Just to be clear: This is not my 2006 best-of, but rather, a roundup of a dozen worthy tracks it would've been easy to miss if you just happened to blink too fast while Christina, Justin, Beyoncé, et al were steamrolling over the pop universe. Songs are alphabetized by artist.
The Cardigans, "Don't Blame Your Daughter (Diamonds)." Who knew—this Swedish foursome, once the purveyors of catchy if somewhat cutesy-pieish pop have actually developed into purveyors of brooding, semi-epic guitar jangle, all of it carried by Nina Persson's sharp gift for invective. (Rating: 3.5 out of 5)
The Fiery Furnaces, "Teach Me Sweetheart." Their album is frustrating. For every great idea, sound and riff, half a dozen other good ideas, sounds and riffs butt their way in. They fail to let their better ideas/sounds/riffs breathe. In smaller doses, however, their restlessness isn't as distracting, and I like all the different vacation spots they land in here. Also: best vintage organ collection in rock. (3.5)
Faith Hill, "Stealing Kisses." Faith's a great kisser, and I don't mean I'm the boy she's stealing kisses from (I'd more likely be cast in the role of the man she begs affection from)—I mean that this is a great follow-up to her 1998 hit "This Kiss." The main riff here is mystical new-age ambiance at its prettiest. (3.5)
Toby Keith, "A Little Too Late." Unexpectedly languid, with Keith's weary drawl floating effortlessly atop a subtle funk groove and some lilting steel-guitar leads, the latter of which aren't "country" at all, but rather, willowy dream-pop in the vein of George Harrison's "My Sweet Lord" and John Lennon's "#9 Dream." (4.0)
Marit Larsen, "Don't Save Me." More from Sweden, and an object lesson in a very particular strand of Euro-alchemy: late-'70s Elvis Costello + "SOS"-era Abba + early Roxy Music is the best I can make of it. In an excellent year for the amped-up "Since U Been Gone" model of angsty teen-pop, this piano-driven track was a refreshing change of pace. (4.5)
The Pack, "Vans." A lot of hip-hop these days is sparse, but not a lot of it is quiet, and in this cute little sneaker rap (best of its kind since Run-D.M.C.'s "My Adidas"?) no one raises their voice above a quiet hush. It's like they don't want their parents in the next room to hear them. (3.5)
Nerina Pallot, "Everybody's Gone to War." A political gesture that's easy to mock but much more difficult to shake, and it chimes with as much hollow prettiness as any other guitar pop I heard all year; think Liz Phair fronting The Cars. If I didn't know better I'd say Pallot could sing Donald Rumsfeld's Rolodex and make it sound good (except I do know better; everything else I've heard by her is a bore). (4.5)
The Radio Dept., "The Worst Taste in Music." A single letter separates dreamy from dreary, and I can hear this arty put-down (really, is there anything worse than having a lame record collection?) both ways, depending on the weather that particular day. And yet, those Twin Peaks synthesizers and the vast, echoing piano notes (the reverberations of which are still being felt in my living room) never don't sound thrilling. (4.0)
Remy Ma, "Conceited (There's Something About Remy)." A one-note Bhangra-hop arrangement that leaves lots of wiggle room for Remy, who (according to herself) is far too sexy for her Wonder Bra and her painted-on jeans. It's a shame the charts didn't agree. (4.0)
T-Pain, "I'm N Luv (Wit a Stripper)." Unfathomable goodness. And no kidding, he loooves this woman, even serenades her with a really sweet (if entirely fake) harmonica, though not, thankfully, to the tune of "I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor." (3.0)
Wigwam, "Wigwam." Supergroup of the year, with Betty Boo doin' her do over some randy guitar strumming by Blur's Alex James. Incoherent babble in the best way possible. If I was 13 I'd be spending weeks trying to figure out if there's something dirty about it, and the truth is, at 42 I'm not remotely the wiser. (4.0)
Neil Young, "Let's Impeach the President." A sloppy, inspired rant. With its up-to-the-second proselytizing it'll probably sound silly by the time Young puts out his next record or by the time you read this sentence, whatever comes first, but screw it: This is the most punk and the most hippie statement Neil's ever made. (3.0)