When we weren't looking, one of the greatest songwriters in rock `n' roll suddenly became its greatest living singer: his cracked-sandcastle vocals are more expressive than ever. It's as if, now that he's fought through a portion of his anger and frustration, he's finally met up with the voice that was waiting for him on the other side.

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From the ashes of the riot grrrl band Heavens to Betsy comes the magnificent serpent Sleater-Kinney. "Call the Doctor" is hugely dramatic and terrifyingly intimate — in a word, essential. On stage, guitarist Carrie Brownstein is the first rock 'n' roller since Chrissie Hynde to do Keith Richards better than Keith Richards. Bassist and vocalist Corin Tucker sings as if she's calling up the devil from his hiding place — curled up inside her own soul.

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Rigby, formerly of The Shams, writes grown-up songs that are half country, half pop and completely in love with rock 'n' roll. Rigby doesn't buy into the idea that complicated lives demand calming music: She accepts that conflict, confusion and hard-earned delight are all part of being an adult, and she revels in them.

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Not a piece of music — not strictly speaking, anyway — but a stunning novel about the way jazz and the people who make it can drive arrows straight through our hearts. Luminous prose that reads like a Johnny Hodges ballad — the best dance about architecture ever written.

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Damn everybody who pooh-poohed Cobain's death, saying things like, "It's not as if he were John Lennon or anything." Rusted out and blossoming, cathedral-sized and pinpoint-focused, the sound of "Muddy Banks" never gives weepy nostalgia for Cobain a chance to take hold — and yet reaffirms why we shouldn't be ashamed to admit how much it hurt to let him go.

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The clarinet genius and his crackerjack band interpret the music of two forgotten bandleaders, Raymond Scott (who wrote cartoon scores) and John Kirby (popular in the '30s but maligned today), with a little Ellington thrown in for good measure. Insane and lovely.

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Right when I was ready to ignore the Pumpkins for the rest of eternity for their pomposity and wretched excess, along came a song so exquisite, so evocative of the year itself, that I had to reconsider. If you were 18 in 1979, you might remember driving around, driving around, looking for a sign, a girl, a decent hot dog. If you're going to be 18 in 1999, don't be so sure it's going to be any different.

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As mainstream-sounding a country record as you could imagine, and yet one of the most demanding country records in recent memory — a reassurance that everything you ever loved about country music hasn't gone the way of touchy-feely slush and achy-breaky hearts. Cryner's music rings with the same kind of creaky heartbreak you get from George Jones. Definitely not for line dancing.

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Suddenly, Mr. Bad Example himself — remember, it was "1999" that gave Tipper Gore the idea for the PMRC — has become the model of monogamy, and an incredibly likable, genuine one, too (and yes, he still gets a "Parental Advisory" sticker). "Emancipation" is a wonderland of sound — a terrific comeback record from an artist who didn't know he'd left.

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I got it in the mail from the record label, checked it out, rejected it, got rid of it. I bought it back, checked it out, rejected it, got rid of it. I bought it back again, listened to it and recognized, finally, what a bonehead I'd been. When a record teaches you that kind of humility, it damn well better make your top 10.