So the blessing and the curse of Run the Jewels 3 is that it’s still a Run the Jewels album, a promise that every song is good, nothing is bad, and depending on your mood you’ll either bask in the lack of tempo changes, pulchritudinous song structures, and surprising hooks, or you’ll seek out a more colorful record.

Nevertheless, Vacation is an all-around solid effort, undeniably fun and would serve nicely as a soundtrack for the rest of summer.

Where Minaj is fantastical and over-the-top, Haze is understated and raw.

Big Time might be the most direct view into Olsen — at least in the context of a full band. It’s a masterful, emotional body of work ready to fit any mood, and it’s yet another successful sea change for one of indie music’s most consistent artists.

The city has changed, and so have Vampire Weekend — but underneath the layers of grime, graffiti, and garbage, their eclectic spirit remains unbroken.

While concise in length, MAGDALENE paces FKA twigs through the unguarding of her traumas, ceremoniously giving way for her next act.

Not many artists reach 20 albums, and even fewer do it with such aplomb. Or, to put it another way: here’s to 20 more.

All told, the story undun tells is sometimes chilling, often thrilling, and always illuminating.

While 20 tracks seems exhausting, to the contrary, he captures our attention throughout, especially with his clever zingers. His pen is sharper than the last time.

The melodies are clearer, pushed up in the mix, given agency by their immediacy. The psych bits have earned an assured swagger, spiraling out from the center of songs.

Nas saved the best for last, if this is the trilogy’s end. KDIII is the exclamation point at the end of his career’s most consistently dope stretch. It pays tribute to everything that came before it while whetting the appetite for what’s next.

With Jaime, Howard proves what many of us already speculated: The magic behind Alabama Shakes was Brittany Howard.

From beginning to end, Bandana is a perfectly-paced album. Madlib never lingers on a single musical idea as he chops samples and switches beats, often midway through songs. Meanwhile, Gibbs, an expert in flows and rhythms, glues each song together with his undaunted, straightforward performances, which offer an illusion of effortlessness.

The music is compelling and challenging from start to finish, a triumph of substance and style.

All We Love We Leave Behind stands tall within Converge's discography as yet another glowing example of how to make art out of aggression.

After Visions, the only thing Grimes could do was to grow as big as the landscape around her. Here’s her mountain.

The first big album of 2022 delivers like an 80 lb. baby.

Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness doesn't need rose-colored lens for appreciation. The album's success still lies from all the stylistic risks the band assumed, especially in comparison to music other alternative bands were creating at the time.

Kindred as a whole is easily the most exciting Burial release since Untrue redefined dubstep way back in 2007.

While her songwriting has always been among the most powerful of the past decade, it’s not only refreshing, but thrilling, to see Big Thief take a broader sonic direction without ever losing the raw passion that put them on the map.

I Loved You At Your Darkest is another strong addition to Behemoth’s remarkable run, which has now lasted more than a quarter century. It reveals some welcome growth within a subgenre of heavy music that has often been resistant to evolution.

What makes Cadillactica arguably his best full-length to date is that he’s never sounded more determined to chart every foot--or every layer of atmosphere--in between.

The album works best as a single, unified listen.

Brand New manage to reinvent themselves while also recapturing the essence of what’s made them so special and enduring.

While a handful of tracks (around the belly) don’t live up to their legend, hearing Homegrown after all these years rates as a fine gift for Young to leave to his legions of fans … and, hell, humanity.

Before putting it on, make sure you have an hour to yourself to just let it wash over you. Callahan’s ambition and essence haven’t been diminished by him being in a good headspace. He’s a man born to tell stories, and he’s no less of a storyteller than he was in his early 30s.

Though it’s essentially yelled through a megaphone atop a weird, gaudy castle, it’s music that provokes a response because of how immediate it feels.

Indigo, which RM describes as “a sun-bleached record faded like old jeans,” feels like a gift to his own creative spirit as much as it does a gift to the listeners.

She doesn’t convey specific messages or exhaustively detail narratives, but to listen to each song on Have You in My Wilderness is to inhabit a feeling in all of its pain and all of its glory.

Monáe is, as always, a true master of melding genres, influences, and styles. Her central themes of identity and internal conflict are as tangible on Dirty Computer as they ever have been.

It’s a neat inversion that yields some of the most thrillingly ambitious indie rock compositions of this decade, though one that occasionally exhausts the listener into submission.

Blackstar is a battle cry against boredom, a wide-eyed drama set in a world just beyond our scopes. It doesn’t get more Bowie than that.

Navigating between crestfallen country ballads and rollicking rockers, Something More Than Free showcases Isbell’s musical diversity without sacrificing a pinch of lyrical precision.

m b v creates a new timeline for My Bloody Valentine, and one that recalls the past in a broader and bolder light. They’re better for it, their catalog is stronger for it, and by album’s end, they’re still the best at swirling guitars.

Although her bio insists that the narratives within the record aren’t intended to comment on gender roles, My Woman strikes down the notion that neither Olsen’s artistry nor her womanhood can be limited.

Javelin is indeed a wondrous meeting of the human and the synthetic, of stripped-down immediacy and lush, impressionistic extravagance.

For the first time in a long time, an artist riding on hype surfaced with an album that lives up to the very hype that lifted it. Better yet, in time, Blonde will surpass its hype. The album’s greatest feat is its ability to expand when it’s listened to in a new mindset, each reveal seemingly so apparent that you wonder how you missed it the first time.

Fans hoping for a repeat of the accessibility and groove of the self-titled album or the spasticity and rawness of earlier albums might be disappointed, but You Won’t Get What You Want is a brave and excellent addition to Daughters’ discography.

It’s a consummate piece of work, and an evocative way to honor both personal and public history.

The album proves the singer’s will to catapult into greatness, standing as a testament to just how far a great front-person can push a tried-and-true formula.

Despite its heightened complexity, Too Bright still fosters an intelligible world where Hadreas can bridge the distance between his vulnerability and self-assuredness.

Guppy lures you in with fine-crafted honey, before blindsiding you with a sudden downpour of vinegar (or piss, take your pick). This is why they call it “power pop.”

This album redefines Swans by gathering the best of its past and re-centering the music on impulse and interplay, built with a preternatural sense of how long to let a section develop before moving on to the next idea

David Berman is one of our greatest living songwriters and he’s returned in beautiful, melancholic form as Purple Mountains to speak to the lifelong nihilistic depressive in all of us.

There are fewer moments of complete chaos, giving over instead to more detailed-oriented dissections of experiences from puberty. While this might sound like dangerous territory for an artist who’s known for searing riffs and vicious live performances that include screaming into the pickups of her guitar, Mitski uses her voice to measure the slightest nuances within complex emotions.

By peeling back the layers of his persona, Ghersi breaks himself down in an attempt to find rebirth, trying to reconcile with his past and present. The result is his most daring and enthralling record yet.

Former Kanye mentor No I.D., DJ Dahi, and Clams Casino handle production on the album, but they work together with Staples so that the seams between the different dreams, hallucinations, memories, and nightmares don’t show.

Vulnicura is smooth and whole, even as its singer lies shattered.

There’s a rewarding quality to stumbling across a band that at least has the ambition to move beyond convention, even if the results don’t always strike an even keel.

With Ctrl, SZA proves that the cult following that ballooned with the release of her 2014 mixtape, Z, was not some flash in the pan, but a deserved wellspring of attention from an adoring fan base whose faith in what she had yet to produce helped to produce the project that could eventually stand as the best thing she has ever done.

There’s an excellent three track run from “What if…,” an energetic song that samples Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s “Shimmy Shimmy Ya,” into mid-tempo standout “Safety Zone” before a touch of Hope World familiarity returns in the optimistic “Future.”

Tillman’s writing, already literate and caustically funny, has progressed as well as his arrangements.

Throughout Virgins, Hecker organizes things just a little bit off, pokes at it just enough to be unsettling, and then pushes things away just when they start to make sense. Music has so clearly affected him, and now he’s making sure it’s doing the same for you.

Be the Cowboy shows that love and loss can be grand and small at the same time. That two minutes is more than enough time to melt down emotion into a pure concentrate and nearly drown yourself in it. That every moment can be a epic love story, that every heartbreak can be as hard and small as a pearl and just as coveted.

Its feeling lingers long after her patient request. Despite the humor, wit, and sharp-edge of illuminati hotties, there’s a definable sense of sadness throughout the album, and its resulting resonance is a major success for Sarah Tudzin and Co.

Deftones have only ever produced good albums, but they’ve also spent the decade since Diamond Eyes exploring textures and soundscapes, sometimes at the expense of songcraft. Ohms breaks that trend, with more focused songs, and a renewed love of hard-rocking guitar riffs that may rekindle the band’s relationship with fans that jumped ship after White Pony.

Wet Leg is by all means a daring debut for the duo, demonstrating that the success of “Chaise Longue” was not at all an accident.

Random Access Memories proves that Daft Punk remain masters of their domain, who defend their array of superlatives because of, rather than in spite of, unconventional sound choices.

Norman Fucking Rockwell! proves (again) Del Rey as a fully-realized artist who has remained true to her obsessions — aesthetic, cultural, and personal — outlasting the misogynist criticisms that could have derailed her early career. Del Rey delivers a gaze that swivels internally and externally, that can simultaneously observe our national existential dread and her own sudden hope for a “Hallmark” love.

It's pretty impossible to be disappointed with the result here: crisp remastering of the original 10 songs, plus 18 Gish-era tracks, demos and live versions, many of which are being released officially for the first time here.

After one listen or 10, In Colour reflects brightly, a phenomenally poised and universally approachable solo debut.

The Weeknd have brought something much more, something much needed: something real. Kudos.

While the bonus material is nice, they won't likely reinvent people's appreciation for the record, which is more or less foolproof as it is. But the reissue should call people's attention back to a record that, over time, has only grown in stature as one of the most vital and enduring musical statements of its era.

With High Crimes, The Damned Things arrive at a truly unique blend of styles. They also marry heaviness and melody without sacrificing the punch or attack of the music, providing a refreshing new twist on heavy rock that came straight from left field.

On Isolation, she never sounds trapped in another era; she sounds free and inventive. And with nary a dud to be found among its 15 tracks, Isolation deserves a spot in the dance pop and neo-soul pantheons.

The music’s vision and beauty hold together regardless, a sturdy and unparalleled step of confidence.

Death of a Cheerleader is a cohesive, emotionally affecting work. With this album, Mia Berrin solidifies her place among the newest class of indie stalwart songwriters, carving out this space in a fearless and vulnerable way.

Part Lies is a goodbye to the fans who have been around for years but a hello to those who missed out the first time 'round. And that is all truth.

If you’re already a fan of Voivod, then you know how incredibly unique they are, and the quality of songwriting on The Wake is top-notch, making it one of the strongest metal albums of the year. Voivod have progressed exponentially since their raw punkish days.

This is the best album for 2011, and not just the last two months.

We just get to experience the full potential and realization of her creativity, which fortunately encountered technology apt enough to record it.

This isn’t so much an evolution, but a complete restructuring of Van Etten’s sound. It’s her OK Computer if you want to get frank.

Of course, the album is a highly polished product and not some diary page. But it feels lived in, truthful, authentic.

This is music inspired by what you remember hearing as a kid from your parents’ and grandparents’ record collections, but it’s been made fresh and totally original again.

Written for one lucky baby boy, A Sailor’s Guide to Earth also welcomes the unmarried, infertile, abandoned, and middle-aged with unconditional love. If Father’s Day is just another Sunday, let Simpson be your proxy.

Are We There functions best as the portrait of an artist coming into her own, while hopefully putting some of her demons to rest.

The album is a shoo-in for being a timeless great, no matter what we say. Vernon's got the magic touch. But it's lacking that original sense of urgency that flowed so freely in and out of For Emma, making it so genuine and so incredibly listenable.

The 19 tracks burn and rampage, sure, but they're sure to leave you standing there, mouth agape, begging for more.

James has primed the Aphex Twin for its next metamorphosis--one that has promised to be more combustible than the beats that ground SYRO.

Fay's songs sound as if they've simply been hanging out in the ether for all these years, just waiting to be put to tape.

Teens of Denial takes its power from its absence of blind spots, its lack of Freudian suppression. Toledo looks long at himself and us, a sort of nauseous survivor of modernity. Sometimes just the looking itself is enough.

From the chaotic opening to the cathartic ending, Krlic’s score works wonders, while engrossing enough to stand on its own outside of the film as well.

The original was proof that Nas, a cat known to bathe in ’90s aesthetics, could spin gold with a producer known for the exact opposite. KD2 fulfills that idea, as the pair double down on what worked the first time, toss aside what didn’t, and find the perfect center between 2021 and 1991.

His LP offers enough lyrical courses to chew through. What it lacks is minor and, given his immense talent, a tad comical: vocal delivery that follows through on the words’ emotion.

Run the Jewels is the very synthesis of El-P and Mike’s shared admiration and cohesive worldviews, an effort of the purest collaboration and mutual understanding.

They’ve turned themselves into a ravenous rock deity, a masterful songwriter whose every release demands attention. And while the title of the album refers to one who Chews But Does Not Consume, it’s the kind of project that swallows you whole.

The success owes a good deal to the production, sparse and specific, and always in tune with Miguel's tenor.

With a lilting piano, soft strums, and the pats of a bongo at most, Once I Was An Eagle strips the art of Marling down to her barest.

Like Icky Mettle before it, reminds modern listeners of just how unhinged their sound was, especially when compared to those that came after them.

Though House of Sugar can be a difficult record, those who take the time to delve into its layers will be treated to a piece that captures the modern psyche in a way few other pieces of art manage to do.

It’s a bit of cruel irony that in the face of so much adversity, the band has somehow managed to helm their most creative and compelling album in over 20 years. It may be hard for the band to recognize it, but believe it or not, Foo Fighters are learning to live again.

An unprecedented two-and-a-half-hour journey into the typically guarded Merritt’s life, the album is as revealing as it is resonant.

After claiming his place in the spotlight by overwhelming force with The Epic, Kamasi Washington capitalizes on both his newfound fame and his journeyman work ethic to produce a follow-up that’s more intimate and just as daring at the same time.

Their final record is fittingly cyclical, beginning in the death of love and ending in death alone, full of transportive moments and beauty along the way. And though there may never be another Dillinger Escape Plan record, this one is perfectly suited and deserving of massive replays to come.

At this point in their career, Loewenstein and Barlow had found the perfect balance between their creative powers, and it shows quite brightly on Bakesale. To that end, any amount of extra proof that Sebadoh can dig up to prove that point should be welcomed happily.

Unshackled, Yoakam casually eschews his established sound for new ones, and although these pop experimentations won't please country music fundamentalists or single-searching radio executives, Yoakam has legitimized himself as an artist.

The band sounds like they’re having fun, and humor is such a scarcity in the super serious realm of modern metal. Deeper Than Sky is fun to listen to, like the carefree thrash of old.

The songs have more personal bite and emotional density. They have a soul.