Pop Culture Favorites from Ten Years of Lists

When I realized I'd been making these lists for ten years, I thought it would be an intriguing exercise to look back through all of them and see what held up the best. Using the same parameters I set in 2011, I've compiled a list of my favorite pieces of pop culture across all of my lists since then. I copied what I wrote in the given year, where it was ranked and accompanied any additional thoughts alongside. Hopefully the old writing isn't too cringey. Some of these entries I haven't even seen since they came out. I've come to realize that in this current age of more content than we could watch in multiple lifetimes, there's more that's expendable than memorable. To be memorable and stand the test of time is as great a success as any award could bring.

The Pretty Damn Goods of 2011-2020

Django Unchained

(#3 in 2012)

What I wrote then: Trying to predict what a Quentin Tarantino movie is going to be like is a futile effort. I thought about all sorts of scenes in "Django Unchained" in the many months leading up to its release and almost none of them were met. It's a very dialogue-driven movie and although the action is seldom, when it happens it'll knock your respective genitalia in the dirt.  

Watching that movie on opening night in a theater filled to capacity is a once-in-a-lifetime experience that I will never forget. No one saw anything coming, and every single second of the 160-minute-plus epic was crucial and brilliant. The fact that people from all different walks of life can sit a movie with such a controversial premise and collectively enjoy it was such a wonderful breath of fresh air.

Jamie Foxx plays Django with great restraint. Christoph Waltz has the time of his life as Dr. King Schulz, and everyone watching fell in love with him. Samuel L. Jackson had everyone in tears as the house slave Stephen. Leonardo DiCaprio is such a spot-on homicidal creep as Calvin Candie. When the sun goes down and he emerges in his dinner attire looking like the fucking devil, you know you're in for a wild night. In spite of what you think the tone would be for a premise like "Django Unchained," it was my favorite and most joyous cinematic experience in 2012.

Present thoughts: Though Django overstays its welcome in the homestretch, I think it might be the best all of its stars have ever been. Samuel L. disappears into Stephen. Leo is so damn good as the heavy, you hate that he'd never done it before, and didn't again until the show-within-the-movie in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. The dinner scene (with the exclusion of the goofy Ben monologue) is one of the best things Tarantino ever conceived. There was a stretch of 2013-2014 where I lost count of how many times I'd seen this movie once my iTunes counter hit triple digits. It may not be Mount Rushmore Tarantino, but it's better than a lot of what everyone else did in the last ten years.

Bo Burnham - what.

(#4 in 2013)

What I wrote then: There is no stand-up special like this. It's probably the bravest comedy special I've ever seen. It's not even thoroughly funny. There are laughs to be had, for sure, and there are plenty of the usual piano songs that Bo's fans are accustomed to, but what is most surprising about "what." is that, for one hour, this 22-year-old guy lays his soul bare to the world. He relentlessly mixes one-liner jokes, songs, dance and poetry that will have you guffawing one minute and slack-jawed with shock the next. He inserts a proverbial chest-spreader into his own body and essentially says, "Here are the depths of me, and I'm here to share them with you. I hope you enjoy the show." His words are hilarious, shocking, profane, heartbreaking, inspiring and endearing.

what. is selfishly gratifying on a personal level, as is the case with other Bo fans out there, I'm sure. I'll never forget seven years ago when a friend of mine told me I had to "check out this kid on Break.com." We sat on a couch and watched this hilarious 16-year-old kid sing songs about Ku Klux Klan cookouts, how his whole family thinks he's gay and that Helen Keller is the perfect woman for him. But what., is next-level comedy. It's all over the place. It's simultaneously juvenile and mature. No one is doing comedy like this. It's the most creative hour to come along in years. Bo Burnham is a creative force to be reckoned with, and I'm confident he'll be entertaining us in many forms for many years to come.

Present thoughts: I haven't watched what. in a few years, but like most of what I've included here, I think about it all the time. The "we think we know you" ending is the best closing bit I've seen in a comedy special. I just love me some Bo.

Season Two of Fargo

(#3 in 2015)

What I wrote then: It's almost impossible for me to come up with the words, let alone arrange them in sentences, to describe the achievement that is the second season of Fargo. Last year, I was completely blown away that Noah Hawley and company created one season of a show that honored an American film classic by being the most compelling show on television. I'll be damned if they didn't go on and make a better one.

Season two continues with the characteristics of season one, as well as the movie: white-knuckle tension, eye-widening gore and numerous moments of genius subtle hilarity. Straight up, this season is legitimately the most flawlessly cast show I've ever seen. There isn't one false note from any player, lead or supporting. Jesse Plemons continues his amazing post-Friday Night Lights career. Kirsten Dunst has never been better. Patrick Wilson is incredible. Nick Offerman steals every moment of screen time. Jeffrey Donovan makes an amazing turn as the overreaching, dim-witted Midwestern psycho. There are so many standouts in this amazing lineup, but the one that steals the whole thing is Bokeem Woodbine. Every moment that Mike Milligan is on screen, there's something about him that is so indescribably fascinating. I think it's the bolo tie.

The general nationwide aftereffect of Vietnam is present in this season in ways I don’t think we’ve seen portrayed. Of course there have been numerous movies and shows about veterans coming home and the like, but by and large, those projects are only about that. The war has no prominent role in season two of Fargo, but the attitudes of nearly every single individual in the show are shaped by the turmoil the United States was in and the personal tolls it took on those directly in it or by association. In a tertiary way, season two is a commentary on small town USA trying to get back on track or control after too many years of unrest. That generation was exceptional because many of those individuals saw unspeakable evil in Vietnam. It reminds one of war in general; we think by going elsewhere to fight evil that we will win, when in fact, the evil and brutality that we perpetrate on one another is worse. That generation and the present are children of war.

The marvel of season two of Fargo is, even though it's set in 1979, how much it has to say about the present. Watching this season of Fargo and seeing American headlines every day has made for a fascinating look into the history of the American mind. Again, I find myself coming back to No Country for Old Men. Sheriff Ed Tom Bell is having trouble existing and fighting against what he sees as an unstoppable force of evil, not only in his small part of Texas, but the world itself. The idea of what used to be, how good things once were, and how terrible things have become has made a good man throw in the towel. Watching the second season of Fargo, reckoning with what it had to say about us, and existing as an American in 2015, made me come to a realization. It's one that many people already have, and it's that not being able to comprehend the violence of the present will always exist. The Sheriff Bells have always stood back with their hands on their hips and shook their heads, lamenting of a era long gone, one of innocence. Like some characters of the Coens’ universe, we frequently fool ourselves into believing something that never really existed. The evil of today, the evil of “Sioux Falls, 1979,” and evil itself has been around so long as man has drawn breath. We just like to think that, once upon a time, it wasn’t that way.

Present thoughts: Fargo's second season has held up mightily as one of the best pieces of storytelling and societal commentary in a medium that has become massively crowded in subsequent years. The writing, design, filmmaking and performances are all top-tier. Again, it's the best that many of the actors (Dunst, Donovan, Wilson and Woodbine, to name a few) have ever been. "It's just a flyin' saucer, Ed. We gotta go."

Season Six of Game of Thrones

(#1 in 2016)

What I wrote then: It just couldn't have been anything else.

Like any other season of Thrones, it had its share of slogs, but unlike the rest, the peaks in season six are too many to count. From the resurrection, to "Hold the door," to "The Winds of Winter," this was unquestionably the series' best season. At season's end, we are poised to perhaps witness the greatest homestretch in modern drama. Has there ever been anything more exhilarating in the history of the medium than the Battle of the Bastards? How amazing is it that Tyrion is going to essentially be the consigliere to the Khaleesi? And how terrible a place to live is King's (Queen's?) Landing going to be under Cersei?

The sixth season of Thrones is the answer to the question many may find themselves asking before diving into any long piece of pop culture: is it worth it? Millions of show-watchers, not to mention all the book-readers, have struggled with that question throughout the consumption of this soul-obliterating show. Fully aware that there are two seasons of stories left to wrap up yet, the answer to the question of “Is Game of Thrones worth it?” to this point is a resounding “You bet your ass.” All of the suffering, while by no means letting up, at least for a little while, has paid off. Finally, after six seasons of talking a big game and teasing its imminent arrival, Winter is here.

Present thoughts: Like most everyone who watched, I've spent the last three years trying to forget Thrones was a thing. The end of that show hurt badly. But it's disingenuous to make a best-of list that doesn't include it. Whether it was "hold the door" or the Battle of the Bastards or the quiet moments in between, season six made you believe that the show didn't need George R.R. Martin to reach a satisfying conclusion. Wrong as that would ultimately prove, six in many ways was peak Thrones. If and when I ever go back for a series rewatch, I may well end it as I often wish it had, as Khaleesi and Tyrion sail toward destiny.

Escape at Dannemora

(#4 in 2018)

What I wrote then: When I first saw the poster for Escape at Dannemora last fall with the names Patricia Arquette, Benicio Del Toro and Paul Dano headlining the top and “directed by Ben Stiller” below the title, my brain ceased its ability process information. I could not compute that three of the best actors in the business were starring in a show about the New York prison break and that Derek Zoolander was going to helm the entire thing. It was one of the most anticipated TV events of the year, and it delivered in ways that I could never have expected.

Ben Stiller basically directed a character piece that stands alongside the great gritty crime dramas of the 1970s. He immerses you in the everyday, the minutiae of a handful of blue collar lives in northern New York. He gives you a sense of what life is like for residents of the area, for people who go to work and interact and coexist with killers. Patricia Arquette’s disappearance into Joyce Mitchell is a wonder to behold, one that we’ll continue to look back on as one of the great screen performances of all time. In her trip around the awards circuit this year, Arquette continually says she had her mind blown by Benicio Del Toro’s acting choices. One in particular is as wild as I’ve ever seen. You expect Del Toro to be great in everything, but there are layers to his greatness, and this show unearthed one such layer that we’d never seen. Swole Paul Dano is frankly outclassed, but he has plenty of moments to shine, such as being the main workhorse of the escape itself. The shock of the show is how incredible Eric Lange is as Joyce’s husband Lyle. He’s so convincing in the performance that I questioned if this person actually had a legitimate handicap, only to find out he’s “that guy” you’ve seen in tons of things, specifically as a Dharma douche in Lost.

Though the prison break is the show’s raison d’etre, it occurred to me in the days after I completed the series that, as terrible as some of her actions and decisions are, the show is as much about Joyce’s personal escape as Matt and Sweat’s physical escape. It’s a taxing journey that doesn’t end well for anyone involved, but it’s a thoroughly satisfying one for the viewer.

Present thoughts: To be honest, I haven't gone back and watched Escape at Dannemora again, so it may well not hold up. But I think about it all the time. Benicio's line reading of "Don't tell anybody" is the wildest acting choice of all time. I think about Ben Stiller's distinct directing style and some of the choices and shots he made. This prison break story may be one that's disappeared in time, but this account is one of the best the medium ever had.

Favorites of 2011-2020

10. "Teddy Perkins"

Episode Six of Season Two of Atlanta

(#1 in 2018)

What I wrote then: For the sake of spoilers, this may be the shortest number one blurb I've done. But this episode felt straightaway like one of the best television episodes of all time. I immediately watched it again. I went to sleep and watched it again the next morning. It's sensational. It's unlike any episode of Atlanta that came before it, and unlike anything I've ever seen. Before Atlanta ever aired, the word was that the show was going to be "Twin Peaks with rappers." We certainly get scattered moments of that in season one, but season two is full-on Lynch Land, part dream and part nightmare. "Teddy Perkins" falls squarely in the latter.

Present thoughts: I read somewhere that if this had been an episode of The Twilight Zone, it would still be an all-timer. Even though Atlanta frequently dwells in the land of the surreal, "Teddy Perkins" is unexpected in the best way. It's an astounding piece of television, and a hall of fame performance by Donald Glover. I still can't believe that's him beneath that deeply unsettling face. Having rewatched the series recently in anticipation for season three, there are more duds in Atlanta than I recall. But "Teddy Perkins" is a singular experience that's as memorable as anything in the last ten years.

9. Mad Max: Fury Road

(#2 in 2015)

What I wrote then: Within seconds of the start of Mad Max: Fury Road, it's already the best of the series. Why? Because it quickly establishes the one thing that was missing from all the other Max movies: he's actually crazy! Finally, Mad Max is finally more than just a clever alliterative name of a brooding wasteland warrior. Who knows why it took the fourth outing for George Miller and company to make Max into a grunting, frantic madman, but it’s the personality the iconic character deserves, and the series as a whole is better because of it.

Fury Road is a feat of apocalyptic fancy and creativity. Dust and rust and hell on Earth never looked so gorgeous. The details of everything from the costumes and the vehicles to the sounds and the stunts are so unfathomably precise and subtle. That anyone could conceive of stunts of such groundbreaking magnitude is a feat unto itself, let alone carrying them out to perfection is one for all time. It is truly one of the most impressive feats of production in the history of action cinema.

The real star of Fury Road most certainly isn’t the titular hero — it’s the Road itself. Fury Road is the most breakneck movie I have ever witnessed, and is the all-time example of a reason to still go to the movies.

Present thoughts: I think my attitude toward Fury Road is best summed up by words Steven Soderbergh shared with The Hollywood Reporter two years after its release: "I don't understand two things: I don't understand how they're not still shooting that film and I don't understand how hundreds of people aren't dead." It isn't any less astounding seven years later. It's throwing 100mph heaters from start to finish. There's nothing else like it.

8. ZeroZeroZero

(#1 in 2020)

What I wrote then: Shouts to Chris Ryan and Andy Greenwald of The Watch podcast for directing me last spring to the show of the year. Have you ever watched something and in the middle of it you ask yourself, “How the hell did they make this?” ZeroZeroZero is a (limited?) series that focuses on characters in three different parts of the world as a massive shipment of cocaine makes its way from Mexico onto a ship that then makes its way across the ocean to Africa, with its ultimate desired destination being in the hands of a crime syndicate in Italy. The scale and scope of this show is astounding beyond words. It’s part Lawrence of Arabia and part Scarface. It's part Traffic and part Indiana Jones. It's part Black Hawk Down and part The Godfather. It's just one of the greatest achievements I've ever seen in my life, if I may wax hyperbolic yet again. There are compositions in this show that are seared into my brain. There are performances that will haunt me forever. Hauntings are often associated with trauma and pain, but these are hauntings of awe, and ones of which I will be forever grateful. Strap in if you dare.

Present thoughts: Maybe there's recency bias here, and I haven't rewatched it, but the experience of watching this show is something I think about all the time. Basically this is cosigning what I originally wrote. Hell of a show.

7. "Always"

Series Finale of Friday Night Lights

(#1 in 2011)

What I wrote then: My decision to place this at number one on my list is really just to elaborate for the last time just how wonderful "Friday Night Lights" was to someone like me. My dad got me into this show in the fall of 2007. He mentioned how good it was and I said something to the extent of, "I don't give a shit about a show based off of that Billy Bob movie, football's stupid, old man, rabble rabble rabble." My dad, almost pleading with me, responded, "Will, they don't even spend ten minutes an episode on the field." My dad is one of those men who enjoys so few things on TV that if he really likes something, it's most likely fucking phenomenal. I bought the cheaply priced first season and, with constant college homework, finished it in about ten days. After also finishing a couple slices of humble pie with a side of crow, I was hooked on this tale of growing up and shaping lives in Dillon, Texas.

I could discuss at length the specifics that made this show so special to me, not to mention the thousands of other die hard fans who lobbied to keep this small show on the air for five years. Instead, I'll just take the one quotation from this show that accurately sums up the series and sticks with me more than any film, television show or from any human being, for that matter.

Early in the fifth season, East Dillon quarterback Vince Howard is acting a horse's ass to everyone because he's upset his convict, mooching, asshole don't-give-a-shit father just got out of jail and is forcing himself back in with him and his mother. Coach Eric Taylor catches on to the fishiness with his QB1 real quick and calls him in the office:

(If this doesn't work, I'm a stupid asshat and type "Friday Night Lights character" into YouTube.)

"That's what character is; it's in the trying." That's some deep shit, Coach.

That scene and the delivery of that line gave me goosebumps and damn near moved me to tears when I first watched that episode. That's really all any person ever needs to do and all anyone can ever ask of you: try. That's just one of the hundreds of lessons that can be learned from "Friday Night Lights." It truly is the type of series that, as a parent, you could chuck at your 13-year-old and be like, "This will tell you what you need to know from here on out." However, I don't recommend you do just that.

"Friday Night Lights" was a show that seemed so authentic in its storytelling of small town life, frequently to the point where it seems more real than any "reality" show on television today. Like "Midnight in Paris," it emphasizes the importance of the friends and family in a non-cheesy, non-"Full House" kind of way. Its characters go through tons of trouble and strife while struggling for a way to rise out of it in a noble manner.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go back to planning my full back tattoo of Coach Eric Taylor.

Present thoughts: This remains the best series finale I’ve ever seen. You feel the weight of the passing of time in your own life, not to mention those of all the show’s characters. Each character gets their own ending. Not all of them are happy, but they are earned. I hope Friday Night Lights continues to find newer generations of audiences. It remains one of the best series we’ve had. Who would’ve thought ten years later that Landry would be the one tearing it up in the world of film? Take a bow, Lance.

6. Nebraska

(#2 in 2013)

What I wrote then: An elderly man trudges down down the median of a snowy interstate. A policeman pulls over and is politely concerned. He approaches the elderly man.

“Hey, how ya doin’ there? Where ya headed?”

The old man grunts, points ahead and continues trudging.

“Where ya comin’ from?"

The old man grunts, points behind him and continues trudging.

So begins our glimpse into the odyssey of Woody Grant.

Woody (Bruce Dern) is a brooding, hard-headed, quiet and likely senile elderly man living in Billings, Montana. He is convinced that a generic sweepstakes letter he received is a notification that he has won a million dollars. He must go to Lincoln, Nebraska in order to collect his “winnings.” The only problem is that. Woody has no vehicle and no license. His immediate family, which are his wife and two grown sons, all see right through the scam. Woody’s wife Kate (June Squibb) incessantly and bluntly berates him for being a fool. His eldest son, bitter local news anchor Ross (Bob Odenkirk) snarkily tells him it’s a ploy, and his good-hearted son David (Will Forte) tries his hardest to convince his dad that it’s a trick, but Woody won’t hear it. Woody is dead-set on getting to Nebraska if it’s the last thing he does. Finally, David relents and decides to drive him to Nebraska himself.

On the way, Woody is sidelined by a drunken head injury. Against David's initial hopes of going back home, David relents to Woody's insistence and informs him that Woody's relatives in his small hometown of Hawthorne, Nebraska have agreed to put them up for a few days. Neither of them have seen that side of the family in thirty years. Naturally, within the first day of being in Hawthorne, Woody lets it slip at one of the local taverns that he has won a million dollars. Word spreads overnight, and the vultures come out. From there, “Nebraska” turns into a showcase of human behavior that is so chillingly accurate and chest-clutchingly hilarious that it must surely somehow resonate with every viewer.

Watching David watch his father walk among the people and places where he grew up is a profound cinematic experience. He spends the entire movie learning more about his father than he ever knew all while trying to understand everything that he doesn't. The performances are flawless across the board. June Squibb turns some of the meanest dialogue I’ve ever heard in American cinema into the funniest performance of the year. Bob Nelson's screenplay, his first, is unequaled in all of movies. Alexander Payne and Phedon Papamichael make for the best director/cinematographer combo of 2013. The music is stirring and fits the locations perfectly. All of this plays out in glorious black and white.

Never in my life have I been so moved by a film as I was by "Nebraska." I cannot emphasize that enough. I want everyone in the world to watch this movie. It takes some serious cojones to film a studio movie in black and white in 2013, let alone begin it with the over-60-year-old Paramount logo. It's a brazen move, but profoundly appropriate. There is no discernible time period in the movie, because "Nebraska" is, and will forever remain, timeless.

Present thoughts: I'm pretty confident saying Nebraska is my favorite movie of the last decade. The end stirs my soul unlike anything I've ever seen. My eyes are welling up thinking about it right now. Hug your parents.

5. Kanye West - Yeezus

(#3 in 2013)

What I wrote then: I stopped trying to understand Kanye West a long time ago. Nothing about him or what he does makes any sense. When I saw his performance of "Black Skinhead" on SNL, I immediately thought it was the best set I'd ever seen on the variety show. It was a loud, angry, dark, abrasive, industrial, unintelligible, dick-swinging, contradicting performance with a strobe-light-esque slideshow on a screen behind him that showcased the world how he's "not for sale." How exactly do you make your living, Kanye, other than making content that people pay you for? I don't get it and, like I said, I don't care to get it; all that matters to me when it comes to the subject of Kanye West is the music.

Yeezus starts out with the most abrasive opening maybe ever in "On Sight," and establishes the mood quite appropriately. It's initially unappealing and quite unpleasant, but as you sonically sift through all the scratchy bleep-blorps and laser noises, you find the beat. That's the case throughout the rest of the album. He makes beats out of noises that one would seemingly never think to use, and they work every single time. 

"I Am a God," the third track and my personal favorite on the album, starts out like Nine Inch Nails but with a reggae singer, and then it moves into the meat of Kanye's narcissistic verse with an incessant bass thump. The effect of the song on the listener is a testament to the power of the song; he's rapping about how invincible he is and being the best, yet it empowers you. "I'm In It," easily the raunchiest song of his career, is another example of his baffling brilliance. He raps about all the nasty shit he's gonna do to this chick, yet the chorus of the song is sung by the ethereal voice of Bon Iver's Justin Vernon. Who ever would have thought that the dude who sang "Skinny Love" would be a good fit on a rap song until Kanye West? I doubt anyone. 

However, Yeezus does contain the most blatant lyrical error I think I've ever heard: "I keep it 300, like the Romans." If you haven't heard "Black Skinhead" or don't get the reference, that line refers to the graphic novel and/or movie "300" about Leonidas and the brave 300, who were SPARTANS. How did this song get through without anyone correcting that? Despite that, the rest of the album more than makes up for the carelessness of that mistake.

Yeezus's power and influence reminds me of a scene a toward the end of a movie called "SLC Punk." It's a flashback scene that shows a pivotal moment in the early teenage lives of the main characters, Stevo and Bob, who grow up to be Salt Lake anarchists. Bob comes back to Stevo's basement where they'd been playing Dungeons & Dragons and talks about how they need to be doing more with their mundane lives. Bob comments that Rush, which is what's always been playing through the basement stereo, is good but that "it's not the only music out there, you know?" Against Stevo's wishes, Bob insists that he put a cassette into the stereo. The music begins and Stevo asks what it is. After a dramatic camera zoom into Bob's face as he turns back from the stereo with a smile on his face and confidently responds. "It's new."

Present thoughts: This remains the most sonically creative piece of music of the last dozen years. The last 90 seconds or so of “New Slaves” is my second favorite piece of music maybe ever. Until he hurts someone, which hopefully never happens, I will always be a fan of Kanye West.

4. "Crawl Space"

Episode Eleven of Season Four of Breaking Bad

(#3 in 2011)

What I wrote then: There is no question about it; "Breaking Bad" is the best show on television. If you're not familiar with the show by now, then surely you've heard the premise somewhere along the line: chemistry teacher Walter White gets cancer. He decides to cook meth to leave his family some scratch after he croaks. With the help of ex-student Jesse Pinkman, he perfects the greatest recipe for meth anyone has ever seen or smoked, all while trying to stay one step ahead of his DEA brother-in-law. In season two, his cancer goes into remission. Realizing he has instead come down with a serious case of holy-shit-what-the-fuck-do-I-do-now's, Walt is forced to make the decision of staying a meth-making felon or backing out and reaping his rewards of a huge one-time score. Since the show will begin its fifth season in the summer, you can probably guess where he ends up. But you'll never see a second of the show coming.

As much as I would love to delve into the all-around awesomeness that is "Crawl Space," I won't ruin the episode. Literally, physically and emotionally, Walt hits rock bottom. There have been only a handful of episodes of television that have left me reeling - the majority of those being Lost episodes - but none have filled me with such a range of emotions as the last ten minutes of "Crawl Space" did. Bryan Cranston delivers the best acting of just about anyone ever, and the ending is pitch perfect. My words can't do much more to emphasize this episode's greatness. It's the best non-finale episode of television in years. Straight up.

Present thoughts: Perhaps I am trolling a bit not to choose "Ozymandias" for a list like this, but you can make the argument that Walt's breakdown in the crawl space is the best and most harrowing acting anyone has ever done. Of all the Breaking Bad moments, this is the one where you still almost forget to breathe while watching it. "Ozymandias" is when Walt really lost everything, but "Crawl Space" is when he thought he'd lost everything. When you're living in the moment, they're one and the same. Cranston's still the GOAT.

3. Tame Impala - Currents

(#1 in 2015)

What I wrote then: I envy Kevin Parker. He is a sonic auteur. He is essentially the sole songwriter, producer and performer for all of Tame Impala's studio work. There is something so romantic about the idea of being barefoot, running from room to room in your home studio in a port city in Australia to play and mix each and every layer of music of which you are the sole composer. It is a feat of talent and ability unlike anything I can comprehend. It's clear from his method that what's most important to Kevin Parker is not just the music, but the album. The finished product that was engineered and molded into exactly what he wanted is all that matters.

If anyone who wasn’t familiar with the band queued up Tame Impala’s InnerSpeaker, Lonerism and Currents to play through chronologically, they’d be hard-pressed to mark the point where InnerSpeaker ends and Lonerism begins. They’re both fantastic albums of experimental production, but sonically, they sound pretty similar. When Currents begins, the feeling of freshness hits immediately, because Currents is absolutely clean.

If I've listened to "Let It Happen" once, I've listened to it 200 times. It's been over eight months since I bought Currents, and it's as fresh as it sounded on that day. It is flawlessly and intriguingly constructed. Three of the albums thirteen songs come in under two minutes, and two songs last over six minutes. No track tarries longer than it needs to, and the lengthy tracks never overindulge. Currents is one of the best albums of my lifetime and it is unquestionably an all-time personal top ten album.

In the same way millions hearken back to the days of Pink Floyd, Tame Impala is a time-defying oxymoron, a bridge of modern nostalgia that immediately sounds new but connects us back to the time of peak psychedelia. It genuinely seems like Currents is music the people Earth will be listening to as long as there are ears to soak in the waves.

Present thoughts: “Let It Happen” is my favorite song, full stop. Seven years on, I listen to it all the time. Currents feels as though your brain is being bathed in good vibes. It’s one of the great achievements in music production. I love you, Kevin Parker.

2. Twin Peaks: The Return

(#2 in 2017)

What I wrote then: I still have no idea what the hell I watched. It feels dumb just trying to formulate semi-coherent thoughts to express how incredible an experience it was to watch Twin Peaks: The Return this summer. Like much of David Lynch’s content, trying to decipher just what the hell is happening in front of you can be an infuriating task at best, but when you let go of the fact that it’s just short of impossible to do, it can be a treat unlike any art in the world. While I'm not an enormous fan of the original series, there was still plenty to admire about Twin Peaks, most of which lies exclusively with Kyle MacLachlan’s equally quirky and hilarious performance as Dale Cooper. This time MacLachlan gets triple duty, and he turned in the absolute best television work of last year.

At the risk of running away with repetitive nonsense, I just want to emphasize that Twin Peaks: The Return was so special because it is such a singular feeling to be lost in David Lynch’s world in 2017. It was a world that evoked every possible emotion one can have while watching a series unfold, from terror or shock, to warmth and bliss. It’s a pleasure to watch an ensemble of actors happily bring that world to life. It’s a world that we may never visit again. If so, The Return will stand as an extraordinary work when we look back on the history of television in the first part of this century. Hyperbolic as I tend to get, of this fact that I have no doubt. David Lynch, an artist who stands alone in modern history, but hasn’t had a prominent work since 2001, has not lost one ounce of his integrity, intensity or bizarre vision. As a matter of fact, like the red wine he so frequently consumes, they have only gotten sharper with age.

Present thoughts: I still think about the night I watched the last episode. It’s arguably the supreme artistic achievement of the last ten years in any medium. It's Lynch in the raw. There’s nothing else like it.

1. Shit Town

(#1 in 2017)

What I wrote then: It's remarkably difficult to convey in words, without being overly cloying or sentimental, just how great a piece of art Shit Town is and the profound effect it had on me. Shit Town is a podcast that begins as a murder mystery instigated by the peculiarities of an individual named John B. McLemore. John B. has lived in Woodstock, Alabama in the same house for his entire life, and he thinks something sinister is happening there. He contacts Brian Reed at This American Life in order to bring someone down to do a story about the corruption John B. senses in the eponymous "Shit Town, Alabama." Once Brian arrives in Woodstock, it becomes clear that John B. is a character with plenty to be studied about himself. There's just something about John and his geographically uncharacteristic intelligence that makes you sense there complicated layers beyond the incident he purports to have happened that's bothering him. As it plays out, Shit Town becomes something completely different and far more interesting, focusing largely on those mysteries that lie deep within John B. himself.

I've rarely been as affected by the account of someone's life than I was listening to that of John B. McLemore. We all have experiences with a shit town, whether it's the one you in which you live, the one from which you hail, or just the idea that epitomizes all that's wrong in the world. In Brian's words, "All the world was a shit town to John, and he bore every disgrace of that world in his heart." You can let your demons overwhelm you, you can fight them or you can learn to live with them. To quote a passage in one of John's favorite works, Brokeback Mountain, "If you can't fix it, you've got to stand it." Unfortunately for so many who would've liked to have known him, John B. McLemore just couldn't stand it.

Present thoughts: I listen to it once a year, this portrait of a complicated and lonely man with more burdens than he knew how to deal with. The podcast is an exercise in empathy, an ode to a gifted man who was just born in the wrong place.