Part two of the year's best albums:
11. Cautious Clay KARPEH:
an immensely realized and rich embodiment of his jazz influences, something that had felt sorely absent from his debut. ‘Ohio’ mines his childhood in Cleveland for inspiration, atop the kind of saucy bassline Thundercat would be envious of; ‘The Tide Is My Witness’ is meticulously arranged, a superb fusion of dexterous playing and his light pop melodies. The through-line in his songwriting – centred on his family’s journey and history – that proves most arresting and memorable. On ‘Karpehs Don’t Flinch’, a stuttering sax solo is bookended by voice notes discussing Clay’s grandfather and the prejudices he faced towards his African heritage. In the final chapter’s ‘Unfinished House’, Clay nods to the tribulations of his paternal grandfather’s relationship with his marriage, children and the construction projects he left to flounder. These moments, struggles and joys give ‘Karpeh’ its potency. (NME)
12. RAYE MY 21ST CENTURY BLUES:
Raye's is a versatile, acrobatic soprano often enlivened with a shiver of falsetto. Layers of her gorgeous harmonies build into a wave over a metallic, relentless clack of tech percussion, never more so than the bittersweet duet with Mahalia, Five Star Hotels. Somewhere between the rave club, exploratory electro, RnB, bluesy jazz and soul, Raye has carved her own space and while it's a familiar cocktail, she owns it entirely. This is the soundtrack to a woman kicking free of the restrictive crush of her first record label Polydor, which she claims wouldn't let her release a debut album after seven years. (THE TELEGRAPH)
13. Olivia Rodrigo GUTS:
When she burst onto the world stage with her 2021 debut SOUR, a still-teenaged Olivia Rodrigo was suddenly one of the biggest pop stars in the world. If you can believe it, there's probably some pressure that comes with that. Fortunately, GUTS is the opposite of a sophomore slump: an impressive mix of tender ballads and pitch-perfect pop-punk that captures the highs and lows of adolescence and young adulthood with more honesty, empowerment and artistry than any Netflix teen movie. You could credit the earnestness and authenticity of Rodrigo's music for her ability to win fans among teenage girls and fully grown, snobby music bros and everyone in between — but really, it's just because pretty much every song on GUTS is flat-out excellent. (EXCLAIM)
14. Sampha LAHAI:
sees Sampha figuring out how to navigate this brave new world by forging links with his past (fitting, considering its title is taken from his paternal grandfather’s name, which is also his middle name). He sounds self-aware and conscious of the impact his words and actions can have—both on the people in his life and the larger world around him. Joan Didion once said that “we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not.” Lahai is an album that exemplifies that principle, as we see Sampha accepting responsibility and stepping into his future by evaluating the life’s path he’s walked so far and reconnecting with his innermost self. “Can’t we go back to how we were before?” he pleads on “Suspended” before answering his own shout into the void on “Can’t Go Back”: No, but “you can move forward slower.” (PASTE)
15. Troye Sivan SOMETHING TO GIVE EACH OTHER:
this is the space where Sivan is at his most human, something we haven’t wholly gotten in one of his records. He isn’t a showy singer, by any means, which he uses to his advantage. Throughout the album, he sings with a chilled poise, a testament to his growth and confidence in himself. The fact that he stays confined to a few octaves would normally draw ire from pop fans seeking flash and bombast; here, it’s his strong suit, making the album conversational and specific. “Something” may be rooted in the gay experience, but the sentiment is universal, and Sivan communicates it directly to listeners like a confessional. (VARIETY)
16. Lana Del Rey DID YOU KNOW…
:it’s rare that a performer has to vouch for her own genuineness, as Del Rey does on occasion here. But she has been a scourge, in some circles, leaving the rest of the pop world rooting for the anti-heroine. In the end, here, there is some irony, but it’s not in her persona — it’s in how the woman who changed her name to a nom de plume in the early stages of becoming a star ends up titling the first song on an album “The Grants,” and proceeding autobiographically from there. And open-heartedly, too. Lana Del Rey, accused for so long of striking a pose, may ironically be the most naked, least affected pop superstar we have right now. That’s something worth putting on a billboard. (VARIETY)
17. Animal Collective ISN’T IT NOW?:
nostalgia has always been a part of Animal Collective’s appeal: as with Brian Wilson or Syd Barrett, the quest for childlike perspectives was at the heart of their costuming. But the inherent naivety was met with sinister implications. The alien worlds they conjured allowed for the realization of cosmic horror, their Strawberry Jam could turn as sour as it was sweet, the dancing manatees overwhelm their human audience in sheer physical force. The deeper they ventured into their ocean, the more they welcomed hideous deep sea oddities. On Isn’t It Now?, the group abandons those implications in exchange for a deep, melancholic wistfulness that allows new listeners in. Where Centipede Hz, Spirit they’re gone… and Feels felt like partaking in a Willy Wonka facility tour (candy-casualties included), this newest effort is more interested in exploration than invention. Like following the development of a Miyazaki, there’s a sense of wonder to a fantastical realm, which harmonizes in a dreamlike logic. Emotional archeology, for beginners and experts alike, it resides among the group’s five best efforts. (BEATS PER MINUTE)
18. Jamila Woods WATER MADE US:
Woods brings irreverence, flexibility, and discipline to her writing, taking her time with each phrase and word placement. As a poet she needs to be clear, even if the lessons are uncertain. The steadfast quality of her lyricism brings to mind the pen games of others who have looked love squarely in the face and admitted it changed them: Carolyn Franklin, Stevie Nicks, SZA. This lineage of songwriters shares a fascination with the immediate aftermath of love—the morning after the breakup or the seconds following the revelation of infidelity. It’s not the sweeping emotions that compel them, but the moment in between separation and starting over. (PITCHFORK)
19. Slowthai UGLY:
self-reflection is an obvious key theme here, mixed up from a cocktail of a nationwide lockdown and taking up therapy and re-learning life lessons he’d already known. “Sooner” comes to the epiphany that striving to be liked by everyone is tiring. The cleverly narrative “Fuck It Puppet”, the word given by his therapist for the self-destructive imp sat on his shoulder following the same format as “Yum” – a voice in which he is fighting with. The woozy “Falling” poses the recurring question “You ever feel like falling? / You ever feel like you’re drifting through space?” meanwhile “Never Again” is a tale of pulling a council estate kid out of his environment and placing him in the metaphorical millionaire boys club, only for him to still be stuck in his roots, nothing changed or altered. (THE LINE OF BEST FIT)
20. Yaeji WITH A HAMMER:
Yaeji has said that With a Hammer, her full-length debut, was created in a maelstrom: suppressed childhood memories, rolling waves of alienation, anger at increased violence against Asian Americans, revelations during the Black Lives Matter uprisings of 2020, that euphoric pique when you finally realize you’re really not as small as the world would have you believe. In an accompanying 111-page booklet of her artwork, outfit photos, and song sketches, she includes an epic comic about a wizard dog that helps her unleash her anger—it emerges through her mouth in hammer form, of course—and the concept is both sweet and unexpectedly moving. In her own fury she locates creativity and beauty, experimentation and scrutiny, acerbity and warmth. In destruction, hammers create anew, and Yaeji seeks her own kind of rebirth, venturing musically beyond the club and finding deliverance in the sound of her voice. (PITCHFORK)
