But somehow, despite being reminiscent of indie darlings like Dirty Projectors, The Lemon Twigs have made an album that’s approachable despite its quirks. “I Wanna Prove to You” is one of my favourite songs of 2016; it’s an anthemic originality with an incredibly sing-along chorus. I took a road trip over Christmas, and there and back, my wife and I found ourselves hollering along with the chorus. (My brother-in-law and his girlfriend, understandably, thought we were slightly odd.)

Then there’s the majesty of “These Words” and the Beatles-esque simplicity of the piano-driven “How Lucky Am I?”. “Hi + Lo” has one of the most crowd-worthy choruses I’ve heard since Rah Rah’s “Art & a Wife”. The twenty-year-old version of me in college would have proudly proclaimed Do Hollywood as one of the best records of the post-Arcade Fire indie rock movement.

All that aside, what we’re left with here is a record that’s hard to make sense of. The duo puts music together in, shall we say, interesting ways. I’m often reminded of The Beatles while I listen to The Lemon Twigs — not because they sound similar, but because The Lemon Twigs have borrowed so much from the songwriting language of The Beatles without aping their actual sound.

As a result, The Lemon Twigs have a truly original record on their hands, and a unique sound that will serve them well for (hopefully) many albums to come. Miraculously, it just so happens that The Lemon Twigs have the ability to back up their inventiveness with great songwriting.

I couldn’t recommend Do Hollywood more if I wanted to. This is one of 2016’s hidden gems.

Photo by Brian W. Ferry.

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It’s an intriguing concept that mixes well with Shauf’s morore-sounding, baroque pop, indie folk stylings. It’s not far off from Father John Misty’s approach: a concept album about a loosely connected theme, but approached with an interest in its most mundane elements.

There’s a diversity of guests here that feels exactly appropriate for what Shauf is going for. On “Early to the Party,” a man arrives way earlier than necessary. At the end of “Twist Your Ankle,” he sings “Everybody’s laughing at me; I wish I just stayed home.” And the song brilliantly ends, quite literally, on that note.

“Alexander All Alone” is about a smoker who, on his last pack, suddenly keels over and dies. “Begin Again” is about being stuck with a friend who can’t stop bragging about how he’s cheating on his partner with the girl Shauf wants to be with — and Shauf pleads for the world to end rather than the conversation to continue.

Musically, it does end: the music reaches a climactic swell, as if the light has arrived to “dissolve [them] all,” as Shauf so desperately wants. It’s brilliantly well-realized, the musical stuff of indie pop dreams.

I share these songs specifically with you not because they’re exceptional examples from the album. Every song on The Party is worth hearing; it’s an exceptional record — one of the year’s best in its genre. But the songs I’ve described are great examples of the sheer amount of variety on display. Every song has as much of a personality as its characters do. For a songwriter self-releasing his first record on a “serious” label, that’s an accomplishment.

With The Party, Andy Shauf has matured and become one of Canada’s best singer-songwriters. It’s a treat of an album. I think you’re going to love it.

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As Willaume laces his voice, often in falsetto, over the tracks, it’s hard not be reminded of all sorts of British Baroque pop from eras gone by (like the adventurous Beatles songs, The Flamingos, Elliot Smith, or even Radiohead), but it’s clearly something Sage is interested in taking in his own direction. The tracks here aren’t predictable pop music made for the masses; they are made by somebody interested in “going for things he hasn’t yet mastered.”

The record is devoid of anthemic radio-friendly singles, but it has a consistent air of familiarity, almost as if you’ve heard it before, but you don’t know where. Part of it is because of Sage’s amalgamation of influences, for sure, but I wonder if it’s also a result of his sincerity. His earnest (but somewhat vague) lyrics, peppering emotion on every track, makes his music feel universal.

Sage also feels like a continuation of the sort of music that Willaume would have continued to make with Revolver: baroque pop influenced by chamber music in France. And it captures an undefinable quality, perhaps because of its French background, that sounds like magic on tape. There’s an air of lightness to the record.

On Eyes Closed, as Willaume approaches Radiohead territory, and his voice sprawls out over the track covered in reverb, it feels like he’s discovering something unearthly buried in the echoes. And when the album closes it out with the final notes of that track, it’s an honest surprise because it doesn’t overstay its welcome.

On his first record as Sage, Willaume is doing two things: he’s wearing his influences on his sleeve, and he’s refusing to write two songs that sound the same. In a lot of ways, it’s unfortunate that his music is destined to avoid the radio, because he has a winning formula on his hands. His tasteful mishmash of styles, combined with his French chamber music influences, makes Sage feel like a unique and earnest pop record completely devoid of label compromise. Sage offers a refreshing take on pop music with his debut, and it’s hard not to recommend it.

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Fans of Holter will find her a little more laid-back here, less rollicking and rock ’n’ rolling and more reflective. Her voice suits this perfectly.

The icing on the cake is the production, which is densely layered and full of subtle intricacies. On my fifth listen, I was noticing things I hadn’t heard before. Holter’s voice is distracting as anything, like a more authentic Enya, so sometimes it’s difficult to even notice the rest of the experience supporting her. But everything about this record is top notch.

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One of my favourite blogs, Henry’s Music Blog, calls Modern Vampires of the City “the best album I’ve heard all year”, and goes so far as to call it the second-best of the past decade. I don’t know if I’ve earned the right to say anything that wild, but this record is absurdly good. Who knows, maybe Henry’s right. Years from now, we could look back on Modern Vampires of the City as one of the decade’s best releases.

Check out the lead single, Diane Young (which is also a hysterical video). If that’s not enough to convince you to buy this record right now, give Step and Ya Hey a whirl. (And if you’ve never heard of them, check out their first two records, the self-titled Vampire Weekend and Contra.)

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