COLUMN: Best of 2018 - TV

In true nerd fashion, the end of my year is always spent making lists and arguing with friends over the best pop culture moments of the past twelve months. Last week, it was tough to even find ten albums worth mentioning. This week, I'm listing my picks for the best TV shows of the year. This, it turns out, was equally as hard, but only because SO MUCH great television came out in 2018 that it's near impossible to narrow the list down to ten. Here goes nothing.

#10 - Big Mouth (Netflix) - This crass animated adult series from Netflix follows the changing bodies and adolescent woes of a pubescent pack of middle-schoolers, and it's one of the funniest things you'll ever see. With voice talent from Nick Kroll, John Mulaney, Maya Rudolph, and some of the biggest names in comedy, "Big Mouth" throws SO many rapid-fire jokes at you that it's probably unhealthy to binge more than an episode or two in a row. 

#9 - Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (The CW) - Cheers to the CW for keeping this low-rated, critically-acclaimed musical comedy afloat for four seasons. As we approach the series' final episodes, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend isn't pulling ANY punches. Envelope-pushing, rule-breaking humor still runs amok, but the show's heart and emotional sincerity still shines through. The only crime is that Rachel Bloom hasn't won an Emmy for being the most awesome person on TV.

#8 - Survivor: David vs. Goliath (CBS) - Survivor was a fun show that ushered in the age of reality TV -- for about two seasons until we all got super sick of it. Now astonishly on its 37th season, the show somehow managed to assemble its best group of castaways in years. Backstabbing, scheming, and blindsides were EVERYWHERE this year, and the result was arguably the show's most entertaining season to date. Was it skilled casting or just dumb luck? Who knows, but it sure was a fun ride.

#7 - Everything Sucks! (Netflix) - The only thing that really sucks is that Netflix gave up and cancelled this fantastic coming-of-age series after just one season of awkward adolescence and unlimited charm. It now joins "Freaks and Geeks," "Firefly," and "My So-Called Life" in the annals of shows pulled WAY too early.

#6 - Life In Pieces (CBS) - The most consistently funny sitcom on television still hasn't found the wide audience it deserves, but thankfully CBS hasn't given up on it. Despite starting as an obvious clone of ABC's "Modern Family," "Life in Pieces" quickly surpassed it in quality, originality, and laughs. Thomas Sadoski and Zoe Lister-Jones are the funniest actors you don't know by name, trust me. The new season starts soon, don't miss out on this fragile gem.

#5 - Riverdale (The CW) - You either love "Riverdale" or you hate it. I'm all in, as the show loosely based on the Archie comics takes campy melodrama to the next level. Don't believe me? This season, Archie's in a prison fight club after being wrongfully convicted of murder. Betty's being given psychotropic drugs by an order of evil nuns. Veronica's opened a casino speakeasy in the basement of Pop's Chock'lit Shoppe, and Jughead's busy running the local biker gang. All this while the town falls prey to an evil knock-off of Dungeons & Dragons that twists the minds of those who play. The Riverdale writer's room must be amazing.

#4 - Barry (HBO) - It was a sad day when the amazingly talented Bill Hader left "Saturday Night Live," but it was worth it for his star turn in "Barry," a show that single-handedly reinstilled my faith in the struggling HBO. Hader plays the title role, a hitman who follows one of his marks into an acting class and discovers his love for theater. It sounds like an SNL bit, but with smart writing, unique characters, and nonstop existential crises, "Barry" is a darkly comedic treat.

#3 - The Haunting of Hill House (Netflix) - Finally, a spooky TV series that hits the right marks. Shirley Jackson's 1959 novel has been adapted umpteen times, but this one sets aside most of the jump-n-scare moments in favor of an unsettling character study of a family trapped by grief... and ghosts. It's compelling, creepy, and occasionally terrifying -- and the scariest part is when you realize you've wasted an entire day binge-watching the whole season at once.

#2 - The Good Place (NBC) - In this amazing era of ground-breaking, risk-taking, go-for-broke television, I never thought the most daring and unconventional show would be found on primetime NBC. Following the antics of four recently deceased strangers trying to earn access to heaven, "The Good Place" is a Philosophy 101 class reborn as a sitcom. You'll laugh 'til you're sick -- but you'll do it while learning about Immanuel Kant. If my old philosophy instructor had been half this funny, I might have remembered something from his class.

#1 - The Flash (The CW) - These days, all you have to do is stick a superhero into a movie to make a billion dollars at the box office. TV execs aren't dumb, and they've been trying every which way to cash in on the craze. Some (like the Marvel shows on Netflix) end up too dark and gloomy for a wide audience. Others (like the CW's Supergirl) feel like afterschool-special morality plays draped in a cape. But "The Flash" gets the recipe just right. It's funny without being hammy, dramatic without being dour. Its heroes face devastating challenges with courage and heart, and good always prevails over evil. Great TV shows don't always have to be works of art. Sometimes they just have to be the ones you look most forward to watching every week. If you're missing "The Flash," you're missing the most entertaining show on TV, period.

And that's a wrap on 2018, folks! Forget those old acquaintances, bust out the noisemakers, have a wonderful New Year, and if I can pry myself away from the TV, I'll see you in 2019.
 

COLUMN: Best of 2018 - Music

Let's just admit it: 2018 was a lousy year for music. Many of our best artists were in-between records, while others put out career-defining letdowns. This year's charts were ruled by mumble-rappers, one-hit wonders, and watered-down commercial pop/rock. The indie scene was chock full of bands pushing musical boundaries but forgetting they still need to write some decent tunes along the way. Yet despite my disappointment, a handful of artists managed to release some truly incredible music this year. Here are my picks for the ten must-hear albums of 2018:

#10 - Carla J Easton - Impossible Stuff - Some songwriters suffer from an innate likability, and that's always worked to the advantage of troubadour Carla Easton. Whether on her own or with her band Teen Canteen, Easton's always had a knack for turning heartbreak and doubt into contagious singalongs. This record, the first released under her own name, is an indiepop fan's dream menu of killer hooks, exuberant confidence, and a proud Scottish brogue.

 

#9 - Post Malone - Beerbongs and Bentleys - If I'm being 100% honest with myself, this has to make my list. Music critics are supposed to hate Post Malone, as he really IS the living embodiment of homogenized mass appeal pop music. I fully understand all the reasons I'm supposed to despise him, but his stupid songs are just too catchy to write off. Once I figure out how to stop playing this record in my car, I'll try really hard to hate it, promise.

#8 - Juliana Hatfield - Juliana Hatfield Sings Olivia Newton-John - Who'd have thunk that one of indie rock's most beguiling chanteuses owes it all to a pop icon? When word got out that Hatfield was recording an album of Olivia Newton-John covers, I expected it to be a tongue-in-cheek wink to 1970s cheesiness. Surprisingly, it ended up a heartfelt tribute to a long-admired hero and breathes new life into some forgotten old school gems.



#7 - Brockhampton - Iridescence - If Brockhampton keep this up, they might actually become the "world's best boyband" they've always claimed to be. A loose collective of rappers, singers, and producers who met on a Kanye West fansite and moved to L.A. with little money and big dreams, Brockhampton's DIY approach to recording and performing has made them one of hip-hop's most exciting and versatile new acts. Even after losing a key member to allegations of sexual misconduct, they still managed to put out a cohesive, fun, emotional record that breaks boundaries and gives hope to every bedroom rapper alive.




#6 - Schizo Fun Addict - El Shoegaze Bossa Nova - Leo D'Onofrio has made a career out of being an internet provocateur. Over the years, he's been a mouthpiece for the birther movement, claimed the moon landings were hoaxed, and even wrote an online opus asserting that the lyrics of The Stone Roses herald the return of the Messiah. But when he's not busy pushing people's buttons, he makes music. GOOD music. His latest project is a fascinating and purposeful melange of tropical rhythms and hazy guitars, like if Pink Floyd got trapped in a studio but all they had for drums were the pre-programmed Latin loops of a cheap Casio keyboard. It's odd as heck, but it REALLY works. 



#5 - Robyn - Honey - It's been a long time since Swedish teen-pop starlet Robyn reinvented herself as the reigning queen of electropop. For her first album in 4 years, she's veered away from brash beats in favor of a warmer, more minimal groove. This lets the songs shine bright, as she chronologically walks us (nay, DANCES us) through the recent split and eventual reconciliation with her fiance. It's a song cycle for the ages AND the dancefloor. There's no bigger force in pop music right now.



#4 - Father John Misty - God's Favorite Customer - It annoys me how much I love this record. Singer/songwriter Josh Tillman's self-importance often climbs from big to bigger to Kanye on the ego scale, and his records are often self-absorbed odes to himself. But they're also genius. No one writes about Josh Tillman like Josh Tillman can, and his confessionals pour out like James Taylor, Elton John, and Billy Joel in a blender of magic and wit. If I was at a party and Tillman walked in, I'd probably leave. But then I'd probably listen to his record all the way home.



#3 - The 1975 - A Brief Inquiry Into Online Relationships - It's easy to dismiss The 1975. On the surface, they're pretty much the British version of Maroon 5 -- faceless dorky musicians with a pretty-boy frontman who make easy-on-the-ears suburban soul music that your mom would probably enjoy. But hiding behind that pop sheen is nothing less than a modern treatise on technology and the human condition, heartache and longing, addiction and recovery. It's more Radiohead than Maroon 5, just with fewer guitar squawks and evil robot voices. It's the smartest pop record you'll hear all year.



#2 - Janelle Monae - Dirty Computer - No one may ever be worthy enough to climb the stairs and sit on the funky throne that Prince built, but Janelle Monae sure comes close. It's rumored that the Purple One had an uncredited hand in Dirty Computer before his untimely death, and it wouldn't surprise me. With guests ranging from Grimes and Pharrell to Stevie Wonder and Beach Boy Brian Wilson, Monae has created a funk symphony of tolerance, empowerment, pride, acceptance, and love. The world could use more records like this.


#1 - Let's Eat Grandma - I'm All Ears - Two years ago, teenage best friends Jenny Hollingsworth and Rosa Walton stepped out of their bedrooms with a homemade record that took all the trappings of pop music and shook it up like a psychedelic snow globe. Two years later, they've returned with a more professional follow-up that's more polished but no less inhibited. Listening is akin to peering into a secret world of in-jokes and knowing glances - if the girls from "Beautiful Creatures" made music, it would sound like this. Leaping from somber psyche sludge to purified pop at a breakneck schizophrenic pace, the duo capture exactly what it's like to be a teen: Everything is amazing, little things are big deals, and no one wants to follow the rules. For the second time, Let's Eat Grandma have earned my Album of the Year accolade -- and they're STILL teenagers. Let's hope it never stops.

If you give ANY of these records a quick spin, my job is done. NEXT WEEK: A look at the year's best TV offerings.

COLUMN: 12 Days

Last week, I had the pleasure of attending "Seasons of Light," Augustana's annual Christmas program presented at the John Deere Planetarium. The multimedia show used the planetarium's projector, astronomical images, music and narration to explain how holiday traditions are connected to the sky. It was a short but charming presentation, and I even managed to learn a thing or two.

Primarily, I learned that I want a planetarium. There's nothing I love more than stargazing, but whenever I get the itch, it's either overcast or I'm somewhere rife with light pollution. If I can't see the real universe, why not build a fake one in my spare bedroom? Anyone have a how-to guide?

I also learned that some constellations are just silly. "See that dim star right there?" (No? Maybe?) "Connect it to those other dim stars over there, and... it's a unicorn!" Umm... no. It's vague dots in the (fake) sky that I could barely see. I look more like a unicorn than those dots did. I'm starting to think whoever invented some of these constellations was a bored stoner who showed up at the planetarium on the wrong night for laser Pink Floyd.

But I also learned a cool thing or two about our holiday traditions.

As you're probably aware, the Bible never tells us the actual date of Jesus' birth. At some point, early Christians just settled on December 25th as the day of celebration. This was likely due to its proximity to the winter solstice, a period of rebirth already celebrated by ancient people whenever the magic heat circle in the sky stops heading south for the winter.

But as it turns out, December 25th wasn't a unanimous choice. Some Eastern sects preferred to celebrate Christmas Day in early January instead. The compromise between the differing dates became what we know today as the twelve days of Christmas -- a nearly two week celebration extending from Christmas Day to the western ecclesiastical Feast of Epiphany.

This was news to me, because I had always assumed that the "12 Days of Christmas" began twelve days PRIOR to Christmas, culminating on Christmas Day. But no, it BEGINS on Christmas and extends for 12 days after. This means the actual "twelfth day of Christmas" would be the fifth of January -- otherwise known as MY BIRTHDAY. On the twelfth day of Christmas, your true love brought to you: ME! Ta-da!

I can't help but feel a little ripped off here. I've gotten some amazing, thoughtful, and heartfelt birthday gifts over the years. But here I am, the living embodiment of the twelfth day of Christmas, and I have yet to receive even one drummer drumming. I'm about to turn 48. The way I see it, somebody owes me 576 drum solos.

Or maybe not, because "The 12 Days of Christmas" is the weirdest of all Christmas tunes.

"Honey, as you know, you are my true love and I yours. And as an expression of our timeless and eternal romance, I give unto you... a bird. In a tree."
"Umm... thanks, but..."
"BUT WAIT! To prove my unending infatuation, tomorrow I shall give you two more birds! And the day after? THREE more birds!"
"What the..."
"Ah, but the day after THAT? To celebrate our true love, I shall give you -- yes, you guessed it -- four more birds, but THESE birds will be EXTRA NOISY!"
"I don't think..."
"Then, on Day 5, you shall receive FIVE GOLDEN RINGS!"
"Okay, wait, now we're talking."
"Yes, five golden rings... which you should wear as protection a couple days later when I give you seven aggressively mean birds!"
"Stop it. Just stop it."
"But that's only after Day 6, when I shall give you six birds laying eggs to make ADDITIONAL birds!"
"So the best way to express your love for me is with 23+ birds?"
"Oh, that's just the start. On the next day, I shall present you with... eight maids a-milking!"
"A-milking WHAT, exactly?"
"Well... I suppose that's yet to be determined. I kind of ran out of ideas after all the birds. The next 4 days, I'm just going to fill the house with a bunch of strangers who are gonna dance and leap around to a wicked flute-and-drum jam session."
"Roger, we need to talk."

And if you take the song literally, it's even crazier. On the first day, you get a partridge in a pear tree. But on the second day, it's two turtle doves AND a partridge in a pear tree. Does that mean by day twelve, the true love ends up with a literal partridge family, not to mention 42 ill-tempered swans, 30 leaping lords, and forty maids a-milking everything in sight? At some point, you have to start worrying about the structural integrity of their home.

If you math out the entire song, that would make 364 total gifts, a present for every single day of the year, save one. I can only presume that on the 365th day of Christmas, some unfortunate soul's true love would give to them a visit by the ASPCA and perhaps Homeland Security and quite possibly a felony charge of trading in exotic animals and human trafficking.

Just so all of you know, on the first day of Christmas AND the 17,520th day of Shane, I'd be fine with a gift certificate. After all, I've got a planetarium to build.

COLUMN: The White Album

Being an audiophile is one of my life's great joys. But I never thought my love for music would lead me to an evening of maudlin rumination on the passage of time. Yet here we are. I blame John Lennon.

I've been a music junkie my entire life. It may have started before my life even technically began -- my mom's convinced she fostered my audiophilia by putting headphones on her womb while I was a captive audience. I don't know if it was the prenatal catalyst for a lifetime of music geekery, but I guarantee fetal Shane was grateful for the wall of amniotic fluid separating me from the greatest hits of Barbra Streisand.

As a music nerd, I'm obligated to stay on top of the newest trends in audio tech. Vinyl albums begat 8-tracks which begat cassettes which begat CDs and now we're back around to snobby purists swearing that vinyl's always been the best. Transistor radios gave way to Walkmen, Discmen, iPods, and now our crazy world where I just walk around my living room and say, "Alexa, play [any song that's ever been recorded in the history of time ever]" and it just magically DOES.

I still get excited to check out new releases every week, but oftentimes I get even MORE excited to see my favorites from yesteryear getting remastered, refurbished, and re-released. This surely must be due to my natural enthusiasm for sound clarity and certainly NOT the fact that I'm becoming an old curmudgeon who just doesn't "get" today's music. At least that's what I keep trying to tell myself.

In today's streaming music era of low sales and diminished returns, record labels put a lot of faith into remastered and repackaged classics. Take an old record with an already huge fanbase, send in some engineers to clean up the sound, add a few rare tracks, and saps like me are bound to re-buy it.

Some are well worth the investment. But a lot of so-called "remasters" are nothing but cash grabs where someone just took the original recording and cranked up the volume for today's laptop culture. I felt some misgiving when I learned that a newly remastered 50th anniverary edition of the Beatles' "White Album" was heading for stores.

The Beatles discography is well worth owning. But how many times can it possibly be remastered? They did it once when their catalog first came out on CD. In 2009, a team of Abbey Road engineers remastered them again in what was supposed to be the definitive editions. So why do we now need Giles Martin, son of original Beatles producer George Martin, to remaster The White Album AGAIN? Don't get me wrong, I bought it -- but I wasn't expecting much. Boy, was I wrong.

Time will tell if this remaster will become the new gold standard of Beatles releases, but it sure is different. Rather than past attempts where the engineers remained as faithful as possible to the original production, Giles pretty much tossed his dad's work out the window and started over from scratch, taking the band's original recordings and mixing them to today's standards. The result is a White Album that sounds insanely modern.

Take "Dear Prudence" for example. Gone are the psychedelic reverberating vocals that instantly date the record to 1968. Instead, you hear John Lennon's voice raw, powerful, and up front. I was listening in the car and it sounded like he was there in the passenger seat. It's a production triumph and a must-own, although it's kinda weird to lose the vintage quality that defined their sound.

I never really appreciated The Beatles until I got to high school and found a clique of friends with an affinity for their parents' record collections. This was 1985, and even back then, the Beatles already sounded like a magical relic from a time long past. It was (and still is) great music, but to my 14-year-old ears, it was already an antique.

This got me thinking tonight. There was only a gap of 15-20 years between The Beatles and high school me. When today's high schoolers hear music from 1994, does it sound just as ancient as the Beatles seemed to me? Do today's kids think N'Sync and Nirvana sound like musty antiques? Will those kids be buying Justin Bieber remasters someday?

Pop culture moves FAST. Some of you might be able to remember a time before rock music even existed. Give or take, only 20 years separates Glenn Miller from Elvis, the Beatles from Devo, Pearl Jam from Cardi B. In my relatively short time, I've lived through disco, new wave, grunge, boy bands, and mumble rap.

If music can evolve THAT fast, who KNOWS what the future will be? I used to have a go-to joke that our Top 40 chart in twenty years will be nothing more than people screaming obscenities over recordings of power tools. Well, have you heard dubstep or listened to "Gucci Gang"? We're pretty much there already.

Will I ever give up entirely on new music? Or in 20 years will I be listening to the 70th anniversary "White Album" re-re-re-remaster, wherein holographic Paul McCartney WILL be sitting in my passenger seat singing Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da while advising me on the best route to work? I have no idea what musical future awaits us, but I'm all ears.

COLUMN: Winter Storm Bruce

Once upon a time, I really liked winter.

I used to proudly tell anyone within earshot that winter was my absolute favorite time of the year. It has SO much going for it. There's no oppressive heat or humidity. There's no bugs, bees, snakes, or any of that gross nature stuff. Everything's white and crisp. Sometimes everything is SO white and SO crisp that they cancel school. Sledding is crazy fun. Mom makes you cocoa. You get PRESENTS. Winter is amazing!

Then a few things happened:

(1) I stopped being 8.

(2) I got a car and quickly discovered that it's no fun at all to drive on the white crisp stuff.

(3) I bought a house and quickly discovered that it's no fun at all to shovel the white crisp stuff.

(4) I fell and broke my ankle a few years back and now I'm TERRIFIED of the white crisp stuff.

It didn't take long for me to go from a winter lover to a full-on grinch who now walks across icy sidewalks with the gingerly gait of someone twice my age, absolutely convinced that I'm seconds away from faceplanting and re-snapping my ankle like a twig. Winter winds now make me feel like I can't breathe. Snowstorms bring closed schools but NEVER a closed workplace. I realized I can make myself cocoa any time for any reason. Adult winters are way less magical than 8-year-old winters.

I hate dealing with snowstorms, but it doesn't stop me from being fascinated by them. When I was a kid, there was a time when all I really wanted in life was to be a weatherman. Whenever storms roll through, I still fight the urge to run outside and be in the middle of it all. Could there possibly be any job cooler than keeping tabs on tornados and blizzards and floods?

But then I discovered that meteorology ends in -ology, and that means science, and science means math, and math is my nemesis. There's a whole lot of non-exciting number-crunching in weather forecasting. You need to know how air pressure and jetstreams operate. You need to be able to read sheets of raw data and figure out if the piles of numbers before you means it's going to rain or not. There's a whole lot more to meteorology than announcing temperatures, making a wise-crack, and throwing it to Chuck on the sports desk. Plus you have to wear a tie. Yuck.

Instead, I've become an armchair meteorology enthusiast. I don't ever want the burden of having to interpret data, but I love watching that burden fall on others. If there's storms a-brewin', you can usually count on me to have active radar maps and at least 3 different forecasts pulled up. So when good ol' Winter Storm Bruce (yep, that was its official name) came rolling through last week, I may have been at a DJ gig Saturday night, but I was glued to my phone and giving weather updates to anyone who cared (okay, pretty much no-one but me cared.)

What I learned from my amateur Bruce-watch is that, despite advanced technology and near-instant streaming communications, weather forecasting is still a high-tech guessing game. All the sources I deferred to agreed that SOMEPLACE was about to get a lot of snow, but no-one knew exactly where.

The biggest meteorology nerd I know is former QC weather-sage Terry Swails, who's now in Cedar Rapids but still runs a blog that keeps tabs on our area. Whenever there's even a whisper of snow for our area, Terry's job is to terrify us with a never-ending parade of charts, models, and forecasts that make even small storms sound like the apocalypse. Terry Swails is basically my spirit animal.

As I stood there spinning records and checking my phone every five minutes, Terry kept uploading various models of Winter Storm Bruce from NAM, HRRR, GFS, and other equally impessive initials. And just during that one gig, those models had QC snow predictions anywhere from 1.0" to 21.9", which is basically a range between "you won't even notice it" and "we'll find your body come spring." I tend to gravitate towards the worst option, so I spent the night watching people gyrate to Justin Bieber wondering if they would survive the next day's 22" snowmageddon.

So thank you, Terry and your wonderful world of meterological terror, for allowing me to experience 13.8" of snow while thinking, "Man, we really lucked out." Terrify us more often and maybe winter won't seem so bad.

On a completely different note, I'm just nerdy enough to have kept track, and I'm proud and amazed to point out this is my 700th weekly column in these pages, a milestone I never dreamed of achieving. I just wanted to give a hearty thanks to all the editors who gave me a shot, had my back, and let me be silly for an occupation. Thanks to my family and friends for inspiration, adventure, and laughs beyond measure. But mostly, I give thanks to the Quad Cities and all of you in them. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else, not even when there's 13.8" of fresh white crisp ankle-breaking nonsense on the ground.