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**Adam Green - Friends Of Mine**
★★★★☆

There's something beautifully unhinged about Adam Green's trajectory from anti-folk provocateur to bedroom pop auteur, and nowhere is this metamorphosis more evident than on his 2003 masterpiece, "Friends Of Mine." Following the dissolution of his cult duo The Moldy Peaches – that gloriously ramshackle outfit that gave indie kids everywhere permission to be wonderfully weird – Green found himself at a crossroads. Would he chase the commercial success that "Anyone Else But You" had tantalizingly dangled before him, or would he retreat further into his own peculiar universe of lo-fi confessionals and stream-of-consciousness narratives?

Thankfully, Green chose the latter path, and "Friends Of Mine" stands as testament to an artist completely comfortable in his own skin, however strange that skin might be. Recorded primarily in his New York apartment with the kind of budget that wouldn't cover a decent studio's tea and biscuits, the album feels like eavesdropping on someone's most intimate moments – if that someone happened to be a particularly articulate alien studying human behaviour through the lens of American indie rock.

The album's genius lies in its deceptive simplicity. Green's approach to songcraft is almost childlike in its directness, yet there's a sophisticated understanding of melody and mood lurking beneath the deliberately rough-hewn exterior. His voice, a reedy instrument that shouldn't work but absolutely does, carries these songs with the kind of conviction that makes you believe every word, no matter how absurd. And make no mistake, things get wonderfully absurd here.

"Jessica" opens proceedings with a bang, a perfectly crafted piece of anti-folk that manages to be both deeply personal and utterly universal. Green's tale of romantic obsession unfolds over jangling guitars and a rhythm section that sounds like it's being played by particularly enthusiastic teenagers in someone's garage. It's the sound of heartbreak filtered through a sensibility that finds beauty in imperfection, and it remains one of Green's finest moments.

The title track that follows is pure magic – a sprawling, seven-minute epic that feels like a musical autobiography. Green name-drops his way through a cast of characters from his Lower East Side milieu, creating a vivid snapshot of early 2000s New York bohemia. It's the kind of song that could only have been made by someone completely embedded in their scene, yet it never feels exclusionary. Instead, it's an invitation into Green's world, complete with all its neuroses and small triumphs.

"Dance With Me" showcases Green's ability to craft genuinely affecting pop songs when the mood strikes him. Built around a simple but irresistible melody, it's the album's most straightforward moment, and it works precisely because of its placement among more experimental fare. Similarly, "Buddy Bradley" demonstrates his gift for character studies, painting a portrait of small-town ennui with remarkable economy and empathy.

The album's production, handled largely by Green himself with assistance from various friends (hence the title, one assumes), perfectly captures the intimate, late-night atmosphere he's aiming for. Instruments drift in and out of the mix with dream-like logic, and the occasional tape hiss and studio chatter only add to the charm. This isn't music designed to impress audiophiles; it's music designed to crawl inside your head and set up permanent residence.

What makes "Friends Of Mine" particularly remarkable is how it predicted much of what would become standard practice in indie music over the following decade. The bedroom recording aesthetic, the deliberate amateurism, the mixing of high and low cultural references – all of this would become commonplace, but in 2003, Green was genuinely pioneering.

Twenty years on, "Friends Of Mine" hasn't lost an ounce of its charm. If anything, its influence has only grown more apparent as successive generations of bedroom producers have borrowed from Green's playbook. The album remains a perfect entry point for newcomers to Green's extensive catalogue, while longtime fans continue to discover new layers in its deceptively simple songs.

In an era where indie rock often feels calculated and focus-grouped to death, "Friends Of Mine" stands as a reminder of what the genre can achieve when artists trust their instincts completely. It's messy, beautiful, occasionally frustrating, and utterly essential – rather like friendship itself.