More enjoyable was "Electric Version" by Canadian pop-collective the New Pornographers, who cram a ridiculous number of hooks into every song, with a nice oddball edge that recalls the best of Brian Wilson. But my favorite power-poppy release of the year was "Yours, Mine & Ours," by the Pernice Brothers of Northampton, Mass. Their songs are straightforward enough, but they'll work their way into your head with great persistency, and Joe Pernice's delicate voice is a source of great melancholy and nostalgia.

And the world of indie rock? The genre name, which once meant something quite specific, has bulged and bloomed in so many directions that it's impossible to pin down accurately. Still, there were some obviously important events. Washington, D.C.'s Dismemberment Plan broke up, depriving the world of the tightest live band in existence. Fans and critics got a bit sick of Bright Eyes' Conor Oberst (maybe that's just wishful thinking on my part) and embraced Ted Leo as indie rock's new hero. Leo's "Heart of Oak," recorded with his band the Pharmacists, is certainly one of the year's most exciting records, the perfect punk rock music for ectomorphs. An album of unexpected brilliance came from Chicago's Califone, with Tim Rutili's quizzical lyrics and dry voice set amid a thicket of old American folk music and electronics.

Then there was Yo La Tengo, the most consistently satisfying band of the last few years (especially extraordinary given how amateurish they were when they started out), with "Summer Sun," a slightly subpar but still extremely satisfying album, featuring the band flexing its formidable pop songwriting skills. Better still was "Trust" from Low, one of Yo La Tengo's few peers. The sonically stunning record, produced by Tchad Blake, adds a touch more rock 'n' roll energy to Low's slow burning, deeply moving sound. Best of all was lady Cat Power, aka Chan Marshall, with "You Are Free," her third unreasonably good record in a row. Her voice is haunted. Her music embodies a certain kind of modern alienation that borders on autism, but there's no whining angst here, no mindless self-indulgence. She's making great and thoughtful art, and her vocal discipline is extraordinary.

The mood of autistic alienation in Cat Power's music can also be found in the work of Chris Whitley, one of the great, and sadly overlooked, musical talents of our time. From his adopted home in Germany, he put out "Hotel Vast Horizon," a strange, elliptical album that doesn't quite rank with his best work, but was still one of the best releases of the year. If there's any justice, 100 years from now he'll be considered one of the major musical voices of the 20th century.

Continuing with the theme of justice, I sincerely hope that the buzz around the White Stripes, which has built steadily over the last four years, will wither and die with the new year. Jack White is extravagantly talented, but he's also extravagantly obnoxious, and his arrogance is every bit as stunning as his guitar playing. Good as "Seven Nation Army" is, the universal adoration accorded to "Elephant" is surely some kind of cosmic mistake, waiting to be righted.

Norah Jones, clutching her five Grammys, was another phenomenon that was impossible to ignore. A friend of mine calls her "the Pottery Barn of the music world." The description is spot-on, capturing the mundanity, the overwhelming tastefulness, of her music. But I happen to have a soft spot for the Pottery Barn (it's a great place to buy floor lamps), and while I find Jones' record a bit boring, her music is by no means as objectionable as the syrupy sludge poured out by Diana Krall (whose recent marriage to Elvis Costello, incidentally, surely marks an irrevocable fall from grace for that former titan of popular song). Jones' mixture of folk and nonconfrontational jazz was done earlier, and better, by Cassandra Wilson, but she has a lovely voice and obvious charm.

There's no doubt much I've forgotten in this brief review of the year in popular music. There's also much I've left out on purpose, some good (Christina Aguilera's "Beautiful," the merciful withdrawal of rap-rock, Erykah Badu's brilliant "Worldwide Underground," which reinvigorated neo-soul), and some bad (the horrid proliferation of bands formed of 20-something white boys playing loud rock filled with angst and bile). I plead indifference to Alicia Keys.

There were also some tragic deaths in the music world, including those of Joe Strummer, Celia Cruz and Warren Zevon. We lost Nina Simone, the shape-shifting high priestess of American song. In her final concerts, she'd lost much of her voice but none of her famous feistiness, bellowing obscenities at her audience. And, of course, the first couple of country music, June Carter Cash and Johnny Cash. The simplicity of Johnny Cash's music, his artistic single-mindedness, remains an inspiration. Very few musicians lived and worked through so many generations. Even fewer touched all of them to the extent that he did.

Maybe Johnny Cash was depressed by what he saw, by the pretentious posturing of the Williamsburg hipsters and their retro bands, by the increasingly crass decisions made by major record companies in their endless search for fresh young meat. But perhaps, if he turned on the radio and heard Missy Elliott's "Pass That Dutch," he would see what I see: that for the first time in my lifetime, and maybe the first time since the Beatles, the most exciting, innovative and important popular music being made is also settled happily at the top of the charts.

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