Jess Banks schools you.

This is the third and final week (for now) of music on Friday Night Lists. I’ve got a bunch more music lists, but my tastes are eclectic, and the world is full of things to list! The following bands/musicians are some of my favorites, and I’m sure many of you will know several of the names on the list. But given what a broad swath of the music scene they cover, I’m hoping you’ll discover at least one new artist that’s worth investigating. If you’ve got your own little-known, must-hear recommendation, please leave it in the comments for everyone to enjoy! And now…

10 MUSICIANS/BANDS YOU NEED TO HEAR

1.  Robyn Hitchcock

What he sounds like: New Wave + Salvador Dali + silly British accents

You may have heard him: if you listened to college radio in the ’80s

Robyn Hitchcock is like the Monty Python of ’80s music: intellectual, frequently hilarious, surprisingly musical, and often nonsensical. Hitchcock started out in the influential ’70s group The Soft Boys, but went solo with some of the other Soft Boys as Robyn Hitchcock and The Egyptians. He’s got a long history of collaboration with other alternative artists, like Peter Buck of R.E.M., Billy Bragg, and Gillian Welch.

Here, try this: “Balloon Man” or “Uncorrected Personality Traits”

2.  Frank Turner

What he sounds like: English folk music + punk + Buddy Holly

You may have heard him: at UK music festivals or opening for The Offspring or Dropkick Murphys

Former frontman for the punk outfit Million Dead, I can’t say enough good things about his fun, cool, loud, wonderful music. Trust me, I’ve tried.

Here, try this: “I Still Believe” or “The Road”

3.  Neko Case

What she sounds like: Nancy Sinatra + Clannad

You may have heard her: on the Hunger Games and True Blood (Season 3) soundtracks

Neko (like Nico and the Velvet Underground, not Necco like the wafers) Case has an utterly distinctive voice that she deploys in music that’s not like anything else out there. Whether she’s solo, as on her albums The Fox Confessor Brings The Flood or Middle Cyclone, or with The New Pornographers, her sound is as addictive as it is indescribable. You just have to hear her.

Here, try this: “Hold On, Hold On” or “She’s Not There”

4.  Jeffrey Foucault

What he sounds like: John Prine + Jack White + that staticky station in the middle of Kansas

You may have heard him: in small venue, new folk/Americana concerts

Here, I admit to rampant bias. I went to high school with Jeff (he was two years behind me), and we went to State Solo & Ensemble contest singing a Henry Purcell duet my senior year. Back then, he had a lovely, clear tenor. Now he sounds like someone put his voice in the dryer with a box of rocks–it’s as gravelly and aged and worn as the best old pair of blue jeans. He’s a fantastic songwriter, and he’s developed a sound that fits perfectly between old country music like Bill Monroe and Ralph Stanley, ’60s folk like Bob Dylan, and new Americana like Alison Krauss and Crooked Still. I can’t believe I know someone so wildly talented. It’s only a matter of time before he hits the big time.

Here, try this: “Ghost Repeater” or “Hello In There”

5.  1 Giant Leap

What they sound like: World Music + Trance  + Deep Philosophy

You may have heard them: in the movie they made about recording their album

So I was flipping channels one day, and I came across this movie with Michael Stipe (of R.E.M.) singing. I paused to see what it was, and suddenly, Asha Bhosle, the high priestess of Bollywood music, is singing too. I watch longer, and see Robbie Williams, and Tuvan throat singers, and a West African tribe, and Michael Franti. Stitching together the songs and travel footage from all over the world are clips of interviews with people like Kurt Vonnegut Jr. and Tom Robbins, talking about concepts like love and beauty and death. My Mind Was Blown. Their greatest strength is in combining musical styles in geographically impossible, yet perfectly complimentary ways. If you’re a fan of world music at all, you need to hear their eponymous album.

Here, try this: “Braided Hair” or “The Way You Dream”

6.  Hem

What they sound like: Southern folk + Dream Academy

You may have heard them: in the first Liberty Mutual “random acts of kindness” ad

I saw that ad, too, and searched the Internets all evening to find out what that gorgeous song was. Turns out, it’s “Half Acre” from Hem’s album Rabbit Songs. Lead singer Sally Ellyson’s voice is soft and sweet and haunting, and the instrumentals include steel pedal guitar, mandolin, and a nice assortment of acoustic music. Funnel Cloud is my favorite of their albums. If you want something to play as you enjoy a drowsy, humid summer night on the porch, look no further.

Here, try this: “Half Acre” or “Not California”

7.  Flogging Molly

What they sound like: The Chieftains + Green Day

You may have heard them: at the last show of the night at Irish Fest

This band kicks all kinds of ass. Add another dram of punk to The Pogues, subtract a little hardcore from the Dropkick Murphys, and you’ll find the sweet spot called Flogging Molly. They do heartwrenching ballads, wild jigs and reels with a driving Ramones-like drum line, and recklessly cheerful drinking songs equally well. Not only do they sprinkle Irish nationalism liberally through their lyrics, but they also make forays into piratical themes. It’s almost impossible to sit still through their music, and the whole crowd feels like one big, Irish family by the end of their phenomenal live shows.

Here, try this: “What’s Left of the Flag” or “Float”

8.  The Mutton Birds

What they sound like: Crowded House + R.E.M. + a trombone

You may have heard them: if you lived in New Zealand in the ’90s, or on The Frighteners soundtrack

You didn’t know there’s a “New Zealand sound”? Well, there is! My Darling Husband included a few of their tracks on the first mix tape he sent during our courtship, and I couldn’t get enough. It’s pretty straightforward pop/rock, with the quirky addition of a trombone here and there. But Don McGlashan, the band’s primary singer/songwriter, has an uncanny knack for telling complex stories in his songs, stories that each listener can interpret like a Rorschach inkblot. Each one is like a novel set to music. They’ve also done a few covers that did well on the antipodeal charts–they contributed “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” to Peter Jackson’s film The Frighteners.

Here, try this: “Dominion Road” or “Ngaire”

9.  E.S. Posthumus

What they sound like: John Williams + electronica + world music

You may have heard them: in many, many movie trailers

This group produces grandiose, classically styled themes, blended with electronic beats and distinctive regional instruments. The combination yields majestic landscapes of sound that lend themselves perfectly to big, impressive cinematic visuals–hence their popularity as movie trailer music. The only problem was that I would get so jazzed by the fantastic music in the trailer that I couldn’t wait to hear a whole score of it in the movie, only to go see the movie and hear its entirely different (often underwhelming) original music. If you listen to this, whatever you’re doing at the time will seem Much More Exciting!

Here, try this: “Pompeii” or “Nara”

10.  Gillian Welch

What she sounds like: an Appalachian woman from the 1700s

You may have heard her: in the O Brother, Where Art Thou? and Hunger Games soundtracks

When I listen to Gillian Welch, I am certain the Space-Time Continuum has been subverted to project her voice 200 years into the future. Or she’s an evolutionary throwback, a weird genetic accident that gives her the purest, keenest folk voice I’ve ever heard. With songwriting and performance partner Dave Rawlings, she channels that exact moment in music when the English and Irish music that came over with early immigrants turned into something American. Her murder ballads will make your hair stand on end; everything else is simply riveting. She’s one of the three sirens at the river in O Brother, Where Art Thou? but, unlike Emmylou Harris and Alison Krauss, it seems impossible to imagine that ancient voice singing modern music. And that’s just fine.

Here, try this: “Didn’t Leave Nobody But The Baby” or “Caleb Meyer”

I’m a very phasey kind of person. I’ve got two big cycles that dictate a lot of my recreational activity/spending. One is my crafting cycle. Because I get bored with repetitive actions, but am utterly dependent on them for my sanity (Bored Hands are Bad Hands), I flow through phases when one craft particularly seizes me, and I do it until it stops scratching the Busy Hands itch, then switch to another. It usually goes in this pattern: Cross-Stitching –> Crochet/Knitting –> Jewelrymaking.

The second is the Books –> Music –> Movies cycle. In each stage, my goal is to Open The Brainbox And Put All Of It In. I’ve been in Books phase for a few months, but I can feel myself sliding toward Music (perhaps checking out 15 CDs on my last library trip was a clue). Another good clue was producing 7 music-related lists on a 20 minute car ride last week. So, this is week 2 of my music jag here on Friday Night Lists. If you didn’t catch the 5 Vastly Overrated Bands (and 5 that aren’t), check that list out as well.

As always, I’m happy when people argue with me! But if my lists provide more of a “FINALLY! Someone who thinks that too!” kind of experience, that’s pretty cool too. In this list, as in others, these are all groups that I’m heavily invested in–the vast majority of them, I love. And now, in no particular order…

5 BANDS THAT WERE BETTER WITHOUT THEIR ORIGINAL FRONTMAN

1. Genesis — Peter Gabriel is a phenomenal musician; you’ll get absolutely no argument from me there. But he’s clearly his best as a solo act, with complete creative control–his influences and personal tonal language come to life when not moderated by the group dynamic of a band. The best thing Genesis ever did was move the mike in front of Phil Collins, and set Gabriel free.
2. Joy Division — Heartless, I know. Suicide is definitely NOT the best reason to look for a new frontman, and I really like Ian Curtis’ dark, earthy sound; after all, it was a big parcel of the seedbed for every goth/alternative artist that followed. But, after Curtis’ death–apocrypha says he put a noose around his neck and stood on an ice block until it melted–the group splintered into New Order, which rewrote the electronica field, and Love & Rockets, which helped build the bridge forward from punk to grunge. Two awesome bands for the price of one frontman–sorry, Ian, but the kids turned out okay.
3. Chicago — I have this theory, you see. I believe certain voices are genetically keyed to appeal, no matter what kind of music/text they’re performing, no matter how much you want to hate them. Peter Cetera has one of those voices (so does Celine Dion. Go ahead, tell me I’m wrong). He was one of the founding members of the band, and one of three singers–keyboardist Robert Lamm and guitarist Terry Kath also sang. Both have a more baritone range, but Cetera’s keen, clean tenor blends so much better with the horns that became part of their signature. Without him, it’s hard to recognize a “Chicago” sound. Besides, when I was in junior high, he said he would fight for my honor. What’s a girl to do?
4. Depeche Mode — As with the first two bands on this list, I’m a fan through and through, but Vince Clarke, who provided vocals for DM’s initial offering Speak & Spell, just wasn’t the right voice for the gloomy, mournful, surprisingly danceable songs that defined them. And the fact that their first hit, “Just Can’t Get Enough,” sounds so much more like Vince Clarke’s later and longer project Erasure means he was onto something even then. But Dave Gahan’s deep, coffee-dark tone is what puts that naughty shiver into songs like “Master and Servant” and “World In My Eyes.” Martin Gore also provides vocals for DM; it’s his sweet, tremulous voice that gives a soul to songs like “Somebody.”
5. Faith No More — I have a big soft spot for these guys, if only because Gus’ Pizza in my hometown had them on the jukebox as “Safe No More,” and as high schoolers, we found that hilarious. They only had one big hit under their belt with the original (at least, at point of first recording) frontman Chuck Mosley, “We Care A Lot,” most memorable now for its reference to the Garbage Pail Kids of yore. And the bass-slapping thrash-punk sound remained consistent, but the addition of Mike Patton on vocals gave their songs the kick in the teeth needed to match the instrumentals. Patton has extraordinary flexibility–for whatever reason, his voice reminds me of John Leguizamo’s, with all its chameleonesque range–and the songs he fronted with Faith No More (and later efforts like Mr. Bungle) are whiplash rides through a wide swath of emotions. Revisit “Epic” if you’ve forgotten.

And just for contrast, here are:

5 BANDS THAT WEREN’T

1. Queen — I put this at Number One for a reason, for once. Queen, Queen, Queen. You were a great backup band for the Greatest Frontman Of All Time, Freddie Mercury. Be content with that.
2. Van Halen — Sorry, Sammy, no dice. Your brand of caterwauling was a lame substitute for David Lee Roth’s sexy, rockin’ purr and shriek. Nice that the rest of the group finally came around on that, too.
3. 10,000 Maniacs — I’m sure the woman who followed Natalie Merchant was very nice and all, but she was the sonic equivalent of watching paint dry, compared with Natalie’s sinusy, kittenesque, sort of Pre-Raphaelite melodic lyricism.
4. Talking Heads — Are you kidding me? EVERYTHING is better with David Byrne in it! No Talking, Just Head sounded just like their name choice: poorly thought-out and missing the best part.
5. INXS — With Michael Hutchence, they were all rowr. Without him, after his suicide in 1997, they were all over the place. They’ve had a variety of singers–one even chosen in a reality TV show–and a string of singles, but nothing that sticks the wall. They’re like the opposite of Joy Division: tragic loss of singer, but they just keep flogging away, instead of growing up and moving on.

Sunday night, I was born again in the fires of rock and roll.

I’ve never experienced the bliss and fervor I see on the faces of people at religious revivals, so I can’t be sure it feels the same. But if their god can’t offer them the same welling joy, the fullness of heart, the redemption of primal psychic and sensory needs, then I can’t fathom the attraction. And if some would say the bone-deep delight, the hope for the continued existence of love and beauty in this world, the honest-to-goodness peace on Earth and goodwill to all men that settled onto me with every blessed chord isn’t divine, well then, I would have to tell them that they’ve never touched that state of being.

By now, you think I’m exaggerating, overstating the case for the sake of a writerly challenge or a philosophical argument. I’m really not.

A big part of it was the music. If you’re not a fan of Frank Turner and the Sleeping Souls, let me deliver unto you that great good news. Theirs is a happy polyamory of punk, folk, and old-fashioned rock and roll — if you need an equation, maybe this will help: Frank Turner & the Sleeping Souls = Green Day + Flogging Molly + Buddy Holly. Turner’s got a singular voice that fits all three genres perfectly, if you can conceive of such a thing without hearing it, equally at home in the cozy black box of a venue that is the famed Triple Rock Social Club or singing wrenching tales of blood and rebellion in a militia camp. And his ability to hold true to pitch and somehow stay melodic, no matter how raucous the refrain gets, is a rare thing as well. The band is equally accomplished, from the metronymic steadiness of the drums, to the ruffled arpeggios the keyboard layers on top of classic guitar and bass.

And the songs — Turner’s got the gift of nailing the catchy hook and rousing chorus, in both tune and lyric. The best of his songs should be the anthems of nations or, at the very least, the downtrodden masses. Even the ones that bemoan the toll of age and cynicism on a generation too tired to be the happily angry punks we once were bestow an unexpected optimism and communal goodwill. As a result, fans come ready to sing along, and I watched with keen curiosity to see whether an arms-around-shoulders biergarten sway, or a rollicking mosh pit would break out (a bit of both, at various points, as it turned out). And when you’re singing every song en masse, it’s no stretch to smile and talk with your newfound allies, in a way that just doesn’t happen at even the most intimate of other concerts. This was a show to restore a person’s faith in his fellows.

That we were even there was the definition of Serendipity, or Destiny, or whatever you will. I took the wrong pair of headphones (broken) and the wrong exit for home on a trip to the doctor’s one morning this fall. So while I’d been keen to listen to my own playlist, and to do it for a lot less time, instead I had the company of The Current, MPR’s excellent modern station, as I waded through snarls of traffic. About 15 minutes after I should’ve been home, “I Still Believe” came on the air. I was smitten — new favorite song, on the spot. When I got back, I queued up the YouTube video to show my boys. After it finished playing, up popped a little box, announcing: “Frank Turner and the Sleeping Souls at the Triple Rock Social Club, October 23. Would you like to know more?” Why yes, yes I would. And at $13 a ticket, how could I pass up the chance?

So there we stood on Sunday night. We’d enjoyed the opening act, Into It Over It, enough to buy the guy’s album, but I knew I couldn’t make the whole show on my feet. We slunk off to the old bar next door, and I felt like a lame, hollowed-out, decrepit old punk. But a nice long sit, enhanced by some unexpectedly excellent comfort food, at least left me feeling competent to remain upright for the rest of the night. I was sore, and glaring at the hale and hearty 20-somethings occupying the few seats, when Turner and company took the stage.

And then they played, and I went to a different place. By the end of the first song, my jaded concert-going self was tingling with the knowledge that this was going to be an exceptional show. By the end of the second song, I forgot my pain and fatigue, no mean feat these days. And by the end of the third song, I found myself unexpectedly crying a little, as my senses sizzled like Fourth of July sparklers. My body thrummed, comforted and content as the heartbeat of my long-lost rock and roll mother lodged next to my own, bass in my belly and drums in my feet.

I was over-joyed, the pleasure of it all spilling out my fingertips like light. I couldn’t stop smiling. I wanted to run outside, take everyone by the hand, and bring them into this place, this time, this feeling. And I left the show restored in all the thirsty crevices I didn’t know were cracked.

So I’ll just let Frank and the boys sing us out:

“I still believe in the saints
In Jerry Lee and Johnny, and all the greats
I still believe in the sound
That has the power to raise a temple, and tear it down
I still believe in the need
For guitars and drums and desperate poetry
I still believe that everyone
Can find a song for every time they’ve lost, and every time they’ve won
So just remember folks we’re not just saving lives, we’re saving souls and we’re having fun…

Now who’d’ve thought, after all,
Something as simple as rock ‘n’ roll would save us all?
Who’d’ve thought that after all it was rock n roll.”

Don’t call the people in the padded van, but I’m pretty sure I pick up radio signals with my fillings. Because I hear music. All. The. Time. The only other theory I can think of is that someone’s secretly making a movie of my life, in real time, but that would be deeply unfortunate, because some of the songs I hear really suck sometimes, and I would hope whomever’s in charge of this project has better taste than that.

Much as my kids were destined to be reading and gaming geeks, I was destined to be a music geek. My mom sang in choirs from when she was a little girl, and loved ’50s, ’60s, and ’70s pop music passionately; her mom could play piano by ear, and knew dozens of campfire and folk songs from her years as a Girl Scout leader. I was blessed with a good ear and a strong voice, and with the exception of one elementary music teacher who told me she’d like to hear everyone else too, I was never told to pipe down or use the maracas instead.

My earliest and best memories are all saturated with music. I remember my very first concert — I couldn’t have been more than 2 — where I sat on my father’s shoulders and looked out at the sea of shimmering lighter flames as Willie Nelson sang “Stardust.” I knew dozens of Beatles songs, and they were my favorite band as much as my mom’s. I cried and cried the day John Lennon was shot. And it took me years to realize that the 20th Century Fox intro wasn’t actually the beginning of the Star Wars score.

By high school, I was firmly entrenched as both a band and choir geek. Sorry, no show choir. This was pre-Glee, and these were the jazz hands, “Send in the Clowns” days. Every geek’s got their limits. My good fortune as a musician truly blossomed. I had the very best teachers, and my stepdad’s work as a music ed professor gave me opportunities to sing in national festival choirs that thrilled me to my toes. At college, it only got better. Though I had to choose choir over band for time constraints, I worked for several years with Simon Carrington, one of the founding members of the King’s Singers, as he began his foray into a second career as choir director. His repertoire and professional expertise was epic, and he simply didn’t know to expect any less from a college choir. So we delivered. Britten’s War Requiem, Biebl’s Ave Maria, Tallis’ 40-Part Motet … we even staged Mendelssohn’s Elijah as an opera. I was spoiled forever.

High school was also where my listening tastes began evolving, formed by influences from every direction. The Morrissey tape from my first kiss; Erik Satie and Francis Cabrel from my Belgian exchange student; and every concert I could scrounge up the allowance and babysitting money to attend: Bob Dylan, Heart, R.E.M., Modern English, Skinny Puppy, Love and Rockets, The Pixies, Fishbone, Jane’s Addiction, The Swans, The Cure, Primus, Tracy Chapman, Johnny Clegg, Nine Inch Nails, Peter Murphy, Nadia Salerno-Sonnenberg, The Bobs … the list goes on, and memory fails. We had the perfect arrangement: Thursdays at Bailey’s and Sundays at Club Marilyn in Milwaukee for dancing, and The Exclusive Company and B-Side on State Street in Madison for cassettes.

Music has power over me. Sometimes, that’s not such a great thing. When I was 15, I dated a kid who was a musical prodigy. He played trumpet and piano. He arranged Bach’s Air on a G string for brass quintet from the organ score one weekend when he was bored. He would sit at the piano in my living room and improvise the most beautiful, heartbreaking songs. I basked in the reflected glow of his genius. I pretended that made up for the abuse. I made excuses for him until after the second rape, and some of my other music geek friends circled the wagons to protect me. When I would’ve crawled into myself and died, they made me eat Spaghetti-Os out of the same big mixing bowl with them and sing Little Shop of Horrors songs with my mouth full. That music saved me as surely as the other music endangered me.

And I was 35 (!) when another piece of the music puzzle fell into place for me. Part of my music geekiness is based on the fact that I have hyper-sensitive hearing, and perfect relative pitch. Put another way, I can’t ever stop listening, which is why I have to have white noise without any pattern to it in order to fall asleep; if it’s silent, I’ll lie awake waiting for a sound. And the sensitivity to sound is so bad that my one and only migraine trigger is loud, sudden noises: everything from fireworks or a car backfiring, to a balloon popping nearby. If you can feel the percussion of it “slap” your eardrum, it’s enough to trigger a migraine for me. It’s been this way since I was a baby, they think. But I’m good with prolonged loud noises, like you’d find at the kind of concerts I most enjoy, and there’s almost nowhere in the world I’d rather be than standing in front of a powerful Bass II section or a good bass woofer. If my sternum’s rattling, if I can feel a mild heart arrhythmia caused by the secondary beat in my chest, I am one hundred percent happy.

And I think that both of these come from the fact that, in all likelihood, I have Asperger’s Syndrome to some extent too. The wrong kinds and frequencies of sound make me extremely uncomfortable, but music — especially lyrical bass (not that stupid bass-bumping crap) — fills me up. It forms a glowing, golden spiral from the center of my belly, up through my whole body, like a mighty architecture that leaves me so much stronger that the light and joy just spills out my voice and my smile and my fingertips.

This is one of those rare instances where I am not a nerd at something I’m a geek about. I’ve never had a single day of music theory, or any other formal course of music study, and I stopped piano lessons when they asked me to do two things with one hand at the same time. But there’s no question I’m a music geek. When people look at our CD collection, the first question is usually, “How many people did you say live here?” And the second question is usually, “Can I borrow this?”