Writing "Best of 2024" Lists Is A Hostile Act
Well, nobody wants to hear about someone else's dream...or do they?
Joan Didion said that writing is a hostile act because to write is to impose one’s own ideas onto another’s mind, to “wrench around” someone else’s perception so that it aligns with that of the writer’s. She compares it to being told about a dream, which is almost always boring for anyone except the person who’s doing the telling. We’ve all experienced that when trying to recall last night’s dream to someone else: seeing the light of good-natured interest flicker and dim in their eyes as they, only half-listening, try to figure out the politest way to tell you that they don’t really give a shit.
“Well, nobody wants to hear about someone else's dream,” says Didion, matter-of-factly. “The writer is always tricking the reader into listening to the dream.” I would argue that while this notion may not be as universally or absolutely applicable to all writing as Didion claimed, it could definitely apply to the practice of writing and sharing year-end reviews, lists of 2024 favorites, etc.
My feeling is that once you’ve made it to the end of the year, you have probably listened to and watched and read everything you would have discovered otherwise.
I’m being silly, of course. But I do recognize that for me at least, the primary reason why I’ve read any “Best Of 2024” list has been to see if they mentioned the things I already know I liked, not to get any last-minute recommendations. Does it matter? Is anyone other than the respective authors really interested in these lists? I don’t know, but they’re fun to make anyway.
2022 was one of the worst years of my life while 2023 was one of the best, so it makes sense that 2024 split the difference and ended up being Perfectly Fine. At the end of 2022, I made a playlist to represent that worst year, with my favorite new releases as well as tracks from artists I’d seen live and songs that I’d otherwise become fixated on over the course of those twelve months. It was a pretty good playlist, although it’s difficult for me to listen to now because it recalls the feelings of that year so viscerally.
All this to say: yes, I have again compiled my own Summary in Songs for 2024, despite the possible hostility in this act. There is no attempt here at an objective ranking or definitive “best”. The main through-line, which has nothing to do with current events or any of the music actually released this year, should be apparent.
Maybe you’ll see your own faves represented here. Maybe you’ll even find some new recommendations. At the very least I hope you don’t feel tricked into listening to it.
In the future when I revisit my 2024 playlist, it will send me back to a year in which very little happened in my own life but I was nevertheless happy most of the time, maybe for the first time ever.
Happy New Year, and so on.
— ECT
The Velvet Underground, “Temptation Inside Your Heart” from VU, released in 1985, originally recorded in 1968.
Like many sixteen-year-olds before me, I loved the Velvet Underground for how little I could comprehend their music, and like any music-nerd-in-training, I respected them for their influence on virtually everything that came after them. It wasn’t until the beginning of this year that I became properly obsessed with them, plumbing the depths of both their vast mythology and their comparatively sparse discography. Of course the Velvets were cool in their all-black androgyny, sunglasses affixed firmly to their faces—but they were also a group of friends, young and real, by turns irritable and quick to laugh. The chatter on this track is Lou Reed, John Cale, and Sterling Morrison talking to each other and commenting on the playback during what was probably meant to be a session to record backing vocals. I love the silliness of the song and how it provides a counterpoint to the seemingly impenetrable mystery in which the band remains shrouded.
Vickie & the Van Dykes, “I Wanna Be A Winner” from an unreleased single, 1963ish?
I discovered this compilation album of little-known, mostly one-off recordings from the 1960s and it sent me down the rabbit hole of obscure mid-century girl groups. This track is still my favorite of them all—I love the easy roughness of her voice, her giggling throughout. Phyllis Siano aka Vickie Lane aka Vickie Diamond only ended up recording a handful of songs for Tommy Falcone’s Jersey-based label Cleopatra, none of which were officially released. But it’s clear from this song alone that she had the star power necessary for a fabulous musical career, if that had been something she wanted (ultimately, she didn’t).
Lung Leg, “Maid to Minx” from Maid to Minx, 1997.
Thanks, Naomi! 🫶
Remi Wolf, “Frog Rock” from Big Ideas, 2024.
Doechii, “CATFISH” from Alligator Bites Never Heal, 2024.
Young Fathers, “Wow” from Cocoa Sugar, 2018.
I saw Young Fathers in April of this year and it was by far one of the best shows I’ve ever been to. In all sincerity: talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show stopping, spectacular, never the same, totally unique, completely not ever been done before…
Massive Attack feat. Shara Nelson, “Safe From Harm” from Blue Lines, 1991.
Spiritualized, “Why Don’t You Smile Now,” from Anyway That You Want Me (single), 1992.
Lou Reed and John Cale composed this in 1965 when they were both still anonymous sound-alike songwriters at Pickwick Studios. It was the first song they wrote together. The original track was recorded by a group called the All-Night Workers (themselves friends of Lou’s) and is also really great.
Thinking Fellers Union Local 282, “The Piston and the Shaft” from Strangers from the Universe, 1994.
Possibly my favorite new-to-me song from this year—I think it’s so funny and sexy in a totally baffling way.
Pixies, “Havalina” from Bossanova, 1990.
The Band, “Yazoo Street Scandal” from The Basement Tapes, 1975.
If every song by The Band sounded like this, I could count myself a true fan. Instead I’m more like a fan-in-law.
Beyoncé, “ALLIIGATOR TEARS” from COWBOY CARTER, 2024.
Pulp, “Do You Remember the First Time?” from His ‘n’ Hers, 1994.
As exciting as it was to see Blur last year, I was still heartbroken that I was literally in England while Pulp was also on tour without a ticket to see them too. When Pulp announced their North American tour at the beginning of this year, it felt like all my prayers had been answered. Jarvis is still the consummate showman that he was in his youth and the songs still make me ache with the same desperate sweetness that I loved as a teenager.
Pylon, “M-Train” from Chomp, 1983.
Sorry, “Starstruck” from 925, 2020.
Saâda Bonaire, “Heart Over Head” from Saâda Bonaire, 1984.
Amyl and the Sniffers, “U Should Not Be Doing That” from Cartoon Darkness, 2024.
Ghostface Killah feat. Raekwon, “Kilo” from Fishscale, 2006.
My friend Laura and I have been doing a project where we listen to all of the records included in 1001 Albums You Must Hear Before You Die1. This is one of the best albums that I’ve been introduced to via the project. This track’s main sample is from a Schoolhouse Rock-esque educational children’s song from the 1970s.
Kim Gordon, “I Don’t Miss My Mind” from The Collective, 2024.
I saw her in Queens on a freezing cold night this past March. She is really almost unfathomably cool.
Naked Roommate, “Bus” from Pass the Loofah, 2024.
Fat White Family, “John Lennon” from Forgiveness Is Yours, 2024.
Faust, “Jennifer” from Faust IV, 1973.
This was one of those things I listened to and realized, “Oh, so this is who everybody else has been copying for the past fifty years…”
Marika Hackman, “Slime” from Big Sigh, 2024.
Spectrum, “Lord I Don’t Even Know My Name” from Soul Kiss (Glide Divine), 1992.
PJ Harvey, “Lwonesome Tonight” from I Inside the Old Year Dying, 2023.
I appreciated how serious she seemed in concert, how elegant and in control. I felt transported alongside her to a different world when she played the entirety of her most recent album, like her voice was a direct portal to somewhere beyond the veil of reality.
John Lennon, “How Do You Sleep?” from Imagine, 1971.
St. Vincent, “Reckless” from All Born Screaming, 2024.
Between this and the new Vampire Weekend album (both of which surprised me with how good they were), it was almost as though we were back in 2014 and the dream of indie pop rock was alive again…
English Teacher, “Sideboob” from This Could Be Texas, 2024.
Françoise Hardy, “Fleur de lune” from Soleil, 1970.
Hardy passed away this June at the age of 80. She has long been a style icon of mine, and I’ve adored her music since I was a young teenager. Françoise, ta grâce me manque.
The Monkees, “Me & Magdalena” from Good Times!, 2016.
Labi Siffre, “Maybe Tomorrow” from Labi Siffre, 1970.
Tracy Chapman, “Mountains O’ Things” from Tracy Chapman, 1988.
André 3000, “Ninety Three ‘Til Infinity and Beyoncé” from New Blue Sun, 2023.
I saw André 3000 at BAM in the fall and it was totally spellbinding. Laura and I were shocked when, 30 minutes into the performance, he announced that everything they’d played had been improvised. In between songs he was as charismatic and smart as you might imagine, but I was ultimately most taken with the music itself—I would have sat there and listened to him and his band for hours if given the opportunity, spiraling on and on…
The Shangri-Las, “Right Now and Not Later” from Shangri-Las 65!, 1965.
My 60s girl group obsession was triggered at the beginning of the year by the outpouring of love and admiration for Mary Weiss following her death in January. Elise Soutar wrote a beautiful, impassioned essay about the Shangri-Las that really made me appreciate what this kind of music represented in the mid-60s and continues to represent today, especially admist the neverending discourse about “girlhood”.
Faces, “Glad and Sorry” from Ooh La La, 1973.
The Hard Quartet, “Six Deaf Rats” from The Hard Quartet, 2024.
There’s something surreal and maybe even a little unsettling about hearing a straightforward love song from Stephen Malkmus, whose lyrics can typically be described as “oblique” at best and “utterly nonsensical” at worst. I went to Pavement’s final show (allegedly) in October—it was not the greatest Pavement gig I’ve ever attended, but it seems a small miracle that I’ve seen them often enough that I can even make that judgment. He admittedly seems much more content playing with his new band. Happy for you or whatever, Steve…I guess…
Hana Vu, “Hammer” from Romanticism, 2024.
The Kills, “Pale Blue Eyes” from The Last Goodbye (EP), 2012.
This cover is notably spikier than the original by the Velvet Underground, who had adopted a much softer sound by the time they released the album on which it first appeared. At the same time, I think The Kills evoke the Velvets’ style perfectly without sounding too much like straight copycats. I’d go so far as to say that it provides a glimpse into what the VU version might have sounded like with band’s original lineup. H/t to Gen as usual.
Miya Folick, “Alaska” from Alaska (single), 2024.
Fontaines D.C., “Horseness Is The Whatness” from Romance, 2024.
Slowdive, “andalucia plays” from everything is alive, 2023.
In 2014, Slowdive performed in Boston, but I was unable to attend because it was an 18+ venue and I had only just turned 17. I actually didn’t remember this tragedy at all until I found an old Tumblr post of mine raging against the absolute indignity of being barred from a Slowdive gig due to my age2. Well, I finally did get to see them this year, so don’t despair, teenage Emilia—you’ll get there eventually. It’ll take you a decade, but you’ll get there. It’ll be worth the wait.
Kim Deal, “Wish I Was” from Nobody Loves You More, 2024.
Nick Drake, “Hazey Jane I” from Bryter Layter, 1971.
Vampire Weekend, “Pravda” from Only God Was Above Us, 2024.
Television, “Carried Away” from Adventure, 1978.
Luna, “Friendly Advice” from Bewitched, 1994.
That’s Velvets guitarist Sterling Morrison on the solo toward the end. Dean Wareham’s first group, Galaxie 500, wrote one of the most beautiful songs ever as a tribute to Morrison in 1988, and Luna later opened for the ill-fated Velvet Underground reunion tour in 1993. It remains one of my greatest hopes that Sterling actually heard “Tugboat” at some point.
Wand, “Curtain Call” from Vertigo, 2024.
As of my writing this, we’ve listened to 122 albums so far—only 899 to go!
In fact I posted about this ON my 17th birthday instead of actually, you know, celebrating like a normal kid, if that gives you any idea as to the type of person I was as a teenager.