Julien Baker Julien Baker creates stadium soundscapes using only a clean electric guitar and/or piano filtered through looping pedals. Many artists try this and fail. Especially in a live setting, it’s a cynical trick often deployed to impress perceived plebes, as I’ve seen Ed Sheerhan and, sadly, Elvis Costello, do in person. But for Julien Baker it is not a trick. It is seamless, unnoticeable; technical mastery not for its own sake, for impressing an audience, but for empowering expressions of deep feeling.

Turn Out the Lights is so much more than its production and arrangements, however. Baker is one of the most talented living writers, singers, and performers. Her percussion-less, entirely solo arrangements exist only to serve the themes of her songs. She’s one woman, onstage or on record, alone with the power of a full orchestra as she looses her interior on the world, her battles with addiction and depression, her fight to square an existence as a Christian and queer person, and her longing search for love and meaning through it all, the constant quest to hurt less.

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1 After the Party The Menzingers If this were a list of “best” rather than “favorite” albums of the year, After the Party would be much lower, possibly not even included. There’s nothing innovative or original happening here, nothing generation-defining, no new ideas or calls to revolution. But there is an endless well of energy, feeling, and hyper-competent rock musicianship. The Menzingers have one of the most able rhythm sections working, serving the songs of two extraordinary writers, who seem incapable of picking up guitars without creating stadium punk hooks as indelibly catchy as they are heavy. This is smart, pure, meat-and-potatoes rock music, the meatiest and starchiest.

Beyond the wholly satisfying drive and force of the band on a primal musical level, these dudes have a real working-class, post-religious Midwestern mentality, despite hailing a little too far east to fully qualify. Many of these songs deal with how to gracefully age and settle while maintaining an uncommon resistance to traditional values. It should come as no surprise how strongly I relate. Earlier I mentioned Japandroids, how their initial records depicted the romance of early-20s debauchery and intense friendship. The true triumph of After the Party is how the The Menzingers manage to write about moving forward, building lives with partners, embracing careers and domesticity while also looking back fondly at bygone wild days without romanticizing them, fully owning that a calmer life is a better one, but allowing that the past was pretty damn fun.

After the Party may not become a timeless classic like other records on this list might, but this year it was the album to which I connected most. It was, and is, mine.

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A Few of My Favorite Songs of 2017

8/7 “Truth Hurts”/“Water Me” Lizzo Lizzo should be a huge star. She’s like André 3000 good. She’s my Beyoncé.

Including these songs here is like an honorary Favorite Album spot. I listened to the two singles back-to-back more times than I did most albums this year. Lizzo has talent in excess of her excess of confidence and swagger.

Music journalists could not shut up about the two times Rihanna rapped on record this year, a little on the Kendrick album and on the only good 45 seconds of the N.E.R.D. album. Both instances earned effusive and universal praise. It bothers me that Lizzo doesn’t get that type of attention. She raps, sings, and writes far better than Rihanna, better than most pop stars working, really, and she often does it all in the same song, the same line.

“Truth Hurts” is a total kiss-off rap banger, insidiously catchy as it deconstructs and rebuilds the chorus of “Black Beatles” into something much better and exponentially more driving than its lugubrious origin. “Water Me” is an aggressive funk jam that Lizzo goes nuts over, showing off the full range of her voice, trying about a hundred different modulations and weird ideas. They all work, and together form some truly transcendent pop.

Check out her older stuff too, including a couple unlikely collaborations with Sadie Dupois from Speedy Ortiz (!) for my punk friends.

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7 “What Can I Do If the Fire Goes Out?” Gang of Youths This isn’t another “Younger Us,” a song that so fully represents a period of my life that the opening chords still sometimes have the power to make me tear up. But it does take me be back to another time, and moves me in a similar way to the Japandroids classic. I haven’t told many people about this, but though I didn’t openly quit the church until a few months after graduating high school, I had struggled to maintain faith for a few years, even while playing in a devoutly evangelical Christian rock band.

“What Can I Do If the Fire Goes Out?” takes me back to a specific morning, a bone-cold, see-your-breath morning, driving to school my sophomore or junior year, listening to the first song from the second Spoken album and weeping at the lyrics’ longing prayer for help and guidance. In hindsight, Spoken made objectively bad music; comically derivative and poorly-structured. Throughout the Gang of Youths album, and especially on “Fire,” similar sentiments are explored and depicted more articulately, with far superior musical acumen. I’ll never believe again, but it’s nice to be made to have those feelings again, to experience unforced sympathy for another’s spiritual struggle.

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6 “Right Now” Haim See the last paragraph of the Haim album entry above.

5 “Even” Julien Baker Julien at her most simple, most distilled, uncharacteristically just 4/4 quarter-note strumming an acoustic guitar, showing us that her layered productions would be nothing without the powerful songs beneath them. And what a song, karmic allusions and memories of conflicts.

It's not that I think I'm good I know that I'm evil I guess I was trying to even it out

Yeesh.

4 “Supercut” Lorde That word, and its power. Until recently no expression or single word existed to describe that wistful wash of isolated, curated romantic memories, warm-tinted flashes of the loveliest tiny moments of a lost relationship, ignoring fights and infidelities, only seeing sunshine. The good parts. And knowing its nature, indulging it with caution, recalling fondly and reliving without desire to return or recreate. “Supercut” could not have existed at any other time, on any other album, by any other artist. Lorde took the most modern of language and forged a work of art of crushing emotional truth; timeless, indelible, perfect.

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3 “HUMBLE.” Kendrick Lamar I saw Kendrick play his first ever solo headlining arena show in his hometown. When it came time for “HUMBLE.”, the music dropped out after the initial “Hyeuh, hyeuh!,” and Kendrick let the crowd rap the entire song acapella while he just gazed around, observing in awe. The moment was magic.

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2 “If We Were Vampires” Jason Isbell I’ll be honest. I don’t know how to write about this one without getting inappropriately personal. It’s been a hard year for me in certain relevant ways, and this incredible song has not helped matters.

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1 “God in Chicago” Craig Finn The adjective “cinematic” doesn’t do justice to “God in Chicago,” which, despite lasting a mere four minutes and forty-five seconds, and not being cinema, is one of the best films of the year, a devastating, seedy road trip romance with a tight plot, loveable flawed characters, and an ambiguous ending. Craig Finn fronts my favorite band of over a decade, and yet this is the best thing he’s ever done. Every detail matters, every word and phrase considered and intentional. It’s Craig’s “Chelsea Hotel No 2,” a quiet meditation towering over an oeuvre of louder, more sensational and populist work. I love this man.

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Appendices

I. Albums I enjoyed and/or listened to often but did not become favorites for whatever reasons Allison Crutchfield, Tourist in this Town Arcade Fire, Everything Now Big Thief, Capacity Broken Social Scene, Hug of Thunder Bully, Losing Charly Bliss, Guppy Cloud Nothings, Life Without Sound The Dirty Nil, Minimum R&B Drake, More Life Fat Joe/Remy Ma, Plata O Plomo Father John Misty, Pure Comedy Feist, Pleasure Craig Finn, We All Want the Same Things Japanese Breakfast, Soft Sounds from Another Planet Jay-Z, 4:44 Jens Lenkman, Life Will See You Now LCD Soundsystem, American Dream Migos, Culture The National, Sleep Well Beast Rolling Blackouts Coastal Fever, The French Press Ryan Adams, Prisoner Sampha, Process Sylvan Esso, What Now Tigers Jaw, spin The War on Drugs, A Deeper Understanding Waxahatchee, Out of the Storm Wolf Parade, Cry Cry Cry Worriers, Survival Pop Yaeji, EP2 Yr Poetry, One Night Alive

II. Albums with which I was simply unable to spend enough time So many. Basically any album on any list covered on this site—the ultimate resource for end-of-year music dorkery--that I didn’t mention in my document I would have at least given a cursory try. That’s my normal process. There just wasn’t time.

III. A vain attempt to string together some final thoughts I’m exhausted, too exhausted to force a cute unified narrative onto my experiences with music this year beyond what I already have. As for the future… I’m excited, in a different way than normal. I don’t know what’s coming out next year. I haven’t done the requisite research. I’m into the idea of just letting it happen, letting New Music Fridays reveal themselves week-to-week.

Haha, just kidding. As soon as I post this I’m jumping in headfirst, making a 2018 Most Anticipated List. Sayonara suckers.

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