Expanding their lineup with a second drummer, Thee Oh Sees are allowed to stretch their sound and release one of their most cosmic, trippiest records yet.

Their third record is their best, a meandering, wild, untamable masterpiece from a front man who refuses to stop studying and refuses to be predictable.

Rainbow may not contain the electrobops you expect from Kesha Sebert, but at its heart, it does possess what drew everyone to her in the first place: confidence, sonic booms, and an assurance that everything will be alright when the storm clears.

New View isn’t the crowning jewel in Friedberger’s catalogue, but it is a beautiful, unadorned meditation on life’s most delicate mysteries: potential, narrative, and the passage of time.

Because it deviates from what fans expected, Sweetener takes a couple rotations to sink in, but if you give it time, you’ll see Ariana Grande really threw it down when she took down her ponytail.

Even though it doesn’t do nearly enough to distinguish itself from the band’s earlier albums, it’s an enjoyable enough listen that it’s not too hard to excuse its flaws.

For Sigur Rós, Kveikur is their most gloves-off release to date and they land the punch.

It lacks the game-changing element of The Earth is Not a Cold Dead Place or Those Who Tell the Truth. Instead of pushing into new universes, they’re content to find a quiet corner in one they’ve already built. That being said, the craft involved is evident, and there’s an assuredness and polish to the compositions; the fingerprints of a veteran group.

Alabama Shakes don’t rock the boat necessarily, but by refining the formula, they’ve proven they can succeed with a model that has become all too easy to fail with in recent years.

Because of its contemplative nature, Crawl Space functions best as a deep listen rather than a casual playlist; while pleasant, its concentrated complexity requires attention to fully appreciate Teicher’s vision.

Ratchet isn’t an unqualified triumph. But the album doesn’t have to be perfect to be a success. Its highs are high enough that its lows can be forgiven, or forgotten entirely.

Generally speaking, where Black Panther succeeds most is in these moments where Kendrick blends South African and American sounds together.

There are moments on Julia where he succeeds in creating the important and honest music he wants to make. Of course, when you’re using a shotgun, you’re bound to hit something.

Feist is sounding her most directional in a decade.

The Ooz is an Archy Marshall hash, the strange scraps of his brain stewed into something unrecognizable and delicious.

Beach House’s new record 7, lives up to all the hype you can heap on it and more. 7 is massive and intimate, dense yet understandable, fresh yet classic.

The best release from one of the most exciting artists of the 2010s.

Little Fictions is another solid entry in the Elbow catalog.

It’s a truly overwhelming amount of a somewhat good thing.

Tell Me How You Really Feel peaks midway, on “Nameless, Faceless”. The album’s lead single, with its descending guitar notes and a Margaret Atwood reference, finds Barnett employing old tools to tackle a newsworthy social ill. It’s breathless and gutting, a short and sweet examination of sex and violence. It draws blood, but so does the rest of the album.

The vocals on You’re Nothing, however, are much more emotive and indicative of a newfound acknowledgement of the singer’s vulnerability as a frontman. The result is anything but sappy.

Highlights are everywhere if you give them time to reveal themselves.

Drunk continues Thundercat’s slow ascent; his most ambitious work yet, one that wants you take it as a whole so you can experience getting drunk alongside Thundercat and stumble through the streets at 3 AM.

More than ever, Willner’s own soul is put on display through his repurposing of sound, and what results is both synthetic and organic, both detailed and blurry, further cementing The Field’s reputation in the electronic ether.

There are no wasted notes, no wasted time, and nothing but the impulse to listen again.

Her signature honest, unpretentious vocals shine through on each track, conveying her struggle with each note she sings.

This is music that moves the body along with the spirit, a damn fine step in the right direction.

With We Are The 21st Century Ambassadors of Peace and Magic, Foxygen is a breath of fresh air, reviving a vintage style of songwriting in a new and creative fashion.

Impressively condensed to under an hour, Cashmere’s thrilling tale of two MCs stands as a worthy achievement indeed. Musically, it holds up in the same way actual cashmere holds heat: better than most.

As welcome as is this darker tone, the unapologetic sonic uniformity makes it difficult to pick out individual songs.

CHVRCHES have constructed a debut record that will not lose its luster with each successive spin, and proven that they have the substance to remain aloft as their cosmic kin come crashing down to Earth.

Both Doris and The Sun’s Tirade are filled with sleepy beats, are overly long, and while Earl Sweatshirt sounded mechanical and detached through most of that album, Isaiah Rashad has yet to really develop his persona/presence.

My Krazy Life is in essence a retooling of GKMC, and YG comes out, unexpectedly, as a talented and believable vessel for the story that the album tells to express itself.

There are so many moments when the music seems on the verge of exploding, but never does, and that’s ultimately to the album’s detriment.

Assume Form is at its best, unsurprisingly, when he works at the periphery of his formulae.

With their latest album SJDK give the people what they want, even if they didn’t know how much they wanted it.

Smartly abandoning the sappy balladry that alienated many on his debut album, Pluto, and trimming all the excess fat that made Honest, an otherwise solid sophomore effort, feel largely uneven, Future goes for the gut and DS2 can pack a wallop.

Yes Lawd! cuts a deep groove and doesn’t let up for nearly an hour of R&B/hip-hop bliss.

Despite consisting of well-crafted, thoughtful songs, the emotional gutpunch that is to be expected from a Grouper album never quite arrives over multiple listens.

Lazaretto will likely have little impact on his legacy one way or the other, but it’s a solid addition to his catalogue.

It is by no means comfortable, but it results in an album that is experienced rather than simply listened to.

Big Baby D.R.A.M. makes it clear he’s interested in a lot more than just writing breezy radio tunes. The only problem is that’s unequivocally what he’s best at.

Psychic’s gloriously protracted exhales leave you no choice but to slow down and move at its pace.

Though More Life has its faults, Drake clearly worked hard on it. If the first thing you notice about More Life is its monolithic runtime, the second is how obvious it is that Drizzy is doing his damnedest to get your cosign.

With On Your Own Love Again, Jessica Pratt has crafted a record that is as accessible as it is complex, two traits that she proves are not mutually exclusive.

It goes down like a reimagined debut, because it introduces a newly carefree, naturally focused Neon Indian.

While the album itself bleeds originality, the solos themselves are almost interchangeable, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

It’s Album Time is a lock-tight demonstration of how crucial time is in the cultivation process. As a result, Todd Terje curated one of the most enjoyable albums that will cross our desk this year.

Basically, this particular ambient music doesn’t lend much intellectual export or posterity that Eno so often claims to pursue. (Being slower isn’t necessarily a sign of intellectual maturity.) His approach may show it, but that’s his prerogative. Nothing wrong with staying in a mood, but this mood--whatever it is--sounds pretty played-out to me.

No matter how successful an individual composition is, though, each of these songs stand atop a sturdy foundation of life-affirming lyrics and towering melodies. Few bands can deliver music so uncynical, so exultant, and (yes) so hummable without skidding into schlock.

It’s not so much a new sound as it is a more robust, balanced sound--a beautiful chair perfectly placed in an already beautiful room.

These eleven joyous anthems and campfire sing-alongs find Harvey striding across fresh stylistic ground. Despite their bleak topicality, vibrant optimism radiates out from lyrical melancholy. Sonic warmth envelops the album like a sumptuous blanket.

Time will tell if this record is a blueprint for a new way or something significantly less. For now, it remains one of the most compelling genre albums of the early year.

It’s simply, as mentioned, unpretentious, unassuming, and crucially, good music.

Universal Themes covers so much ground, it can’t help but live up to its name.

A heavy-hitting, beautifully arranged EP that might or might not have been recorded between 2006 and 2008.

Nothing Was the Same is filled with beats that are a joy to listen to and Drake often has worthwhile things to contribute. But, more and more, his confidence is getting the best of him.

On No Burden, Dacus follows up the stellar opening track with a wonderful debut album full of bigger, bolder slow-burn anthems and subtle epics.

On The Moon Rang Like a Bell, Hundred Waters offers an album of quiet moments of subtlety juxtaposed with crashing waves of desperation.

Catchy as anything choruses, short track times, tight and sparse rhythms make this a record I wish came out when I was in high school. If the record does have a fault, is that it colors inside the lines.

Clocking in at 61 minutes, Alternate/Endings haphazardly splices together twelve breath-stealing drum & bass tracks recorded throughout 2012 and 2013; the result is more a tasting menu than an actual statement.

Beat the Champ, while it ain’t Songs in the Key of Life, keeps up the move toward eclectic instrumental color.

Its arc is more satisfying than those of Narkopop or Konigsförst, though it lacks either of those albums’ sense of vastness. It certainly pales next to Pop and the underloved Zauberberg, which I’ve always felt were tied for the title of Voigt’s masterpiece.

What makes The Healing Component most compelling lies in the confidence behind its explorations, Jenkins probing various subjects and, oftentimes, coming to less formal conclusions and more open-ended questions.

Even songs that aren’t so charged are worthy of our attention, either for her vocals or some other worthwhile detail.

It seems as though Dylan Baldi has effectively evolved from a musical loner trying to go it alone to a mature frontman fully integrated in a strong and cohesive band. It seems as though Dylan Baldi has finally become a punk.

Title track aside, this a really good album by a really sketchy guy.

Woman works because it balances restraint and candor, presenting love in neither a chaste nor debauched light. Milosh, through his gossamer vocals, delivers a message of stunning clarity: despite the risk, love is beautiful.

Not quite the panacea that will usher in world peace, Days Are Gone is still a remarkable effort.

While this sort of economic chords and vocal/guitar/bass/drum hardcore punk rock record is easy to come by, what’s rarer is when its aggression--not necessarily just in the vocals and lyrics--comes from someplace genuine.

Perhaps one of the most macabre albums of the year, Okovi shines in its ability to beautifully illustrate a disturbing but ultimately shared human experience.

Quavo, Takeoff, and Offset breeze through it all with a contagious confidence that makes for a fun and surprisingly accessible album.

The record may be about repeating, but Jaar has yet to repeat himself.

Truthfully, every song is a goodie, except “Sense”, which is a minute of breathing room which won’t kill you to listen to.

Here and Nowhere Else’s disposition for self-examination coaxes out a superior depth and nuance when stacked against Cloud Nothings’ previous works.

While it’s no masterpiece, Pure Heroine is unique and engaging enough to keep the conversation going.

What makes Cerulean Salt so enjoyable and so endlessly relistenable is that some of her snapshots likely resemble ones from your own lost photo albums.

Punitive, scientifically exacting, and obstinately anti-melodic, Factory Floor is a bizarre, kinetic manifesto that rewards your attention while it screams at you to move your body.

No, TMLT is not as precise as The Monitor, nor as pleasurable. It does, however, surpass it in imagination and aim. This alone cements The Most Lamentable Tragedy as one of this year’s greatest rock records.

On Spiritual Songs for Lovers to Sing, Roberts and Hoorn deliver a beautiful album filled with bombastic, gothic and anthemic hymns that aim for deliverance.

All of the songs (minus one useless interlude) had at least something worth returning to.

In the show’s context, this soundtrack is a solid A. Evocative, thrilling, and dynamic, it’s everything you could possibly want from a TV score. On its own, it’s one of the most refreshingly forward-thinking electronic releases of the year, even if the tracklist could use some cleaning up.

The best song comes early in “Ghostface Killers”, with an excellent rapped chorus from Offset that’s been running through my head since the tape dropped and Travis Scott sounding excellent as always even if he doesn’t say much anything at all.

The height at which Oxymoron’s target is set is not very impressive, but the precision and showmanship with which it’s hit deserves commendation.

Twelve Reasons to Die is a straightforward concept album, and it’s very well done.

Fans of Marnie’s music are fully aware of what an album of hers going to bring, and on The Chronicles of Marnia, she brings it.

With each album Real Estate has sharpened this process, making Atlas both immediately recognizable and their most interesting album to date.

It doesn’t provide the thrill-a-minute jolts of Light Up Gold, but Parquet Courts may yet become a garage punk band that millennials can call our own.

So It Goes comes as close to hardcore as an album with this sonic palette can: dense, immediate, energetic, and uniquely inclusive.

The album is one giant, immaculate anachronism, unimpeachable, but rarely brave.

For the most part, Silver Gymnasium makes for an uplifting and triumphant listen, with a positive energy running through the music and the melodies.

The title may be a little hyperbolic, but what it lacks in realism it makes up for in groovy new-wave guitar licks, other-worldly instrumentation and production par excellence.

The band may love the sounds of Built to Spill and Superchunk a little too much, but they’re also far too adventurous to settle for apery, least of all on LOSE. It’s their best work yet.

This album moves and soothes, if it does anything at all.

It’s not something that plays as well in the daylight. But when it soundtracks your darker, interior night life, it’s like being given a tailored suit. Everything fits, and the sum effect is something sharp and modern.

Critically, this may not move many needles. But to casual listeners, Wild Beasts are on a mission to refine their own definition. This is must-witness music at its very finest.

For a producer who’s produced songs for a who’s who of modern artists (including the occasional non-rapper like Lana Del Rey), he mostly sticks to his guns on his debut album, which applies to both the sonics (there was no way any producer sampling Annie’s “Anthonio”--the Berlin Breakdown version--was going to be bad; that’s the ear-worming sample doing all the heavy-lifting on “Overdue”) and the features.