Big sounds from all around

Very cool pop albums. Some favorites were Catherine Wheel's Happy Days (Fontana/Mercury), Pere Ubu's Ray Gun Suitcase (Tim Kerr), Folk Implosion and guests' Kids soundtrack (London/Island), Smashing Pumpkins' Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness (Virgin), Oasis' (What's the Story) Morning Glory? (Epic), Elastica's Elastica (DGC/Geffen), Neil Young's Mirror Ball (Epic), Foo Fighters' Foo Fighters (Roswell/Capitol), and P.J. Harvey's To Bring You My Love (Island).

Very cool pop songs. The most unstoppable hook of the year was "Lump," by Presidents of the United States of America. If you didn't sing along, you weren't breathing. Then there was "(What's the Story) Morning Glory?," by Oasis, followed tightly by Foo Fighters' "This Is a Call" and Elastica's "Connection," which also boasted '95's coolest guitar lick. The longest hip radio track was Sonic Youth's "Diamond Sea," with that crazy phase shifter guitar passage that sounded like a chorus of kids singing "ya-ya-ya ya-ya-ya." You know, that one.

Folk will eat itself. Ani DiFranco was hands down the folk sensation of the year, with her CD Not a Pretty Girl (on Righteous Babe, her own label) and sold-out dates everywhere, including the Orpheum. Her energy, aggressive performing style, and sharp-edged personal/political writing, as well as her post-riot-grrrl looks, topple acoustic-music stereotypes. Greg Brown's The Live One (Red House) captured his wit, charm, and songwriting grasp in full charge; and Chris Smither not only turned in another winner with Up on the Lowdown (Hightone), but celebrated his birthday with a virtuosic concert turn at the Somerville Theatre. Note to the labels: the next significant folk artist to rise from Boston should be Tracie Smart, whose self-released debut, Echoes in the Dark (Stone By Stone), simmers with brooding emotionalism and beauty, buoyed not only by strong writing, but also by imaginative, richly detailed arrangements.

Rap changed. Or at least it's changing, and may never be the same. Tupac went to jail, Eazy-E died of AIDS, Run became a reverend, Bushwick Bill became a non-entity, and Coolio emerged with a sort of post-gangster hipness that was as hard to define as it was entertaining. Salt-N-Pepa reigned as megastars, and the hip-hop/jazz merger lost what little steam it had. Not to mention Interscope getting whacked out of the Time-Warner 'hood because of pressure from shithead politicians and other pro-censorship pigs. You see a trend, tell me about it.

Big blues. For my money, the best shit is coming out of Mississippi -- just as it did in the first place. And the Big Daddy-o is 69-year-old R.L. Burnside. When he and fellow Hill Country old-timer Junior Kimbrough came to the House of Blues for two nights in May, with guitar hot-shot youngster Little Dave Thompson in tow, they offered the butt-shakin' concert of the year. Those who came of curiosity were converted; those who didn't still have no idea what they're missing. That R.L.'s badass enough to have not only toured but jammed with the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion for a month this year should tell alterna-rock types where he's at. The best CDs? Why, those were Ronnie Earl's Blues Guitar Virtuoso Live in Europe (Bullseye), Mighty Sam McClain's Keep on Movin' (AudioQuest), Brother to Brother (Paula) by Nolan Struck and King Edward, Rory Block's When a Woman Gets the Blues (Rounder), and the debuts of Melvin Taylor & the Slack Band (Evidence) and Corey Harris (Between Midnight and Day, on Alligator).

Rock artists of the year. Folk Implosion and Sebadoh leader Lou Barlow, for sheer talent, energy, and perseverance; and P.J. Harvey, for reminding us what great ensemble rock sounds like on stage, and for being unafraid to flat-out perform her ass off at the risk of being accused of contrivance. Her shows this year, even in front of 20,000 Live fans at Great Woods, were riveting.

[[ordmasculine]] Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame. Finally a place where old rock stars can keep all the shit that's cluttering up their basements -- Cleveland.

Country music. Did anything really happen in commercial country this year? Yeah, Dwight Yoakam and Garth Brooks and a few more of the usual suspects made good records, but the weight of all the crooners out there singing material that's distinguishable from the telephone book only by the fact that it rhymes is sinking this genre lower than it was in the late '70s. That is, several layers of strata beneath the Titanic.

The death of Jerry Garcia. And if the Grateful Dead reconsider and decide to get back together with another guitarist -- I'd nominate Fred Frith, just to fuck with everyone -- the headlines will be like something from George Romero: "Return of the Dead," "New Dawn of the Dead," "Night of the Living Dead," "Dead Again" . . .

" The re-emergence of Patti Smith. If you don't think this is important, you haven't heard Horses. This is punk rock, that place where art and heart and raw nerve connect with muscle and bone. Stay tuned.

Some questions: I was wondering: Why is R. Kelly so huge when Solomon Burke -- who's nearly twice his weight -- can out-perform and out-sing Kelly's ass any day? Why doesn't Alanis Morissette shave her legs if she spent all that time in shopping malls? Why does Billy Joe sing with a fucking English accent? Why does Billy Corgan act like he's ashamed he's made another Goodbye Yellow Brick Road? Why does k.d. lang want to be a McDonald's cheeseburger when she's a militant vegetarian? Why are the Indigo Girls singing about Wounded Knee now -- did they just read the book? And why can't we all just get along?

-- Ted Drozdowski