These worries form a backdrop for Helplessness Bluesthe unmistakable work of uneasy hearts. He paints an indelible portrait of fading young-adulthood—diverging from the path set by parents, searching for place and purpose, falling out of relationships that have dried up. These songs are steeped in a kind of magical realism stemming from the intensity of adolescent emotions, full of heart-on-sleeve choruses, slap-bass funk, vintage synth swells, and a desire for home or love or something just out of reach.
Tempos careen and stutter unpredictablylyrical motifs bleed between tracks. Later Frankie Cosmos albums would go longer, and run no less deep, but with ZentropyKline made us one with everything. McMahon has an eye for the antihero and his vulnerabilities, the fading conscience of modernity.
A master of the lyrical arched eyebrow, McMahon is capable of conveying total honesty in one line and ironic remove in the next. His band builds a warmly reverbed atmosphere, steadying psychedelic swells and loops against murky rhythm until the air feels rotten with insinuation. When they joined forces, they rapped as if their lives and ours depended on it.
Run the Jewels 2 was where their uncanny chemistry reached Anarchist Cookbook proportions. But beneath the bluster, what sets RTJ2 apart is its humanity and prescience: on police brutality, on MeToo, and on the burgeoning friendship between two world-hardened idealists.
No wonder Marvel gave them their own comic books. At its core, Lonerism is a tightly wound, deeply internal album about what it means to always feel like an outsider. That it gained such a huge following and catapulted Tame Impala into the mainstream is ironic, but not surprising. Frustration never sounded so good. A decade on, Bangs and Works still sounds as fresh and invigorating as the first listen.
When A Moon Shaped Pool entered the world in Maymany of the horrors Radiohead had spent more than two decades warning us about were coming to fruition. Campaigns for Brexit and Trump were spreading odious strains of nationalism.
Nefarious companies were harvesting data from tens of millions of Facebook users in order to undermine American democracy.
The record also arrived amid acute personal tragedy for Thom Yorke, who had announced a separation from his partner, Rachel Owen, the year prior.
Seven months after its release, Owen died following a long battle with cancer. And yet the record does not wallow. Like his indie rock forefathers in the Replacements, Car Seat Headrest mastermind Will Toledo sounds sincerely undecided about embarking on any kind of grand search for purpose. He feels like a walking piece of shit, which is basically the default state for modern young people. But churning behind those echoing cries are any number of marginally identifiable sounds—fast-cycling bells?
Brimming with dubby modern psychedelia, Tomboy may be more like a VR beach than a surf-and-sand one, but it offers just as many pretty sunsets. With their third album, Safe in the Hands of LoveSean Bowie took a hacksaw to the very idea of experimental music. They ripped into entrenched notions about its sound and audience, then stood back to admire the glorious mess. Bowie tugs at the ear with teases of pop before abruptly morphing into something far more severe.
They often invert foreground and background, retreating to near-tuneless vocal melodies that act more as scaffolding than centerpiece within their heady brew of electronics.
Amid the tumult, Safe in the Hands of Love examines the tension between being held, being confined, and the rare instances where the two conditions meet. The album itself occupies a similarly strange intersection: It is both remarkably beautiful and remarkably unnerving. If that seems like damning praise, consider how hard it can be to face the challenge of substantiating serenity, of finding validation for the ambient sadness and fleeting joys that make up most of life, of appreciating 2 past without being trapped in it.
How does Lush manage to sound so radiant? Even for an emo record, Home, Like Noplace Is There is unflinching in its depiction of constant crisis.
From beginning to end, it details one calamity after another—some merely deflating, others catastrophic, including incidents of addiction, abuse, and suicide.
But the album balances its strife with jumpy pop-punk hooks, and never grows numb to suffering or loses its drive to uplift. Instead, what emerges is a portrait of contagious empathy. Over sweeping, orchestral funk arrangements, he earnestly addresses his anxieties about fame, his paranoia about being canceled were he to come out, and the terrifying reality of police brutality.
Avery Tucker and Harmony Tividad were still teenagers when they wrote these humble songs with bass and guitar, and there is something so profoundly young adult about Before the World Was Big.
Leonard Cohen was too grand a figure to let death sneak up on him. Instead, he graciously accepted its approach and courted the void with one final masterpiece. You Want It Darker arrived just weeks before Cohen died at 82, still a goliath of his form.
You Want It Darker is full of these concessions: he sings of relinquishing life, love, and libido throughout its sparse yet rich compositions. That ringing sensation in your head from the crossed streams of cable news and political discourse? Pure, unadulterated The Money Store. Its storyline about a messianic android is tied together by apocalyptic rock, jiggling funk, and psychedelic soul, all delivered with cinematic flair.
The ArchAndroid is the genesis of it all. Girls mastermind Meghan Remy has evolved from one-person noisemaker to charismatic leader of a cracking rock band, her aesthetic priorities—simple melodies, rich textures, subversive lyrics—have remained steadfast. Complex verses about sexual dynamics and interpersonal conflict cut through music that reveres nostalgic styles like disco and glam without aping them.
Along the way, Remy captures the tension of the times with a rapturous swagger, building a catchy, cathartic response to the world. As Sampha adopts the term to capture the tumult of his mother dying from cancer inhe embraces both its clarity and its dizziness. Sampha grieves by expressing his sorrow as well as molding it into new forms.
Process takes that dread as a challenge. Japandroids spend the next 35 minutes doing whatever they can to delay the moment when the highest of highs must give way to the cruelest of comedowns.
Nostalgia hits like a panic attack, the line between motivational anthem and break-up song gets blurry, and even the most starry-eyed declarations of 1 come embedded with escape clauses for when the thrill is gone. So, of course, an album so fervent yet fleeting also ends with the sound of fireworks. Thomas Bangalter and Guy de-Homem Christo spent more than a million dollars to make their triumphant comeback record, Random Access Memories. It showed. In rejection of the frictionless EDM sounds then at their commercial peak, Daft Punk went straight to the source in their quest to revive some of their favorite analog styles.
As a whole, the album plays like an eclectic radio transmission beamed in from an imagined past. Confessional songwriting in the s had a tendency toward extremes—you had your empowerment narratives, where struggles were introduced and then brushed aside to allow time to wallow in the fabulous now, and you had your nihilistic tales of pill-popping self-hatred. Later in the decade, Anderson would turn her eye to the political and cultural forces that drive people toward darkness, but Past Life is far too claustrophobic for that kind of perspective.
When something heavy is on top of you and pressing down, the only thing you can think about is how to get out from under it.
Though Waka eventually took the EDM route, playing shows at frats and shotgunning beers with undergrads, his debut struck the right balance between harsh realism and recklessness. Meandering, shape-shifting, and often dissonant, its melodies diffuse into clouds of pure atmosphere, offering the opposite of the glib simplicity that so much pop aspires to in the streaming era.
Playlist fodder, this is not. And while its surfeit of feeling can mimic the shell-shocked sense of information overload that accompanies a long day scrolling social media, its moments of catharsis cut deliciously deep. The debut album from Montreal producer Kaytranada is a shining example of dance music as more than the sum of its parts.
Blending soul, hip-hop, house, jazz, and disco, and featuring vocal turns from the likes of Vic Mensa, Syd, Craig David, Anderson. Paak, and more, the album is also a reaction against the relative whiteness of EDM circa Dirty Projectors used to be an inscrutable band. But on Swing Lo Magellantheir formal experimentation slowly gave way to an emotional generosity no amount of musical theory could obfuscate.
The album shines with the warmth and familiarity of a group of loved ones trading stories around a campfire. Swing Lo Magellan ended up being the last album with this lineup of Dirty Projectors, making it a bittersweet listen.
But we know it was real while it lasted. It is cotton-soft and canyon-wide, as crisp and ornate as frost forming on the window. A similar coldness—the absence of love—informs his spare, beautiful debut album, Aromanticism.
It is not a lament for lost love but a guess that love may never arrive. His brand of blues is heavy with emotion, even as he wonders if he might not want to feel any of it. The brothers, who started DJing as teenagers in southeast England, may have relied on familiar formulas with Settlebut they still managed to fashion them into one of the most irresistibly inviting dance records of the decade. Eliot was beloved far beyond the Alabama DIY scene they rose in.
Its follow-up, Cerulean Saltfocused all that accelerated musical experience and added new color. Whether tinkering with vocoders or recruiting new collaborators, Lange has experimented under the banner of Helado Negro in a manner that is patient and community-oriented; people have always mattered most to him. He reached a creative apex on This Is How You Smile by washing his sound in tape hiss and soft-lit synths, casting a twilight glow over bilingual meditations on community, displacement, and loving the skin in which you were born.
Despite an attitude that ranged from nonchalance to outright self-sabotage, Jeremih quietly sustained mainstream success throughout the decade. Take Late Nightsan album that represents a triumph within the major-label system for its mere existence.
2 get the sense he enjoys the solitude. When shadowy studio rat Johnny Jewel cofounded the Italians Do It Better label inhis music as part of reformed noise-rockers Chromatics cast him as an artist wonderfully out of time with his surroundings. Music that sounds this eerily timeless also takes time to get right. In22 people were killed in a suicide bombing at her concert in Manchester. For most people after that, just getting out of bed would be an accomplishment.
But Grande, with immeasurable strength, managed not only to throw off the covers but to return to center stage with Sweetener. Everything on this album is. Throughout, his deep, demonstrative care for his community is tempered by an equal capacity for personal bluster and self-regard. Terje approaches this common rite of passage as a truly special once-in-a-lifetime event—one that demands dressing up in your finest evening attire and cracking open that bottle of bubbly in the back of your fridge.
Legend has it, Granduciel was tortured by its creation, endlessly scrapping and rebuilding each track by himself to the point of madness and near-physical collapse. But 25 years into a career full of risk-takingthe Minnesota trio felt compelled to confront the confusion—or, at least, turn confusion into music. On Double Negativethe patient slowcore sound that Low coined long ago disintegrates into broken melodies, distorted ambience, and distant echoes.
Inwhen a collection of demos and rough takes credited to Jai Paul went up for sale on Bandcamp without his involvement or approval, it pushed the already reclusive pop-soul artist even more into the fringes. For almost seven years, he was mostly silent, aside from contributing one guest feature and working behind-the-scenes with his artistic think tank the Paul Institute.
What Contra does share with Sandinista! But these exotic borrowings read less like rhythms-of-resistance solidarity and more like liberal-elite tourism. What does it all add up to? Whose side are Vampire Weekend on anyway? Upon its release inJAY-Z and Kanye West's self-celebrating team-up Watch the Throne drew blowback for its Maybach-destroying extravagance in the wake of the global financial crisis. Neither rapper has ever been one to apologize for pushing the boundaries of good taste, though, and the gilded album had the substance to back up its vanity.
Both stars saved some of their deepest, most sorrowful ruminations on race for these songs about making it to the unimaginable upper echelons of society and still feeling like an outcast. Is this album wholly relatable? Not really. With their third album, the California pop-punk band Joyce Manor distilled their frayed fuzz into an elemental blast of power and melody.
This is a collection of chiseled, two-minute songs that makes you want to howl to the rafters, and the polished production serves their poignant insights on the indignities of aging. Instead, he figured the reception of that album meant that people liked what he was doing. For its follow-up, the former mathematician moved even further away from the cerebral, opening his heart and giving us a batch of body-moving love songs. Brothers Swae Lee and Slim Jxmmi regarded rap stardom not as a dreary obligation but as a comically awesome fantasy come true, head-banging and high-fiving their way through turn-up music equally suited for house parties, strip clubs, and skate parks.
You can pretty reliably guess someone's generation by which artist Haim reminds them of. Fleetwood Mac? Wilson Phillips? Paula Cole? On Your Own Love Again feels beamed in from some implacable, dreamy elsewhere.
With little more than guitars and her voice, Jessica Pratt offers floating melodies that sometimes sound spare and wintry, sometimes warm and sleepless, and always with an ache entirely their own. Her songs provide a universal shelter for sadness, as much in the intimate late-night tradition of Leonard Cohen as in the pastoral spaces of her Drag City labelmate Joanna Newsom.
The Chicago MC was barely 20 years old when he started giving away what was technically his second mixtape, Acid Rapfor free online, but it instantly felt like a classic album. With Acid Raphe earned his stardom. William Bevan a. The title track opens with a melody resembling a scream, cooling into gentler vocals and softer beats before opening up into a gorgeous major-key pool of light. After releasing their promising indie-pop debut two years earlier, Girls thoroughly redefined themselves on their second and final album, Father, Son, Holy Ghost.
Just a year after releasing this record, Girls were no more, and the news of their sudden demise came as a shock to many fans. The idea of the infinite existing within the singular is a running theme throughout the album—especially when she sings about her hometown of Houston, a city that contains multitudes. Syro is the kind of album you return to in order to remind yourself why you fell in love with electronic music in the first place.
To enjoy it is to luxuriate in perfectly executed fundamentals of composition: the resolution of a chord progression, the precise arrangement of percussion that transforms a straight beat into a syncopated one, the discernible shape of a melody that drifts and changes without losing its essential character. And while the music comes from many sources—techno, house, ambient, and various branches of electropop are always present, in ever-shifting proportions—you get the sense that this particular arrangement of sounds, with its rhythmic quirks and signature tuneful flourishes, could only come from one person.
After the shock of hearing new music from Richard D. His perfectionism pays off as his drums jump through the speakers and his synths burn with clarity, offering a new gold standard for rock production. Where his past albums had been scuzzy, lo-fi efforts, Smoke Ring formed the groundwork of his next decade of output, spotlighting a poet who untangles circuitous trains of thought over hypnotic guitar patterns.
For the first time in his career, Kieran Hebden decided to test out new songs—the material that would become There Is Love in You —by blasting them in clubs. Yet after grappling with death and religion on their first two records, when Arcade Fire turned their collective eye toward leaving home on The Suburbsthe concept seemed almost small-scale by comparison.
Loosely inspired by the Houston-area childhood of band leader Win Butler and his brother Will, the album innately understood how urban sprawl could engender claustrophobia in the hearts of the young and strange, and that this experience may look different in the rearview mirror.
With his debut mixtape, Abel Tesfaye introduced the world to his hedonistic universe. Back then, we knew nothing about him, save for a Drake cosign, and with so much mystery we had to focus on the tangible: the now-iconic sans-serif type and artsy, Tumblr-core nude on the cover artwork, and the music itself. Cocaine-fueled carnality? Plenty of that. Gritty synths bloom as his beguiling voice glides through the air, inviting you to relax, breathe deep, and shed some clothes. Much of the science fiction we read in middle school fears a future in which people lose touch with what makes us human: our emotions, our favorite books, our memories.
But what if the future, full of computerized voices and digitized avatars, allows us freedom from restrictive contemporary notions of gender and sexuality? SOPHIE build a whole new world, one where our most authentic selves are the ones we construct, reinvent, and debut to the world every day. The audacity, humor, and business savvy that made her famous on both Instagram and reality TV carried over to her debut album, Invasion of Privacy. Her music was sensitive and hardcore, carefully crafted, and, most of all, likable.
Her once unrefined flow—a subject of ridicule—was more sculpted, even next to agile guests like Migos, Chance the Rapper, and SZA. Before he became notorious for trolling journalists and engaging in performance art about What It All Means, Josh Tillman captured the feeling of love as a defiant, selfish, and contradictory state of emotions on I Love You, Honeybear.
Across the album, he cooes sickly sweet comes-ons to his wife, Emma, knowing the private rituals of companionship seem delusional from the outside; he spits vitriol at a dull woman he meets at a party before deciding to go home with her anyway; he languishes in his personal crises like a pig rolling around in the mud. The music is sensual, the vibe languid. Through everything—the muck and desolation of existing on this stupid planet—Tillman tilts towards love, because real life gave him no other choice.
Hadreas exalts love in its many forms: sensual, mundane, and defiant, allowing his skyward voice and lavish compositions to elevate the familiar into the realm of myth. Rarely has he been pettier. Drake is showing off, enjoying a victory lap, burning bridges and taking risks, his flows unbound but the pressure of delivering a classic album.
He marvels at his own superiority throughout and presents himself as untouchable, because he pretty much was. Live instrumentation and guest vocals from Ravi Coltrane and Thom Yorke send ambient melodies drifting over steady grooves and skittish beats.
Aussie singer-songwriter Courtney Barnett established herself as a wordy, clever storyteller with her debut full-length, and she earned a Grammy nomination for Best New Artist in the process. Her songs unfurl at a stream-of-consciousness pace, narrating the mundanities of daily life over garage-rock guitar. She sings about about the benefits of owning a percolator, the burnout of office workers, and even, at one point, restlessly declares mid-song that she might be hungry.
With Sometimes I Sit and ThinkBarnett became a poster woman for a young generation seized by self-doubt and introversion, and her music never failed to process those feelings with a dark sense of humor. Karin Dreijer's self-titled debut as Fever Ray was about motherhood, but motherhood portrayed via a near-unbroken stretch of anhedonic sludge: postpartum depression as an album. So it was a surprise to many when, upon revisiting their solo project nearly a decade later, Dreijer inverted it entirely to release a playful, gleeful album primarily about queer desire and kink.
The love songs have a frantic glee and the kink is as much about sentiment as sex. Dirty Sprite 2 is manifestly some kind of peak, though, in quality and mainstream impact. Few songwriters articulate wanting quite like Mitski. A classically trained composer who began her career recording piano ballads, Mitski insists that her music is technical rather than emotional, the characters in her stories fictional rather than autobiographical. Be the Cowboyher fifth album, is a stunning piece of theater on the subject of wanting.
When he broke through inDanny Brown seemed to be running backwards at us, howling from about five years into the future. He was a Ghostface-level narrator with an asymmetrical haircut, tight jeans, gap teeth, and an imagination so vivid it seemed to frighten even him. Brown rapped in an astonished yelp and treated verses like advanced Pac-Man levels, gobbling up as much of his surroundings as he could before the timer buzzed.
The title track from XXX a triple entendre for his third album, his 30th year, and his preferred adult entertainment rating compacts his vision, his determination, his torture. Harris spent the first few years of the decade pushing deeper and deeper into emptiness, covering her tracks with impenetrable echoes, but Ruins felt like tearing away a veil.
She built Arca around her singing voice, its ragged edges tracing stories of death, and yearning, and change. If Xen and its follow-up, Mutant, flourished in cerebral space, then Arca aims straight for the beautiful tumult of the body. It's a delicate and stormy album about shedding skin and growing it anew, about the pain of nursing a wound and the celebration of watching the body stitch itself back together whole. Vignettes flit by, conjuring heartbreak and depression; the expensive, isolating city backdrops his existential funk.
Yet the immersive production and poetry reach out to you, like panicked arms from a murky deep end. Retrieved 3 May Retrieved 21 September The Irish Times. Retrieved 18 November Michael 2 February Creative Loafing. Sharry Smith. Retrieved 13 May All Media Network.
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