How Bad Can It Get?

How Bad Can It Get?

An examination of sports -- both physical and digital -- and life

November, 1989*

One grey, late-autumn afternoon I decided I wanted to play football outside. Understandably, my dad didn’t want to throw the ol’ ball around with me. There weren’t many kids in my neighborhood, and being a loner, I wasn’t about to go round people up for a game they may or may not want to play.

So I went outside in my neon orange ski coat and threw passes to myself.

Like most Wisconsin boys, I imagined myself playing for the Green Bay Packers. With me pretending to be Don Majkowski, I caught his passes and broke tackles, scored touchdowns and won ballgames. I got high-fives on the sideline from Sterling Sharpe and Tim Harris. Everything was great.

I lobbed a throw high and far so I could make a long running grab for another touchdown. The ball never made it to my hands, because in all my eight-year-old determination to make that catch, I forgot to look up.

I ran full speed, head first into the metal laundry pole in our back yard.

I had to be knocked out cold, at least for a few seconds. All I remember is that when I tried to stand up, I immediately fell down. I stayed on the ground for a few minutes, the world spinning above me. Finally, I struggled to my feet again and made the walk around the building and up two flights of stairs to my apartment. My parents were mortified at the size of the size of the welt on my forehead.

Maybe I didn’t know it then, but I’m sure my parents did: A Green Bay Packer -- or any other professional football team -- I was not meant to be.

*May or may not be an entirely accurate date. I was under 10 years old, it was cold, there was no snow on the ground that day. So I say Nov. 1989.

****

I imagine I’m not alone in this, but I find myself daydreaming about being people I couldn’t possibly be. In my mind I can be a John McClane-style action hero, or a rock star, or a sports hero, whether or not I lack the toughness, charisma, or talent to be any of those things.

Modern video games bring these dreams to life, with minimal effort - especially in the realm of sports.

One might ask why not just play the actual sport instead of the video game version of it?

It’s pretty simple, really: If I had to stand in against a 90 MPH fastball, I’d piss my pants. (And so would you.) If I took it down a few notches to bar-league softball, I would more than likely share the field with post-college jocks who slam cheap beers before the game and “slay” pussy afterwards. Also, they still wear baseball socks, which is weird.

I play video game sports because I am aware of my own athletic limitations, and more importantly they allow me to chase greatness. No one grows up wanting to be Craig Counsell -- two World Series rings and Manager of his favorite boyhood team notwithstanding -- they want to be the MVP.

Starting in the late 90s, video game sports brought that dream closer to reality than ever before. You could attach more than just a name to your character; your guy could have whatever height and weight you wanted. You could rate him a 99 in every attribute if you wanted. Suddenly spindly, girl-armed 5’10” 160lb me was transformed into a strapping he-man of 6’5” and 240lbs with superhuman running and catching abilities.

In the next decade, you could add your face and body type to the mix, making for the most realistic representation of your better self. There aren’t too many things more fun than seeing yourself on the field or court as the star quarterback or shooting guard or center fielder.

****

June, 1996

There was a kid who lived across the street from me a couple of years younger than I was. Occasionally, we would play basketball. On this day, he just wanted to play catch.

He stood on his side of the street, and I on mine. Being a hotshot soon-to-be freshman in high school, I took it easy throwing the baseball to him. Not wanting to be treated like someone’s kid brother (and maybe wanting to show me up), he whipped the ball back at me. We started throwing it back at one another as hard as we could. It was actually fun for a few minutes.

Until I disobeyed the oldest adage in the game, that is. (That would be “keep your eye on the ball”, for those of you playing at home.)

I nonchalantly stuck out my glove to catch this kid’s latest fastball. The only problem is that my glove wasn’t in the right place. My face was. The impact spun me around, broke my front tooth, and split my lip wide open. A pool of blood formed on the sidewalk.

I went inside to stop the bleeding as best I could, ending up holding an icepack to my lip the rest of the afternoon. The kid’s dad came to check on me, but I assured him I was all right.

When my mom got home, she shrieked “OHMYGOD!” when she saw me. I didn’t know the severity of my injury, and maybe she didn’t either because the doctor’s office told her to take me to the emergency room.

Under a blindingly bright light on an examination table, with a towel over my eyes and a needle in my lip for the three stitches I was about to get, I mentally crossed off “starting centerfielder for the Milwaukee Brewers” on my “potential jobs” list.

****

Baseball didn’t become America’s pastime because it’s pastoral or a reminder of a quieter, simpler time. Nor did it become the national pastime because “chicks dig the long ball” or because there are few things more enjoyable than an afternoon at the ballpark with an ice cold Miller Lite and a hot dog.

Baseball became America’s pastime because it is a game based on failure and one’s reaction to said failure. Failure is a fact of American life: failed jobs, failed relationships, failed wars -- there have been a lot of those lately -- and failed businesses. But we as a nation have it so ingrained in our psyche that we’re supposed to keep getting up after those failures, much like there’s always tomorrow for a baseball player. We grind for a better life tomorrow, even if there might not be one.

(Conversely, football became America’s pastime because it features two teams literally beating the life out of one another for the profit of old white men and the amusement of the fat, undereducated, beer-swilling masses. (Or, as they are colloquially known, Raiders fans) What that says about our nation is another story for another day)

It should be without surprise, then, that I am drawn to the video game MLB: The Show, the “Road to the Show” mode in particular. In that mode, you create a player and try to make him into a hall of famer. It is different from other career modes in other major sports games because you’re not a member of the pro team to begin with. You start in the dregs of the minor leagues at the AA level. You grind. You work your way up through the system. You are Ragged Dick in spikes.

I’ve been playing The Show on and off since 2010, and though they’ve tweaked the system in mostly positive ways, the grind remains the same. You take your cuts or throw your innings, hoping that promotion comes soon. Sometimes you meet your goals, but sometimes you find yourself in the midst of a 2-for-24 slump with no end in sight. Sometimes you get benched and then finally demoted for disobeying your manager, which WAS FUCKING BULLSHIT BECAUSE WHO HAS THE STEAL SIGN ON ONLY ON A 0-0 COUNT??

But you put the uniform on (or hold the controller, I guess) the next day, and try again. The Show, as a series, captures all of this perfectly. The 2015 version of the game manages not just to capture that feeling, but also, somehow, to mirror life itself.

(You can stop here if you don't want to read about video game dorkery)

****

April 2015 - October 2018

I named my character Superfluous “Soup” Smith because I was tired of naming characters after myself. “Superfluous” may be ridiculous, but considering there are educated people giving their children last names as first names, I don’t think adjectives are that far off. Plus, I could make the announcers call him “Soup,” which is baseball-y enough. (Of course, Jeff Suppan’s nickname was Soup, and we all know how that turned out.) “Smith” is just a throwaway name that makes for alliteration and the announcer’s ability, to, well, announce his name.

Straight outta Milwaukee, 21-year-old Soup Smith is 6’ tall and 225 pounds (my actual height and weight!) and plays center field. He has a beer belly, because I have a beer belly. He is a speed and defense guy, though he will also come to have power. Soup got drafted in second round by the Angels (yes, the same Angels who employ Mike Trout, best CF in the game).

I decided to try to new dynamic difficulty mode, which started on “Rookie” and went from “just a guy” to “hot shit prospect” in the span of a month. I ended up hitting .404 with 3 HR and 25 RBI at AA before a promotion to AAA. In the meantime, I had turned up the difficulty to “All-Star.” This was a bad decision, gamewise, but is also the reason this piece of writing exists.

Soup was sent to AAA where he held his own for a while and then struggled. Eventually he was traded to the Blue Jays, for whom he continued to struggle at their AAA level. He broke his arm, which ended his season. This is where I went “oh, I guess he’ll have another season at AAA then.” But I was wrong. He was invited to spring training and made the team despite his (my) awfulness.

At this point I don’t need to go into too much detail about Soup Smith’s career. He struggled for the Blue Jays and was then traded to the San Francisco Giants, where he also struggled. He was sent down not once but twice to AAA in his three years with the Giants before getting traded back to the Blue Jays. My attributes were getting better, but my actual numbers said otherwise. This is not unlike having a Bachelor’s degree in English but shuffling boxes in a hot warehouse for a living. I don’t think he (I) hit better than .220 in any given year.

****

October, 2019

My last year with the Blue Jays seemed like it would be a turning point. As mostly a bench player, I hit .270 (career high) with 5 HR and 27 RBI. I signed a $747,000 contract before the 2019 season began, thinking maybe I had finally made it. No more demotions, no more embarrassments. Just a fine career from a kid who had a hard time at first but made it work.

I started off all right, maybe not hitting home runs but hitting for a decent average, and more importantly taking my walks. My on base percentage was 100 points higher than my batting average! I had arrived!

(Remember when I said baseball mirrored American life? This is where I remind you I got married in 2013, but fired from my job three weeks later. Then I was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease three months after that. I still don’t have a full time job. Hey Life? Fuck you.)

The good times did not last, and I entered a god-awful series of slumps. Slumps happen in life and in baseball, but the (digital) Blue Jays management exacerbated the problem. Instead of moving me down in the order, or benching me, or even demoting me to AAA one more time, they stood pat. They trotted me out there every day in center field, batting third or fourth in the order.

As I endured a 2-for-40 dry spell, both myself and Superfluous Smith wondered “How bad can it get?” (Seriously, his demeanor walking to the plate for every futile at-bat nearly broke my heart. The way he held his bat behind him said “get me out of here!”)

Video games have their own internal logic, and The Show’s make sense here. Smith is technically an 84 overall, the best player on a bad team, statistics be damned. Yet, its own logic tells me I’m playing at a 72 level. I still have a minor league option left, but they did nothing. They hung me out to dry, one awful strikeout or weak groundout at a time.

I wonder if the fact that modern video games, in general, are just easier has anything to do with it. From the very beginning of my struggling, I wondered if the end game could possibly be a release from a team without catching on somewhere else. Washing out of the league at 25 is not a desirable outcome -- you’re supposed to be a hall of famer -- but an entirely possible outcome… at least in real life.

I kept waiting for an axe to fall that never did. I kept starting. I kept striking out. Every line drive that found a fielders’ glove and every long fly that died at the warning track wears on me, a pestering winter greyness that never seems to end.

The 2019 season stats were bleak: .195 AVG 8HR 44RBI. My slash line was .195/.241/.300 (average, on-base percentage, slugging percentage). The strikeout to walk ratio of 126-30 was great… if you’re a pitcher.

I’m not sure what will happen to me -- though I can guess. I probably won’t start the season at AAA like I should, and I almost certainly will not be released. Throughout all the awfulness, I did not change my look, my bat, my glove, or my at-bat music. (“Big Poppa” by Notorious BIG, if you were wondering) More importantly, I did not turn down the difficulty.

There may be difficulty sliders in modern video games, but there aren’t any in real life. Believe you me, I WANT to be that guy that hits .300 with 40 homers because I know I’m not the guy who’s going to make $100,000 a year with a nice house and car.

I struggle in games because I struggle in life. There’s nothing noble about it, but there is something real. I wake up every day with metaphorical welts on my forehead, another battle notched on my belt. But I’ll keep hacking away at every at-bat, fearing the unknown but hoping for a better tomorrow. I don’t know any other way.

The Midwest Gaming Classic: A review

For people of a certain age, the video game arcade brings back a flood of memories. Playing on a home console with your best buddies brings back even more. The Midwest Gaming Classic, held this weekend in Brookfield, Wis., capitalized on those memories by providing convention goers with all of the good times that go along with gaming.

The Midwest Gaming Classic (MGC) isn't a trade show like E3 or PAX, but rather a shrine to an age of gaming that, though it's years behind us, paradoxically, it never really left. 

For $30, you can play all the games your wrists and eyes can possibly take. I entered through the arcade hall, which was aptly named. There were hundreds of pinball tables and arcade cabinets, all set to free play, and also all for sale providing you have the space and at least $500 (or more) burning a hole in your pocket. 

The pinball tables ranged from the old-timey (50s and 60s) to the thoroughly modern, including a recently released Wrestlemania table, and a Wizard of Oz table that had a display that looked like nothing I've ever seen before. I could've spent all day playing pinball, but that is largely a solitary pursuit. I went with my general life arch-nemesis, so we sought out games to play against each other. 

There were lots of those. 

We played NBA Jam, NFL Blitz, X-Men vs. Capcom (fighting game), and Simpsons Bowling, and all of them were fun, and more importantly, competitive. (Well, not Blitz. Somebody ragequit. Won't say who.)

Your author, after narrowly winning at NBA Jam

If one-player games are more your thing, MGC featured those too. I personally played OutRun, Centipede, and Ms. Pac Man. Burger Time and Qbert were there too. 

You might be thinking that $30 is a fair price for that -- and it kind of is, if only because Galloping Ghost  is 90 minutes away. But there was more to it than the arcade games. 

The other draw for us was the Video Game Museum room, which highlighted games from the 1970s-1990s. There were some Pong games that we honestly couldn't figure out how to work. There were some 80s-era PCs set up where you could play Oregon Trail and Number Munchers. Still more PCs were running Doom and Duke Nukem 3D.

Of course, we ignored PC gaming entirely because there was a murderers' row of classic console games that demanded our attention. 

Super Mario Kart! Tecmo Super Bowl! Contra! NBA Jam TE! Double Dragon! We played 'em all. In fact, we played more than that as the room couldn't actually contain everything. I played an Atari Jaguar game (Primal Rage -- I know, not an exclusive) for the first time. Other, modern fighting games were featured in the same hallway, which were mostly beyond me. 

Basically, it was the biggest, best basement rec room you could ever possibly be in. 

* * * * 

A gigantic tent outside the hotel housed even more gaming goodness.

Most of this tent was devoted to vendors from all over the midwest peddling their gaming wares. No matter what console you were a fan of back in the day (or are still), someone, somewhere in the tent had a console or a game for you to ogle. 

Prices seemed a little outrageous for games produced 20+ years ago, but then again people in their thirties supposedly have good-paying jobs that allow them to blow money on nostalgia. (I played my part: I bought an Atari 2600 game -- Spider Fighter -- for a dollar.) In addition to the games, other vendors sold gaming and otherwise nerd-related goods like Lego sets and t-shirts. One of the more interesting things we saw were old arcade cabinet game signs, which looked good enough on their own to hang on your wall. 

Aside from the commerce, the tent also featured a couple of air hockey tables (pretty cool), live music (bearable, but could do without), and a tabletop gaming section. Tabletop gaming (or just plain board games, I suppose) isn't really my thing, but the fact that you could go up to their library of games, pull one off the shelf, and sit down and play with your friends is kind of awesome. 

* * * * 

When it comes to gaming, individual accomplishments are great -- finally beating Mario 3 or going undefeated in Madden -- but being in the same room and trash talking your buddies after destroying them in NFL Blitz (or teaming up in a co-op game like TMNT 2 on the NES) is so much better. 

The games at MGC are certainly paramount to the experience, but without the people it would just be a bunch of flickering screens, playing to no one. I can't say I was surprised at all by the diversity of the crowd, seeing as though video gaming is universal in some sense. All types of people were there: fat neckbeards (because of course there were) and old men and young children and gamer girls -- every stereotype of gamer girl was there in full effect, for better and for worse -- all of them enjoying the games and more importantly the camaraderie of gaming together. That is the sort of thing worth more than the price of admission. 

(okay, that and making Ken ragequit after going up 26-0 in NFL Blitz. That was the best.)

I was on the radio once

As you know or might not know, I was on the radio once upon a time in college. To get on the air, you had to take the Radio Practicum class. You were given a two-hour shift where you played the college/indie rock programmed by the music director. It was almost like a real commercial radio station. 

One of the conditions of the class was that you had to tape yourself on air. Every time something was to be announced - a song title, the weather, a PSA - it had to be recorded so it could be critiqued by the professor (also GM of the station) and all of the other students. 

I still happen to have a cassette tape of that from April 2001. I also happen to have a tape deck and the correct cable to hook it up to the line-in jack on my computer. I also happen to be really fucking bored on a Saturday night...

It wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be, having only been on the air once a week for two months or so. The first PSA reading features a bonus cough. 





Almost 18 months later I had the opportunity to have my own show with my own music, Saturday nights (technically Sunday mornings) from 12AM-2AM. I called the show Total Radio Anarchy. (It was not.)

My voice definitely became more confident, and being as I knew the music better, I had more to say about it. However, I sound like I'm on speed. (I was not on speed.) 

I feel like this is the last (latest) surviving tape of my radio show. The more I was on the air, the less I felt I needed to record myself every week. I wasn't actually that good, mind you, I just knew deep down inside that no one was listening anyways. 



Because I know you're dying to know what I played on a radio show 12 years ago... here's the setlist from the first hour:

Pink Floyd - Time
Everclear - The Swing
Bloodhound Gang - Lift Your Head Up High (And Blow Your Brains Out)
Prodigy - Smack My Bitch Up
Disturbed - Liberate
Dr. Dre - Ackrite
Radiohead - True Love Waits
Queen - Bohemian Rhapsody
Local H - Keep Your Girlfriend
Blink-182 - All The Small Things
Dashboard Confessional - Remember to Breathe
Wasp - Animal (Fuck Like a Beast)

Personally, I think playing commercial music on a college radio station was kind of subversive. But that's just me. 

Concert Review: Sturgill Simpson, 12/5/14

See that $12.50 price? Unless Sturgill Simspon is the second coming of Fugazi, that price is going up next time. 

Last time Sturgill Simpson played Turner Hall Ballroom maybe 100 people showed up. This time – through word of mouth, a handful of national television appearances, and (according to a Facebook post) even a busload of people that came down from Appleton – the place was pretty much sold out. Last time the boys in the band had to sell merch out of a cardboard box after the show. This time a table was set up before the show started. And last time, Sturgill Simpson had just released the fantastic Metamodern Sounds in Country Music to some minor critical hype and nothing else. This time, he was just nominated for a Grammy.

One might think something would change with all that extra fame, but one would be wrong in thinking that.

“I don't even know what Americana is,” Sturgill said between songs, acknowledging his Grammy nomination, “but I'll take that over country any fuckin' day!” The crowd roared and hooted and hollered in approval. It is hard to pinpoint Sturgill's sound – and neither Americana nor Country do it proper justice – but 70s Outlaw Country is a good place to start. Taking their cues from Waylon, Willie, and the boys, Sturgill Simpson and his awesome backing band delivered a scorching 95-minute set that had everything from straight-up country (“Long White Line”), to blistering honky-tonk (“Railroad of Sin”) to spirituals (“A Little Light”).

If that wasn't enough, the band veered dangerously close to Southern Rock in general and Allman Brothers Band in particular on a couple of numbers wherein the boys just jammed out. (This lends credence to calling Simpson's music progressive country, but I digress.) This was highlighted by lead guitarist Laur Joamets, who, for lack of better words, can just flat out fucking play. He had no use for rock-star theatrics, though I don't think anyone would've minded a few windmills or epic guitar faces. Instead, we were treated to intricate picking that he made look effortless. It was a joy to watch.

If you wanted to dance, you could – the rhythm section was locked in all night. If you wanted to lose yourself in Simpson's deep, metaphorically complex, and oftentimes dark lyrics (pretty much the entirety of “Living the Dream”) you could do that too. I think this is part of what brought in such a diverse crowd. It was the sort of show where Chuck Taylors mingled with cowboy boots, and there was plaid and flannel as far as the eye could see. And sure, some of those Johnny-and-Jill-come-latelies talked over the slow songs, like the gorgeous sounding, would-be modern country radio hit “The Promise.” But that can be overlooked. The music managed to cut through all of that and hit you right in the heart and brain, all full of good time vibes and stoned thoughts.

Sturgill Simpson and his band (they need a name, I think) left it all on the stage on Friday night. Next time they come to town it'll be a bigger stage, and I have no doubts that they'll have no trouble with that one, either.

Concert Review: Lorde - 9/26/14 - BMO Harris Pavilion

(concerts in the 21st century, amirite?!)

Remember the adage “Dance like nobody's watching?”

On Friday night, before 5,000 or so people, Lorde did precisely that. “Twitchy” is a word I heard describing her show before the performance at the BMO Harris Pavilion. I would say that was spot on, as she danced and swayed and zigged and zagged through 15 solid songs. (Seriously: I cannot get enough of her dancing. She was a cross between Marilyn Manson in “TheBeautiful People” video  (around the 2:54 mark specifically) and Beavis and Butt-head, well, anytime they rocked out.)

Of course, her stage moves weren't the only notable thing about the show.

Lorde was backed up by only two musicians; a keyboardist that looked suspiciously like “Weird Al” Yankovic and a drummer that did not. This served her well as the minimalist instrumentation brought the focus to her voice, which sounded fantastic. Furthermore, it was definitely live, unlike a lot of her her pop star peers.

'Peer' is both a good and a bad word to describe Ms. Yelich-O'Connor as related to other pop stars. On the one hand she has the moves and the mannerisms down. She apparently went to the Mick Foley School of Pandering as she mentioned how much she liked Milwaukee over and over and over again. Cheap pops (applause, for the non-wrestling fanatics) abounded. On the other hand her lyrics are, if not totally deep man at the very least are more thoughtful than what passes as pop music these days. When she sang “I'm kind of over getting told to throw my hands up in the air” I could sympathize. When she sang “Hey, it’s all cool, I still like hotels, but I think that'll change,” as on “Still Sane,” a song about her newfound fame, I realized this is a girl with her head on straight.

Visually, the show was a stunner. Different songs found Lorde bathed in blues and reds and greys with outfits to match. A few numbers near the end featured these weird smoke bubbles, which led to my wife remarking “I could watch this all day!” Finally, after “Team,” cannons shot out confetti featuring a logo with Lorde's likeness on it.

The music itself was mostly spot-on as far as sounding like the record. It was easy to settle into the steady groove of “Tennis Court,” and other songs followed the same suit. She covered a couple of tunes: the banging “Flashing Lights” by Kanye West, and an effervescent take on Bon Iver's “Heavenly Father.” One of the set highlights came near the end, with an extended/remixed version of “Team.” It was already the most energetic cut from the Pure Heroine LP, but live the backing band jammed out amid synthesized guitar squall, which just washed over me to the point where I could lose myself in the beautiful noise.

Strangely, the Grammy-winning “Royals” was the weakest song of the night. It managed to sound more minimalist than it did on record, and just fell flat. Aside from an admittedly sweet but otherwise yammering (as if a teenager can talk any other way) 10-minute long monologue, that was the only misstep of the night.

I'll admit that I nearly left disappointed because Lorde didn't sing “A World Alone,” but she saved the best for last. It put an exclamation point on an excellent 80-minute set. Through all the shrieking teenage girls, the cell phone illumination, the spazzy dancing, and the confessional lyrics – the kind of stuff that might make one (specifically a 32-year-old male) feel like an outsider – the music brought everyone together. It didn't matter whether you came to the music by losing yourself in it via headphones, or by hearing the latest single on the radio. Lorde might have been singing about “dancing in this world alone,” but on this night every person in the place was dancing with 5,000 of their closest friends. It was proof of the power of pop music, and it was joyous.  

Top 10 Albums of 2013 (and a bunch of other stuff)

Last year at this time I wanted to write about how the process, the experience of music has changed. I did, along with my top ten of 2012... but the next day I decided everything I wrote was too influenced by drunken-ness (I published at 2:30 am, if I remember) so I ditched the whole thing.

I am going to salvage the opening because it still rings true. 

The way we listen to music has changed drastically since I started seriously listening to it over 15 years ago. Not to go all old-man on you, but back in those heady days of 1996, the only feasible way to listen to music aside from radio was to buy it on compact disc. If the album was one good single and mostly filler, it went on the shelf. But because that album cost me $15, it more than likely went back in the CD player at some point in a desperate search to find some deep cuts to justify my purchase.

Sometimes it worked (Adore by the Smashing Pumpkins, for instance), sometimes it didn’t. Either way, it sounds a lot like the Brewers trying to get a few more games out of a well past his prime Jeff Suppan -- a stubborn refusal to admit defeat. But it did force us (or at least me) to give albums that weren’t instantly ear-catchers a chance.

The 1999-2000 is where music listening changed forever for neither the first nor the last time. Napster debuted and brought mp3 downloading out from the Internet’s seedy underbelly into the mainstream. It was nice to download whatever you wanted whenever you wanted at no cost (except to the artists, their labels, etc.) but single songs were still king. Whether it was lackluster download speeds or bad CD rips or both, albums were still hard to come by.

One might think iTunes changed all that, but not so much. The 99-cents per song model still ensured you could download the cream of the crop, filler be damned.

Of course, as the Internet is wont to do, it made iTunes and the like moot with the emergence of BitTorrent. Coupled with the explosion of mainstream broadband internet and cheap storage, whole album downloading became a thing. Finding new music was never easier.

Or was it?

Streaming music came on the scene first with Rhapsody, then evolved into the “freemium” service Spotify. For the first time, legally, pretty much any album you ever wanted to hear is at your fingertips. No searching for the torrent with the most seeds. No worrying about the RIAA. No effort required.

Which brings me to my long-winded point.

There is no shortage of good music. It’s easier to find it than at any point in history. But it is also the most disposable it has ever been.

If I punch up an album on Spotify, as I did with many releases this year, and it doesn’t immediately grab me, I can just let it go, never to be heard again. It doesn’t exist on a shelf nor on my hard drive. Music is just out there in the ether now. And I found it quite difficult to find ten albums that really grabbed me, that really made me want to listen again and again. And it’s not because music is shitty. It’s because I don’t have to.

I’m a believer in too much of a good thing -- and in the case of determining the best albums of a given year, I think Spotify, Pandora, YouTube, and the like make it very difficult to do so.

(The only thing different is that this year yielded more albums worth talking about. I don't know if it was because it was a better year in music, or if I just got over the inherent disposability of music in out modern age.)

Without boring you any further: the best music of 2013.

Three female country artists and albums that need to be highlighted: Caitlin Rose (The Stand-in), Ashley Monroe (Like A Rose), and Kacey Musgraves (Same Trailer, Different Park)

Caitlin Rose's album was probably the most musically adventurous (which admittedly isn't saying much), Ashley Monroe might be the most rambunctious (“Weed Instead of Roses”) and Kacey Musgraves showed that modern country ladies can be insightful and even sexually tolerant (“Follow Your Arrow”). They all go against the stereotype of current country music being nothing more than pop music with twang. They all have something to say and all are worth your time if you enjoy such things.

These three ladies may not be forever remembered like known-on-a-first-name basis luminaries Patsy, Loretta, or Dolly, but they sure make suitable 21^st century stand-ins for the real thing.

Pithy statements about singles I loved:

Phosphorescent – "Song for Zula" – Really fucking pretty and heartbreaking

Paul McCartney – "New" – He's still got it, as if you doubted him (and if you did, fuck you)

Kanye West – "Black Skinhead" – Kanye's a shithead, but his music is interesting.

Haim – "Days Are Gone" – Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, and three Urban Outfitters-looking babes sisters? I'm in. (this one might be my #2 single of the year)

10. Night Birds – Born to Die in Suburbia

Befitting of an album only half an hour in length, I will not offer many words. It's 80's-influenced punk that's not too snotty and not too political. But it does its lyrical themes do include life the suburbs (duh), religion (“New Cults”) and, somewhat perfectly, Mick Foley (“Maimed for the Masses”). After discovering it – thanks AV Club! – I couldn't stop listening to it for days.

Standout track: "Maimed for the Masses"

09. Nine Inch Nails – Hesitation Marks

Don't call it a comeback, because Trent Reznor has mostly taken many years between albums anyways. But Hesitation Marks is the first NIN album in six years, and it is, well, distinctly Trent Reznor. He's always known his way around a hook, and I don't think this record is any different but if you're looking for the searing guitars of Broken or the utter despair of The Downward Spiral you might want to look elsewhere.

But you'd be missing out on an album that yes, doesn't blow you away with noise... it burbles under the surface. It twitches its way into your head. The first half of the album's name is apt; it's not one you listen to for instant gratification. That said, singles “Copy of A” and “Came Back Haunted” are fine entries into the NIN canon.

Standout track: "Copy of A"

08. Arcade Fire – Reflektor

I won't beat around the bush; the marketing behind this album was fucking stupid. That preceding sentence shouldn't matter at all, of course, but it was the sort of thing that made me hate being an Arcade Fire fan. It's not like they weren't pretentious enough, then they went and pulled this shit. (link to dress code)

Then I heard the album. I didn't like it.

But I spent more time with it and it revealed itself to me. Like all double studio albums, Reflektor is messy and sprawling and whatever other adjectives you want to throw at it. (Personally I like the second disc better; its songs seem more realized). But what's more important is that Arcade Fire still has something to say, whether it's about This Modern Life (title track), death (standout “Afterlife”), or sex (“Porno”). Much like Hesitation Marks, it's not a record that you'll fall in love with upon first listen, but it's quite rewarding if you give it a few chances.

Standout track: "Afterlife"

07. Milk Carton Kids – The Ash & Clay

If you haven't been paying attention to popular music, you wouldn't know that folk music is pretty big. You've got The Avett Brothers and Mumford & Sons and The Lumineers and on and on and on.

Milk Carton Kids do it up right with intricate guitar work and achingly beautiful harmonies. (not hurting them is the fact that vocally, they sound like vintage Simon and Garfunkel) The title track is one of my most listened to songs of the year.

It's somewhat odd that I don't have much more to say about an album I like so much. It's the type of record that works well when you want something pleasant in the background, but won't fail you when you want to sink into your headphones.

Standout track: "The Ash & Clay"

06. Black Sabbath – 13

I liked 13 when I first heard it, but I did have some minor quibbles. Ozzy sounded actually dead instead of ethereal as he did on Sabbath't best work; The riffs, though awesome, seemed recycled; and Brad Wilk is no Bill Ward.

But I listened to the album more and more, and appreciated it for what it was: masters of their chosen genre showing everyone how it's done. 13 seemed like it stole some pages from Load-era Metallica's book, but the more I think about it, 70's-era Black Sabbath always had a groove (or at least an audible bass line) to it – so if you want to hate on late-period Metallica, hate on Black Sabbath because from the beginning they proved that metal could be both punishing and catchy. (I would say almost danceable, but I don't want to be crucified)

13 might not be anything new, but it's everything that Sabbath ever was: Tony Iommi's encycopedia of riffs (again, yes, not all original), Ozzy's distinctive vocals (yeah, I know I shit on them before), even a moody, acoustic tune. For a swan song, a capstone on a fantastic career, and, yes, music for young people made by 60+ year-old men, you can't ask for much more, can you?

Standout track: "Damaged Soul"

05. Volcano Choir – Repave

I have about as much to say about an album at #5 on my list as you might expect. I love all of Justin Vernon's work as Bon Iver; his first collaboration with Collections of Colonies of Bees as Volcano Choir less so.

But Repave is something different. It is less weird and experimental and more concerned with making great, enjoyable songs. It is joyous folk rock. You might not believe this, but Vernon's lyrics actually kind of sort of make sense this time around! If you're not a fan of Bon Iver, this record won't change your mind. I can admit that. But if you're on the fence and want something that is pretty and accessible yet not totally radio-friendly, Repave will fill that void.

Standout Track: "Acetate"

04. Eminem – Marshall Mathers LP2

First things first: If you've never cared for Eminem, MMLP2 is not going to change your mind. The beats are mostly the same, save for the EDM-inspired album centerpiece “Rap God,” and the lyrics are full of misogny, homophobia, celebrity takedowns, and shock-jock posturing. It is also overstuffed at 78 minutes and could easily lose at least a few songs. (“The Monster,” “Stronger Than I Was,” and “So Much Better,” I'm looking at you.)

But the remaining 13 songs... – not counting the pointless “Parking Lot” skit – goddamn. MMLP2 is Eminem's most fun album in years. His lyrical acrobatics are on full display, but also his cleverness conceptually speaking. The 7-plus minute opening opus “Bad Guy” is from the point of view of Stan's – yes, that Stan – little brother. Typing it out, it doesn't seem all that clever... but give it a listen and find out for yourself.

Not that Eminem was trying to, but he managed to endear himself to me by sampling several classic rock songs – Billy Squier's “The Stroke” (“Berzerk”), The Zombies' “Time of the Season” (“Rhyme or Reason”), Wayne Fontana and the Mindbenders' “Game of Love” (“Love Game,” which features hotshot next big thing Kendrick Lamar), and, finally, Joe Walsh's “Life's Been Good” on my favorite track “So Far...” Not only that, but there are plenty of callbacks to the original Marshall Mathers LP.

MMLP2 isn't really anything different, but it has all the elements that made Eminem great to begin with. 

Standout Track: "So Far"

03. Lorde – Pure Heroine

“Don't you think that it's boring how people talk” is how Lorde's debut album begins. Hell of an opening line if you ask me, considering Lorde – a.k.a. Ella Yelich-O'Connor – is a 17-year old girl. The chilly, minimalist instrumentation and hip-hop-inspired beats set the mood and tone for Lorde's worldview, which seems to be wise beyond her years. She rejects hip-hop and celebrity – and really, consumerist – culture on smash hit “Royals,” is scared of getting old on “Ribs” and deals with her impending fame in a level-headed way on “Still Sane.” All of these songs are sung in a sultry, breathy, – and yes – even sexy voice. (Yeah, I'll have a seat over there.) More intriguing than this debut LP is... what comes next? As she grows both musically and personally, it looks as though the sky's the limit for Lorde.

Standout Track: "A World Alone"

02. Daft Punk – Random Access Memories

I never cared all that much for Daft Punk. I remember when “Around the World” came out in '97 and thinking “what the fuck is this?” “One More Time” was a decent single, but I never bothered with the album it was from. Daft Punk could have dropped off the face of the earth, and I wouldn't have noticed.

Then the insane marketing campaign happened and I heard “Get Lucky” and I had to see what all the fuss was about. I was glad I did.

Daft Punk created an analog album for a digital age. Instead of following the trends and creating an album on iPad, they looked back at their influences and made a disc both retro and modern.

It's full of different sounds, from the disco-funk of “Get Lucky” and “Lose Yourself to Dance” to the yacht rock of “Fragments of Time” to the crazy fun house mirror atmosphere of “Touch” (which stars Paul Williams of “Rainbow Connection” fame).

But even with the guest stars – and there are many – Random Access Memories still manages to sound like something Daft Punk would create. Certainly it looks back to the 1970's as it was an album produced at great cost, and if you're the dismissive sort you could just call it a disco album and leave it at that. But that would be doing the 70+ minutes of RAM a disservice. It is a surprisingly human album from a couple of guys in robot helmets. I am glad, just this once, that I followed the hype.

Standout Track: "Touch"

01. Vampire Weekend – Modern Vampires of the City

If the first three Vampire Weekend records are considered as a trilogy – and lead singer Ezra Koenig considers it as such – than (this is Koenig speaking again, and I agree) Modern Vampires of the City is the afterparty. This is where some serious shit goes down. (or at least is talked about)

Vampires is worldly – check the Jamaican percussion on opener “Obvious Bicycle” (and damn me for not being able to find the review that clued me into this fact) – without being precious. Koenig still wears his education on his sleeve – I've never heard the phrase “richer than Croesus” before, but then again I went to a public high school and a state university, so maybe I'm just dumb) – but they seem more informed by actually living life itself than by academia.

And that's what Modern Vampires of the City is about: life. It talks about God and faith or lack thereof (“Ya Hey” and “Unbelievers”) and relationships (“Hannah Hunt”), and mortality (“Diane Young”) with all the wisdom of a, well, late-twenty-early-thirtysomething, which is exactly what I am. Koenig has seen enough to be cynical but not enough to be completely hopeless.

And then there's “Step,” my song of the year. There's one line in it, “Wisdom's a gift, but you'd trade it for youth” that made my year. Why? Because we're supposed to grow older and wiser with every passing year and like it, but with few exceptions I disagree with that.

In my younger days I'd much more appreciate music that hits me in the gut. Modern Vampires is an album that hits me in the heart and in the head (much like Arcade Fire's The Suburbs before it) and that's why it's my album of the year.

Standout Track: "Step"