It was a good year to be young and bearded. A good decade, really. The aughts kicked off with the release of O Brother, Where Art Thou?, whose soundtrack opened the eyes of at least one generation to the pleasures of underproduced plucking and simple melodies; and ended with three harbingers of the so-called "indie folk" genre joining hands beneath the unqualified Monsters of Folk moniker, using half-century-old gear to produce a beautiful mess of surf pop, spaghetti westerns, and ethereal lullabies. Confusing!

Anyway, whatever folk is, there was plenty made in 2009 that is worth a listen. Here's my top five, in alphabetical order:

The Avett Brothers, I and Love and You

With the addition of Rick Rubin at the switches and a lot of piano, these North Carolina sibs evolved from a twangy string band to what Ben Folds might have sounded like if he grew up listening to Gram Parsons instead of Elton John. This record might be corny if it weren’t so canny.

Best Tracks: “Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise”; “Ten Thousand Words”

2. Blind Pilot, 3 Rounds and a Sound

With Justin Vernon’s sojourn into the wilds of Wisconsin still fresh in the minds of flannel-clad twentysomethings and NPR music critics, you might say Blind Pilot’s Israel Nebeker was under some pressure when he dusted off the dog-eared script of self-exile and absconded to an abandoned cannery to pen the songs that would become 3 Rounds and a Sound. The record isn’t as intense as Vernon’s lauded 2008 opus, but it’s small, intimate, and sneakily spellbinding.

Best Tracks: “One Red Thread”; “3 Rounds and a Sound”

(Update: It has occurred to me that 3 Rounds and a Sound was actually released in 2008, and was included here due to the author's cultural jetlag. The plug stays because the album is awesome... but for the purposes of maintaining a full list, I am obliged to give its spot to Townes, Steve Earle's album of Townes Van Zandt covers. Best tracks: "Lungs"; "To Live is to Fly")

3. The Decemberists, The Hazards of Love

To listen to the Decemberists' fantastical folk-rock opera is to observe frontman Colin Meloy in his element: Maidens on horseback and lustful shapeshifters; envious forest queens, murderous drifters; dark magic, tragedy, verbose writing—these are a few of his favorite things.

Best Tracks: “The Hazards of Love 1 (The Prettiest Whistles Won’t Wrestle the Thistles Undone)”; “The Hazards of Love 2 (Wager All)”; “The Hazards of Love 3 (Revenge!)”; “The Hazards of Love 4 (The Drowned)”

4. The Felice Brothers, Yonder is the Clock

The Felice Brothers’ first release as members of the Team Love label was slightly more subdued than its self-titled 2009 album, but this posse of backwater yankees still brings the firewater rain on a few tracks. As for the slower stuff, is there any tool more tastefully emo than a well-deployed cello? Yes: a well-deployed accordion.

Best Tracks: “Penn Station”; “Ambulance Man”

5. Monsters of Folk, Monsters of Folk

I sure hoped indie darlings Conor Oberst, M. Ward, and Jim James (Yim Yames?) wouldn’t disappoint with their long-anticipated collaboration. They sure didn’t.

Best Tracks: “Whole Lotta Losin’”; “Temazcal”; “The Sandman, the Brakeman, and Me”

HO HO WHO: Sad-sack U.K. indie-folk outfit Slow Club's EP of Christmas songs contains three originals—with titles like "It's Christmas and You're Boring"—and three covers, including two Darlene Love songs, "All Alone at Christmas" and the classic "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)," as well as "Silent Night." It's basically a miniature dissertation on how to do yuletide misery right, and how to do it very, very wrong.

THE MULLED CIDER: Kermit the Frog could sing "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)" in Finnish backed by a recorder ensemble drunk on peppermint schnapps, and it'd still be the best holiday torch song ever (even though one of the song's writers, Phil Spector, will likely spend his remaining Christmases behind bars). Slow Club can't match Darlene Love's original, but honestly, who could? Here, singer Rebecca Taylor wails like her holiday bonus depends on it, while her bandmate, Charles Watson, does his best to re-create Spector's Wall of Sound—meaning, more reverb than a Jesus and Mary Chain album.

THE STORE-BRAND EGG NOG: The entire EP is Christmas in the most dejected key imaginable—which isn't necessarily a bad thing—but no song grates as much as the title track. It's a sweet-sounding pop waltz in the American Bandstand vein, which eventually opens into a loud, rollicking, gang-vocal coda (not unlike Arcade Fire's "Wake Up")—but the entire affair is sunk by Watson's Conor Oberst-esque whine. "Christmas, thanks for nothing," he moans in a voice that could belong to a wet goat. "You made a doubter out of me."

CHEER FACTOR: 6/10, in a hurts-so-good kinda way.

LISTEN:

Monsters of Folk might seem like an inappropriate moniker for indie darlings Jim James, M. Ward, Conor Oberst, and Oberst collaborator Mike Mogis.

The supergroup kicks off its self-titled debut with a number that might fit more comfortably in the genre of Christian R&B pop: “Sometimes it’s so hard to believe in/But God, I know you have your reasons,” sing James, Ward, and Oberst on “Dear God (sincerely M.O.F.)”

But childlike faith gives way to adolescent rebellion on “Baby Boomer,” teachable strife on “Man Named Truth,” and finally cheerful optimism on “The Sandman, the Brakeman, and Me.”

Throughout, Ward’s steady whisper more or less splits the difference between Oberst’s quavering warble and James’s empyreal crooning—a good blend for three guys with such distinct voices.

The music separates more easily: M. Ward’s fetish for old-timey surf pop rises to the surface on “Whole Lotta Losin’,” while Oberst’s existential, image-dense writing is put front and center on “Temazcal” and “Map of the World,” and James puts on a mellow buzz with “Goodway” and “Magic Marker.”

Lyrically, the album is about becoming OK with the world and yourself. “No split hair’s gonna get me down,” pledges Oberst. “Make way, for whatever will be will be,” advises Ward. “There’s something sweet waiting in the center/Taste and see,” says James, as the others respond in perfect harmony, picking easily at their guitars as Mogis (whose role is mainly track-mixing and strategic Dobro deployment ) pats a benevolent backbeat. The band illustrates this journey toward acceptance in Crayola, and helpfully offers that the trip requires little more than a few joints and a full tank of gas.

Pomona professor Kevin D.H. Dettmar has an essay in this week’s Chronicle Review, titled “The Discreet Charm of the Bad Voice,” where he argues that listeners find atonal singing uniquely empathetic because it is easy to imitate. Dettmar’s examples are sometimes dubious—Neil Young, John Mayer, and Thom Yorke aren’t exactly the three tenors, but I would hesitate to call their voices bad by any pop standard—and he devotes a lot of space to name-dropping that might have been better used exploring the sociological underpinnings of the bad-voice appeal. But his basic thesis is worth considering: Are we drawn to certain “bad” singers because their badness makes their music more accessible? To put it in Tocquevillian terms: Is the popularity of imprecise singers like Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash, and Tom Waits due to the equality of conditions in America, and the democratic tastes it engenders?

It’s an intriguing question, but I think it ultimately misses the point. The difference between Dylan, Cash, Waits, et al. and Joe Karaoke is that those three write extraordinary songs. That is their primary appeal. A shitty song can be popular if a great-sounding vocalist sings it, and a great song can be popular if a shitty-sounding vocalist sings it, but a shitty song by a shitty singer has won’t draw democrats or anyone else. The gap between the musician and the listener must still exist. In the Kurt Vonnegut story “Harrison Bergeron,” set in a dystopia where absolute equality reigns, the characters react with a justified lack of enthusiasm to a ballet performance featuring dancers that are no more or less talented than anyone else who might care to don a leotard. Surely a bad voice alone does not capture the democratic ear; it is merely an ornament of an otherwise moving melody, composition, or narrative. A more honest vehicle for a more honest song. Style following substance.

And so we have David Dondero, the latest of Team Love’s unconventional crooners (Conor Oberst’s label collects them). Dondero’s promo page at Jammin’ Java, where he performs tonight, calls him “this generation’s Townes Van Zandt,” which is almost certainly a stretch—I’d sooner call him “this generation’s other Conor Oberst,” if slightly more troubadour-ish. But NPR calls him the tenth best living songwriter, which is less of a stretch. Incidentally, his songs are very hard to sing along to. (What say you, Dettmar?)

DAVID DONDERO, TONIGHT @ JAMMIN’ JAVA, 8 P.M. $10

The critical buzz around Wilco’s latest, self-titled album has centered on the notion of identity. Some have heralded Wilco (the album) as a reclamation of the insouciance of the band’s early albums, while others—particularly City Paper’s own Aaron Leitko—have described it as a tour of the band’s sonic arc over the last decade. But aside the reflexivism of its latest studio release, Wilco at Wolf Trap on Wednesday reiterated what might be the band’s most enduring legacy: its ability to put on one hell of a live show.

Conor Oberst and his new entourage, the Mystic Valley Band, opened to a disappointingly sparse early-evening crowd. Perhaps the Wilco faithful hadn’t gotten the memo on Bright Eyes’s recent identity-tweaking, which has resulted in two wonderful forays into Americana, including a self-titled album of his own. Oberst hasn’t quite mastered the down-home look—he wore skinny jeans rolled to the shins above clunky loafers, along with boxy, unnecessary shades—but his lyrics were rife with roots symbology (religion, boardwalk romances, The Road, etc.), and the warmth of Mystic Valley’s jouncing chord progressions proved an unexpectedly nice vehicle for Oberst’s hoarse, often aharmonic voice. Barnburners such as “NYC–Gone, Gone,” “Moab,” and “I Don’t Wanna Die (in the Hospital)”—which seemed more suited to a sweaty juke joint—were lost on the thin, seated, pre-Wilco audience. Shame.

After entering to the theme from "The Price is Right," Wilco opened with “Wilco (the song),” the opening/title track from the new record. Whether the album is a mission statement or a cliff notes on the band’s evolution, the song exemplifies the band’s introspective turn. The lyrics play like an infomercial: “Do you dabble in depression? / Is someone twisting a knife in your back? /Are you being attacked? / Oh, this is a fact / that you need to know /… Wilco’ll love you, baby.”

There was a lot of love in the building. A group of fans near the stage at one point stood on their seats to reveal lettered tee shirts reading “Wilco (the fans),” prompting frontman Jeff Tweedy to observe, “this parenthetical thing has really gotten out of control.” [Indeed: The venue’s souvenir kiosk featured a host of meta-merchandise, including “Wilco (the tote bag).”] The notoriously prickly Tweedy, his babyface framed by a mess of a graying, scarecrow-like hair, was in jovial spirits as well: He indulged hardcore fans with “the most requested song in the history of our Web site”—a tune called “How to Fight Loneliness,” from 1999’s Summerteeth. To the subsequent applause, Tweedy quipped: “That sounds like 36 people…” He even let The Luckiest Fan in the World—some dude wearing a blue polo in the front row—strum his solo on “Spiders (Kidsmoke)” while he knelt at the edge of the stage and worked the frets.

Guitar solos, particularly those perpetrated by freakout artist Nels Cline, were the order of the night. The set list primarily featured those songs from the Wilco oeuvre that melt from easy-riding singalongs into lengthy, facemelting noise tantrums—notably Sky Blue Sky’s “Impossible Germany,” in which Cline collapsed about like a string-joint doll while Tweedy and multi-instrumentalist Pat Sansone harmonized on the Allman Brothers-esque backing arpeggios, and A Ghost is Born’s “Handshake Drugs,” in which Cline, Tweedy, and Sansone collaborated on a dissonant shredding sesh while John Stirratt, drummer Glenn Kotche, and synther Mikael Jorgensen held together the basis groove.

These moments of still-catchy chaos were often punctuated by dramatic use of the stage lights, which would backlight the band as silhouettes against a single row of moonlike bulbs, smoldering like a landing spacecraft or a convoy of semi trucks. In one memorable instance, the lights went blinding white, illuminating Wilco in a gods-of-rock tableau centered by Kotche poised atop his drums, head thrown back, arms akimbo. Kotche then threw himself back down into his throne with a cymbal crash and launched the band into a rollicking rendition of “I’m The Man Who Loves You.” Ah, yes: love.

“The last time we played here was nine years ago,” Tweedy said at one point. “We were opening for Natalie Merchant.” Wilco’s stage charisma does well to mask the fact that the band is old enough to step back from itself far enough to make an “identity” album. But while the group’s discography is complex and variegated enough to stimulate bookish theses in critical circles, the experience of seeing Wilco perform live is a purely visceral one.

[To read Leitko’s insightful album review, click here. To see more of Brandon Wu’s photos from the show, click here. For post-show chatter on the Wilco forum Via Chicago, click here. For a sampling Wednesday's easy-grooving/face-meltification, see the embed below (more videos from the concert here).]

Steve Kolowich has a full review of Wilco's sold-out show at Wolf Trap last night coming tomorrow; here are some photos to tide you over while you wait. (There's probably some unwritten rule against starting a post about Wilco with anyone but Jeff Tweedy, but so be it—above, guitarist Nels Cline.) Also, my one thought from the show: I realized that Wilco can play as many songs I hate from Sky Blue Sky as they want; if "Spiders (Kidsmoke)" is part of the encore as it was last night, I'll leave happy.

More after the jump and at the full photoset.

Conor Oberst opened:

Here's the full photoset.

The full-on rock spectacle that is Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley Band was on display last night at the 9:30 Club. For me, the transition from quirky Americana to Oberst's special brand of theatrical rock was "Road to Joy's" proclamation "Let's fuck it up boys...make some noise!" from 2004's I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning.

Subsequent releases like the Four Winds EP, Cassadaga, and the centerpiece from the 9:30 show, Conor Oberst, have pushed his sound into Wilco territory (exemplified by last night's rollicking version of Oberst's "NYC-Gone, Gone") while still hewing to his Mobius-strip lyrical style. Watching the show, it's clear the rock attitude has become personified in his live playing, upper torso all Mike Ness, and his legs moving like Tattoo You-era Mick Jagger.

When he and bandmate Macey Taylor pulled up the stools for a quiet acoustic duet on "Milk Thistle," I flashed on what Conor may have become had he hailed from '80s New Jersey instead of Omaha. And taking another cue from the '80s, with the eye-covering fedora and highly cuffed jeans, Conor was missing only the silver glove to complete the Thriller era MJ look.

No comment on Conor Oberst would be complete without a Bob Dylan reference. While the musical and lyrical comparisons at this point are so stupidly obvious, the Bob in Conor came out at the end of the show as he commented on president elect Barack Obama's historic election: "Let's hope he comes through for us."

Not very declarative, cynical almost. Sound like anyone?