Nashville's Birdcloud was a mystery to me until this morning. Now I'm much more the wiser. Two twisted Southern girls wrap simple chords in deviant, somewhat hallucinatory lyrics. A cheap way to explain it would be Garfunkel and Oates meets Beck. A more complicated way would be pointless because what am I, a writer or something?

Here's a less-than-two-minute song you can hear for yourself. You're welcome.

Radiohead
Kid A
(Capitol)

I have a relationship to Radiohead that consists mainly of confusion and fear. I've heard of them, and I even went out and bought Pablo Honey when I was a teenager. I just didn't like it, and that was it. Then they became the Jesus of music and the world shitted itself every time they took another step, and it freaked me out. I never followed up—I used to avoid music that I thought I'd be embarrassed if I didn't understand. (I'm curing that impulse weekly now.)

When we started this column, I just assumed someone would eventually assign me Radiohead. Right?! But so far the contents have tended more toward old-school music learnin' and haven't caught up with the hip kids of the new millennium.

So I asked for it. Kid A was decreed, and I went home with determination (and some trepidation). It was a mostly silent sit-down couch listen; no running errands with headphones, no sorting laundry, no leaving the room for a minute. I listened to it like I was watching a movie, or waiting to be saved.

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ROXY MUSIC
For Your Pleasure
(Island)

The first song on this album, "Do the Strand," makes me think I've accidentally started in the middle of the song every time I hear it, which is why I'm starting right here in the middle of this review. In fact, "Strand" makes me think I've accidentally started in the middle of the soundtrack to a plot-heavy musical. Like a slightly less dirty Rocky Horror spin-off or something. Where are we? At a glam party you'd have killed to be invited to—you'd run and press your nose against the front window glass if you saw it from the street—but somehow, in the middle of the night, you've magically been transported there. To the dance floor! (Thank god you sleep in a sequined minidress, right? Sheesh.)

After discovering that Roxy Music was not, in fact, a promotional CD from that '90s faux-skate shop (also: weird how Lady Gaga is on the cover, right?), I started listening to For Your Pleasure, and at first, I was underwhelmed. When I reported this whelming problem to Dave Segal, who I thought would be sympathetic (he's much less sequined than our music editor, who assigned me the album), he said I should take a weekend to "reassess [my] erroneous initial impressions." Schooled!

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• MARY TRAVERSE

Hi! I've been joking for months about not knowing the difference between "the dinosaur bands," T. Rex and Dinosaur Jr. I keep hearing references to both of them, and I wanted to know: What's the deal? How could there be two groups said to be completely different, yet, based on casual references, both fundamental to know about—and they both have dinosaur names? Via osmosis, I've picked up that one is from approximately the 1970s, one is from approximately the 1980s, and one has a frontman with long white hair. Which is which? I decided to find out for a double-wide dino review. Never Heard of 'Em: Dino Edition!

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The Dead Milkmen
Big Lizard in My Backyard
(Restless)

I listened to Big Lizard in My Backyard over a few days, both alone and with other humans. It's funny! Like jokes from Popsicle sticks in an alternate universe set to music, or short animated movies—silly and weird. (As usual, I don't love the yelling.) Music editor Emily Nokes said the Dead Milkmen were very important to her, so I tried hard. The people around me laughed a lot, so I didn't feel like a dick for making them do my "work" with me. Someone admitted to never remembering which is which when it comes to the Dead Milkmen and the Dead Kennedys. Then we tried making up mnemonic devices about Jell-O to help. (It didn't work! He's still confused.)

I think, in the end, that this kind of joke-punk is made for dancing and laughing, and I like that because frown music gets old after a while. But the day has not quite come when I can fully enjoy someone whine-screaming over guitars, unless there's a good reason—and "I don't wanna be on the beach" is not good enough for me. The guitars were fun—beach guitars, strummed while jumping. DM sound a little like if someone made a cartoon about the teenage children of the B-52s making a punk band behind their parents' backs.

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APHEX TWIN
Selected Ambient Works Volume II
(Warp)

It turns out I can't write about Aphex Twin without writing about Dave Segal. It just couldn't be done. So here are some things about Mr. Segal, our staff music writer:

1. He is a committed vegan and yet somehow never annoying about it.

2. At 50 years young, he is also by many miles the healthiest of our office dwellers, likely only one-third of the way through his life span.

3. He likes music that seems like it was made by aliens A LOT.

4. He seems to be a fan of mind alteration.

He's the one who assigned me Aphex Twin, and after I listened to it a little half-assedly, rushed, in some in-between spaces—in the car, while doing chores—I found that insufficient. So I decided to fully Segal-out. I'm sure he would've recommended I find a nice dark room with an excellent sound system, drop some acid, and then listen to this double album while mainlining quinoa. But I got as close as I could, out of respect. I went home, cooked some brussels sprouts and spinach (green vegetables, man!) for dinner, poured myself a great big glass or three of wine, and put Aphex Twin on some real speakers.

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OPERATION IVY
Energy
(Lookout)

My lovely coworker (and local DJ) Megan Seling gave me this Operation Ivy album a long time ago because the pie chart of her heart has an entire slice set aside just for them. When I told her this week that I was finally listening to Energy, she smiled the biggest smile I've ever seen, and I started to feel scared. What if I didn't like it? What if I had to go back over to her desk and say, "Megan, this is terrible and it makes my ears hurt. I will never understand why you love this crap." What if, after that, I could always detect under her polite smiles a tinge of disgust? WHAT IF OP IVY RUINED EVERYTHING?

And then I listened to it, and... ugh, I couldn't stand it! I found myself making faces while I listened, the face you make when eating something gross. My sour music face and I walked around the city feeling bummed. Op Ivy were grating and kind of annoying, and I didn't understand the point, because the lyrics didn't sound like they were really deep or anything. They just sounded like "All I know is that I don't know/All I know is that I don't know nothin'," which, come on.

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KING CRIMSON
In the Court of the Crimson King
(Island)

I tried. I TRIED! I listened to this album over and over again. I took breaks and then went back to it. I looked up what other people had to say about it. I know how "seminal" this "prog" is. I asked to write about it. But at the end of the day, all my brain has to say about King Crimson is "Oh my god, is this song still playing? My commute is almost over." The songs are so, so long, and the part Kanye sampled a few years ago is the best part. Three separate times, I listened to it on the bus and had the exact same moment where I realized that I was still on the first track and three neighborhoods had gone by already. And I wasn't interested yet.

It sounds like the worst elements of the Beatles and Led Zeppelin had an orgy with some weird shit from the '90s and they had a deformed music baby. And in general, musicians who like to screw around by throwing cutlery and playing one individual note on 12 different instruments in no particular order—I don't really want to listen to your jazz-band rehearsal, okay? You're not "jamming." You're just being weird for the sake of being weird, like teenagers. That is not interesting.

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What is there to regret?! Writing this column has been fucking amazing. My life has expanded in so many ways since I started listening to these records, mainly because

I am finally out of the dork closet and can stop pretending I've heard of things just to save face at parties. People I meet now assume that I don't know anything about music, and it prompts them to tell me all sorts of funny and interesting things, or recommend artists they think I'd like, or sometimes even send me CDs in the mail. It's beyond charming. Thank you so much for inventing it, music-editor-emeritus Grant Brissey.

However, I thought about it, and I have a few regrets...

I sincerely regret all the years I spent feeling embarrassed about what music I liked/didn't like/had never heard of. That was a waste of time, and I learned very little because I was too afraid to ask anybody what they were talking about.

I regret all the times this year that someone wanted to tell me all about a band but I hadn't listened to the album yet and so I had to stop them, and then sometimes we never got around to having that conversation again.

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THE BEACH BOYS
The Beach Boys' Christmas Album
(Capitol)

Oh, Beach Boys! You apple-cheeked, sweater-clad, expertly Brylcreemed gentlemen, all tinseling up that tree together! I've heard of these boys—we go way, way back, all the way to the oldies station. But I had not heard their Christmas album, and I also have a never-heard-of-it story about the Beach Boys that I'd like to tell you. Light a fire! Pull up a chair!

I dug the Beach Boys as a kid, because of Seattle's rad (and now tragically defunct) oldies station KBSG. (Sing it with me: "Good times and great oldies! [wacky jazz sax solo] Ninety-seven point three! K-B-S-Geeeeeeee!") I rediscovered them as a teenager, and "Wouldn't It Be Nice" and "God Only Knows" filled me with aching longing; they took my breath away. But who listens to the Beach Boys in high school nowadays? Nobody, that's who. I kept it on the DL. Later, I started hearing about Pet Sounds. That was the hip Beach Boys album, the one that was not embarrassing to like. Wikipedia says its sound is "a far cry from the simple surf rock" of their early albums, composed of "elaborate layers of vocal harmonies, coupled with sound effects and unconventional instruments"; it's "one of the most important albums of all time." But by the time I was hearing about the amazingness of Pet Sounds, I was so petrified of (and exhausted by) the feeling of twerpiness that came from not "getting" music, I never checked it out. I kept my Beach Boys love in my secret heart where no cool kids could get to it. And there it sat until this year, when I finally worked up the nerve to listen to Pet Sounds... whereupon I discovered that I already knew (and liked) all the goddamn songs. GAWD. Lesson learned, yo.

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CAN
Tago Mago
(United Artists)

Can! What? Named after a verb meaning "know how to" or "be able to" and/or a noun meaning "a usually cylindrical receptacle,"* Can are what is known as "krautrock," a sort-of genre that's just a name for late-'60s German rock. The first important thing about Can, if you are a music dummy, is that people think they're important. For instance, at least half the bands I've written about for this column famously love Can (Siouxsie and the Banshees, Suicide, PiL, Brian Eno).

Also, let's talk about this album cover. IT IS SO GREAT! The typeface, the curlicue brains, the speech bubble, the big orange head... amazing.

The album begins with little wormy guitar tickles, then a psychedelic waowmp intro. I can't tell if/when they are speaking English. But I do think that drums are the centerpiece of krautrock. In fact, there is an 18-minute song on this album that is basically just drums. There's some rock piano, of which I heartily approve. Also, at some point, they sing about a snowman. I swear.

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WIRE
Chairs Missing
(Harvest)

What is going on with this guitar? Sometimes it sounds like a dial tone, sometimes it sounds Hawaiian/beachy, sometimes it sounds like a feedback telegram. This guitar also likes to do something sort of different from everyone else, like the guitar player is playing his own secret song and didn't tell anyone until they started recording, but then everyone loves it, so they just go along with it. Sometimes that sounds kind of wonderful. (Other times? Confusing.) I turn it up as loud as it goes, so it feels like they are playing inside my brain, because I want to be able to hear all the parts. Now I feel kind of dazed. I keep on thinking my phone is going off in my pocket, but it's just me vibrating, or thinking I'm vibrating, or my brain buzzing my whole spine. Yech, I feel kind of sick. It's affecting my vision! Okay, I'm turning it down.

I think you listen to this only with the blinds closed, or on a rainy day. No, actually, it's more like the soundtrack to a documentary about a moped gang. It's set in Seattle, in the modern day, but they light it and shoot it to look like an underground '80s film. The gang's not too large—maybe six people, plus a handful of stragglers, hangers-on, suck-ups. They run around screwing each other and fighting and living in a ratty apartment and smoking, and they go out and have deep conversations in all the best 24-hour diners and dive bars, and they rule at pinball. Yeah!

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MOTHER LOVE BONE
Apple
(Mercury)

It's MOTHER LOVE BONE TIME!!!! I just said that to get a reaction. See, around here, it's easy to get people to talk about Mother Love Bone. When the music staff brought up the idea of assigning me this, they were all laughing uncharacteristically hard. I couldn't figure it out. "Where have I heard the name before?" I asked. More giggling. "What, was Courtney Love's mom in it?" (ZING!) "Well," music editor Emily Nokes began. "You know how in every grunge documentary ever—" I gave her my best how many grunge documentaries do you think I've seen? look. "Right," she said. Then, no one would admit to having any MLB sitting around. Eventually, a burned CD landed at my desk, origins unknown. So I listened to it, thinking it was just some goofy joke band. My notes read something like this: "Uh-oh, a children's chorus. Aah, only two songs in, thought it was half over. Lyric sounds like 'I bone China.' On soundtrack to every '80s/'90s movie? Would make great karaoke. Sounds like it should be on Guitar Hero."

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MASSIVE ATTACK
Blue Lines
(Virgin)

Charles Mudede had a hand in assigning me this album, and he offered it with this admonition: "You know, one of the best songs of all time is on this album. See if you can figure out which one it is." Good lord, man. NO. The answer is likely NO. I was also told, when I admitted I didn't have the slightest clue what genre this was going to be, that it was "triphop." I didn't know what that was, either. "It's just British rap," was the response. What's the "trip" part? Everyone came up empty on that.

You know what this sound is not? Massive. Nor is it an attack. It's mostly British people talking over beats. I'd assumed you could rap fast in British English (we've all seen Lock, Stock and Snatch), but it turns out you can't. Or maybe fast-rapping is just too vulgar; they have to take sips of tea in between each verse. They really enunciate! I love the name Massive Attack, but it should be renamed Medium-Volume Rhythmic Speaking. It's like what you'd listen to if a warlock put a spell on you that required you to choose some form of hiphop to listen to during every moment of your life, for the rest of your life. When you wanted to go get a massage, you'd totally pick this. This is excellent nap rap.

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TOM TOM CLUB
Tom Tom Club
(Sire Records)

GUYS! I'm so excited to write this! Serious breakthroughs have occurred. First things first: Damn, it is embarrassing to have to keep saying sentences like this, but... holy shit, Tom Tom Club are amazing! (Previous editions of Anna "Captain Obvious" Minard: "Neutral Milk Hotel made me feel feelings!" and "Kate Bush is really fun!") Tom Tom Club are a renegade funsplosion that sounds exactly like the album cover looks, and when I'm riding the bus listening to it, I want to magically transform my iPod into a boom box, and then the whole bus would start dancing, and then we'd POOF! turn into a cartoon, and...

Emily Nokes warned me that I was going to recognize a song on this album that Mariah Carey sampled, so I braced for the embarrassing feeling I get whenever I realize that I just can't help liking a shitty song that sampled/covered an older song better than the original. I have Mariah Carey's "Fantasy" on my iPod (on a playlist that also has Real McCoy's "Another Night," duh). "I get kinda hectic inside" is among the best lyrics of all time. So brain preparations were made to stanch the shame ("It's okay, c'mon, you just like what you like, you can't help it"). THEN IT HAPPENED. Dear sweet lord, "Genius of Love" is so fucking good! Orders of magnitude better than "Fantasy." Of course I know that, objectively, a song by the rhythm section of Talking Heads is "better" than a pop song by an American Idol judge. But what I mean is: My ears like it better, and it makes me happier. I truly like it more. What's happening?!?

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NEUTRAL MILK HOTEL
In the Aeroplane Over the Sea
(Merge)

Listening to this album was weird because I'd heard it before. But not like I heard it a while ago and didn't listen carefully. I've heard it because I hang out with a lot of people who make music, and it turns out they all adore Aeroplane. For the last six months or so, I've heard these songs played and sung by friends—on guitars and a cappella, alone and in two-part and three-part harmony, in public and in my living room and in basements. It's a musical currency that they've all been loving and trading for a decade, and I only just found out.

Recently, I was on a long road trip, listening to music for endless meandering highway hours, and I came across Aeroplane on a beat-up old iPod. On a whim, I pressed play. (Actually, first I asked permission, and the driver asked me if I was sure—I could listen to it for the first time only once, and was I ready for that to be now? I was.) Outside were miles of pointy trees and bluish-tinted mountains and some body of water I don't remember. It was evening, so the light slanted sideways in pale yellow sheets. It was the end of a trip back from somewhere dusty and hot and so dry we got nosebleeds, and we were marveling at the slow and welcome embrace of this damp, lush, fecund ghost world that is home.

Even with all the affection I had already for these songs, and the awe bestowed on them by my friends, I felt unwarned, unprepared for the way it got inside me. It felt both private and universal, just for me and also uniting me with everyone I've ever known.

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