I used to be only a casual listener of Gillian Welch, but the last two years or so have slowly turned me into a big fan. (Seeing her in concert a few weeks ago cemented it.) I bought her very good first album, Revival, when it came out after hearing “Paper Wings” on some free compilation CD that came with a magazine. 1998′s Hell among the Yearlings was merely okay, but it took the brilliant Time (The Revelator) — including the mesmerizing, hope-it-never-ends “I Dream A Highway” — to get me back on track. (Her appearances on the O Brother, Where Art Thou? soundtrack also helped, since it was played practically nonstop back at the house for a long time.)

This particular track is sourced from a 2004 London concert whose bootleg torrent is here (sorry, you may need to log in to see the setlist). I’ve taken the liberty of converting this one track into a lossy mp3; if you want the whole thing, complete with Dylan / Parsons / The Band covers, and a few tracks with Old Crow Medicine Show, you should probably download the torrent yourself.

Other than her own stuff (the guitar/banjo duets with David Rawlings alone are well worth the download), the jewel here is a gorgeous and utterly heartbreaking cover of Radiohead’s “Black Star,” which I’ve been playing over and over the last two days. (There’s a lovely version on Christopher O’Riley’s True Love Waits as well, but not like this.) It’s something of a nod, you cynics might think, to the indie kids in the audience, but I think Welch has always been beloved by the black-rimmed glasses crowd anyhow. I hope a studio version appears soon.

In any case, she owns this song now.

And because Thom Yorke’s lyrics are brilliant as well, here they are:

I get home from work and you’re still standing in your dressing gown
Well what am I to do?
I know all the things around your head and what they do to you
What are we coming to?
What are we gonna do?

Blame it on the black star
Blame it on the falling sky
Blame it on the satellite that beams me home

The troubled words of a troubled mind I try to understand what is eating you
I try to stay awake but it’s 58 hours since I last slept with you
What are we coming to?
I just don’t know anymore

Blame it on the black star
Blame it on the falling sky
Blame it on the satellite that beams me home

I get on the train and I just stand about now that I don’t think of you
I keep falling over I keep passing out when I see a face like you
What am I coming to?
I’m gonna melt down

Blame it on the black star
Blame it on the falling sky
Blame it on the satellite that beams me home

Hear it (9.2 mb).

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(Stinker Of The Year, of course, does not mean it’s the worst album of the year. I’m sure Clay What’s-His-Face or Limp Bizkit or Blink 5150 released something head-shakingly bad, but why bother? I’m a total music snob; they’re beneath me.)

I was originally going to award the most disappointing album of the year award to Liz Phair’s self-titled record. Almost all of the Matrix-produced tracks, particularly “Rock Me,” are indeed horrible beyond belief. With her voice all processed beyond recognition, and the lyrics (“Baby, baby, baby, if it’s alright / Want you to rock me all night” goes one chorus) truly insipid, Liz Phair is quite bad, certainly according to her previous standards. But at least some of the tunes are… well, fairly catchy, even if you don’t like Avril Lavigne.

No, the most disappointing album of the year goes to Radiohead’s Hail To The Thief. It’s a morose, humorless slog through boredom and dread and and paranoia, with moans and mumbles of consumerist conflagration and military apocalypse. One gathers that this is all meant to be important, but not with the same epic sweep as OK Computer, or the sonic novelty of Kid A. This is dull, affectless playing and singing, and while I’m sure Radiohead may have meant it that way, I’m not sure that the album was supposed to sound so passionless, with the songs practically devoid of melody. (Check out Christopher O’Riley’s very good True Love Waits for abundant evidence of the latter.)

I’ve always liked Radiohead — from the indie-rawk Pablo Honey all the way to the odds-and-ends-y Amnesiac — but Hail To The Thief is a step backwards in their otherwise impressive musical evolution and reinvention. Signs and portents abound, but here the world ends with Thom Yorke’s whimper.

[Up next, maybe next week: the best albums I heard all year.]

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