Complex's 25 Best Albums of 2011

When The Weeknd’s debut mixtape, *House of Balloons*, dropped in 2011, it was clear, even then, that something had shifted. This was a divergent kind of R&B that hinged on atmospherics over vocal prowess—an almost soulless quality in a genre built around soul. At the time, The Weeknd was largely anonymous, hiding in the shadows of his own music, the aloofness only adding to the allure. He was no one and yet everyone, as his raw, bruised candor resonated with fans suffering the effects of overexposure and contradicting desires to both feel and be numb simultaneously. He was a decent enough singer (his falsetto often drew comparisons to Michael Jackson), but it was the one-two punch of the nocturnal sound and indulgent lyrics—the darkness, the dysfunction, the hazy synth-bath of it all—that gave it staying power. When he says, “Trust me, girl, you wanna be high for this,” as he declares on the opening track, it\'s hard to tell whether it\'s an invitation or a warning, but it landed on ears that were all too happy to oblige. *House of Balloons*, here now in its original form with all samples restored, introduces the sentiment that has underscored nearly all of The Weeknd\'s music that\'s followed: a blurring of the lines between love and addiction, between having a good time and being consumed by it. In multi-part songs such as “House of Balloons/Glass Table Girls” and “The Party & The After Party,” a night\'s zenith and nadir are never too far apart; his audience, like his women, are held captive by the mercurial nature of his moods. A line like “Bring your love, baby, I could bring my shame/Bring the drugs, baby, I could bring my pain,” from lead single “Wicked Games,” serves as a kind of mission statement for the mixtape\'s (and, perhaps, the singer himself\'s) central tension. In the exchange of affection and substances, there exists an emotional transference wherein power is gained by feeling the least. The Weeknd taps into our id-driven urges for pleasure and domination and rewards them again and again. Cruelty somehow becomes sexy in this world where detachment—from everything—is the only goal; the music that he’s created as a soundtrack continues to leave its audience equally insatiable. As the years go by, *House of Balloons* has become increasingly timeless. It remains as much an exercise in mythmaking (and star-making) for The Weeknd as a testament to our own pathological impulses, sending us barreling towards destruction and ecstasy all at once.

Drake\'s still fretting about lost love, the perils of fame, and connecting with his fellow man; just look at him on the cover, staring into a golden chalice like a lonely king. These naked emotions, however, are what make *Take Care* a classic, placing Drake in a league with legendary emoters like Marvin Gaye and Al Green. \"Marvin\'s Room\" is one of the most sullen singles to hit the Top 100, and the winsome guitar howls of the title track, coproduced by Jamie xx, are among of the most recognizable sounds of the decade.

The rapper formerly known as K-Dot had built a buzz prior to his 2011 breakthrough album, but the Compton native still had everything to prove: In spite of a coveted co-sign from Dr. Dre, he was barely out of the shadow of his Top Dawg Entertainment labelmate Jay Rock, on whose tour Lamar still regularly served as hype-man. Los Angeles’ old guard of gangsta rap greats was waning; the hottest trend in L.A. rap around the time Lamar was forming his Black Hippy super-group (alongside Jay Rock, Ab-Soul, and ScHoolboy Q) was the jerkin’ movement, a fun but frivolous dance craze. Los Angeles hip-hop needed a new hero, and Lamar stepped up to the plate. But *Section.80* was far from a bid for mainstream attention. Over jazzy beats suited for contemplative spells, Lamar raps like he’s searching, bar by bar, for answers to America’s biggest questions, turning a critical eye on his own reality and the systems that reinforce it. The title itself combines Section 8 housing, the low-income developments in which Lamar was raised, with the decade of Lamar’s birth; he thus fashioned himself an ambassador for a generation raised under Ronald Reagan and the crack epidemic. “You know why we crack babies? Because we born in the ’80s,” Lamar spits on lead single “A.D.H.D.,” a generational study as sharp as it is catchy. Ultimately, though, *Section.80* channels that unrest into a quest for enlightenment; on the knocking “HiiiPower,” Lamar conjures visions of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X. and urges listeners to “build your own pyramids, write your own hieroglyphs.” Upon the album\'s release, some listeners thought this stuff was too radical for Lamar to ever fully break into the mainstream; but the maverick was on the threshold of something even bigger.

Jermaine Cole left Fayetteville, North Carolina in 2003 to attend college in New York City. He’d go on to graduate magna cum laude, but the aspiring rapper and producer had bigger dreams—ones that compelled him to stalk JAY-Z’s Roc the Mic Studio, his demo CD in hand. It wasn’t J. Cole’s loitering habit that would make him the first artist signed to Hov\'s brand-new Roc Nation imprint in 2009, though; it was years spent scribbling in notebooks, studying the sampling techniques of Just Blaze and 9th Wonder, and releasing a steady stream of underground mixtapes. “Lights Please,” rich with hip-hop-as-woman symbolism (à la Common’s “I Used to Love H.E.R.”) and a beat that could’ve come from pre-*College Dropout* Kanye West, was the track that particularly caught JAY-Z\'s ear. No flash, no gimmicks, just straight-up great rapping. Though he’d released a couple of acclaimed mixtapes via Roc Nation in the years leading up to his official studio debut, it was 2011’s *Cole World: The Sideline Story* that positioned the unassuming rapper among a new hip-hop generation’s upper echelons. The handful of radio smashes—including the massive Kanye sample flip of “Work Out” and the steamy Drake collaboration “In the Morning”—were proof Cole had bona fide star power. Mostly, though, *Sideline Story* felt like backpack rap gently retooled for the big leagues, with candid storytelling (including, on “Lost Ones,” a heavy back-and-forth between a couple deciding whether to keep an unborn child) over largely self-produced beats. Occasionally, Cole sounds a bit awed that the whole thing worked out, which couldn’t be more of an understatement: *Sideline Story* was one of the biggest hip-hop debuts of the 2010s, setting the foundation for a generational talent in his own lane.

England’s enigmatic WU LYF (World Unite Lucifer Youth Foundation, anyone?) pulls off an interesting feat: it merges a roar of discontent with a reassuring embrace, telling us that even though the world is messed up, everything will be okay: we will survive! Singer Ellery Roberts’ sandpapered yelp is similar to Future Island’s Samuel Herring, but Roberts is 90% indecipherable, which doesn’t deter fans from singing along, fists raised in solidarity with whatever it is he’s singing about. (When Roberts yowls a simple phrase like “I wanna feel at home,” it sounds more like “Whaa-fill-ay-yo!”) Actually, the magic of Roberts’ delivery is that an attuned listener quickly gets the gist of his message from the smashing crescendos, mercurial organ notes, and the fluttering guitar chords that go from reedy, chiming solemnity to chatty uplift between bridge and chorus. This isn’t date-night indie pop (though the joyful “We Bros” hints at it); it’s disillusioned protest music, an emotional steam-letting tool, a personal Monday morning resentment soundtrack. Don\'t be surprised if you end up growling along, waving your Bic lighter in the car on the way to work.

Beginning with a beeping flatline and ending with a four-part instrumental suite, *Undun* tells the tragedy of Redford Stevens—according to ?uestlove, a character who’s “young, gifted, black, and unraveling”—in reverse. Juxtaposing Black Thought’s bittersweet bars with indie folk, the group’s tenth album encompasses wordless, heart-wrenching Sufjan Stevens samples (“Redford \[For Yia-Yia & Pappou\]”) as well as the poignant boom bap of “Make My,” where, alongside Big K.R.I.T. and Dice Raw, Black Thought raps, “If there’s a heaven, I can’t find a stairway.”

On their sophomore album, Bon Iver add just a touch of color to their stark indie folk, while retaining every bit of its intimacy. The haunting chill of solitude continues to cling to Justin Vernon\'s every word, even when his lilting falsetto radiates warmth over a rich bed of acoustic guitar, synths, and horns. The drama exudes from every little sound—the soft, pattering snare guiding \"Perth,\" the delicate whirrs of sax on \"Holocene,\" and the big, gleaming synths on \'80s-esque noir jam \"Beth / Rest.\"

Bon Iver, Bon Iver is Justin Vernon returning to former haunts with a new spirit. The reprises are there – solitude, quietude, hope and desperation compressed – but always a rhythm arises, a pulse vivified by gratitude and grace notes. The winter, the legend, has faded to just that, and this is the new momentary present. The icicles have dropped, rising up again as grass.

Hailing from rural Alabama, Yelawolf has gone from perpetually struggling, under-underground emcee to critical darling with a major-label deal and huge budget in just a few short years. *Radioactive* is his first big release (he dropped *Creek Water* in 2005, and also has a bunch of mixtapes to his credit). This pairs him up with a gang of superstars, such as Kid Rock (\"Let\'s Roll\"), Lil Jon (\"Hard White\"), and Killer Mike (\"Slumerican Shitizen\"). Stylistically, he comes with an angsty, machine-gun flow strikingly similar to Eminem (who signed him to Shady Records and also appears on the excellent \"Throw It Up\"), with hard rock and country-flavored tracks backing lyrics about small-town living, trailer park poverty, dues paid, and a lifetime of struggle. With its ultra-slick production (from Will Power, Diplo, J.U.S.T.I.C.E. League, and Jim Jonsin), and a co-sign from Mr. Shady himself, there\'s no doubt that Yelawolf could be very, very big. Don\'t miss \"Good Girl,\" \"Animal,\" and the autobiographical closer, \"The Last Song.\"

The first full-length release by producer and multi-instrumentalist Ernest Greene helped define the sound of the chillwave movement. *Within and Without* is a heady mix of throbbing bass and cleverly layered synth sounds underpinning Greene\'s tender, faded vocals. The single \"You and I,\" featuring Chairlift’s Caroline Polachek, is a particular high point. But from the sumptuous melodies of \"Eyes Be Closed\" and the uplifting \"Amor Fati\" to the blissed-out haze of \"Soft\" and the title track, Greene\'s relaxed, sensual vibe creates a sustained mood of pleasurable nostalgia.

Washed Out is the operational alias for Atlanta, GA’s Ernest Greene, and on July 12th, we at Sub Pop Records will be releasing the first Washed Out full-length, Within and Without. We are excited about this, to an almost unseemly degree. Greene recorded Within and Without with Ben Allen, who, among a great many other things, co-produced Animal Collective’s Merriweather Post Pavillion, Gnarls Barkley’s St. Elsewhere and Deerhunter’s Halcyon Digest. In 2009 Washed Out released two critically-acclaimed EPs; Life of Leisure (Mexican Summer) and High Times (Mirror Universe Tapes). Most recently, the Washed Out song “Feel It All Around,” from Life of Leisure, was chosen as the theme song for the new and very funny IFC series Portlandia, which features Saturday Night Live cast member Fred Armisen and Sleater-Kinney/Sub Pop alum and current Wild Flag member Carrie Brownstein. Early confirmed press for Within and Without includes a “Breaking Out” feature in the June issue of SPIN, as well as NPR “Song of the Day” coverage for the album’s lead track “Eyes Be Closed.”

When Childish Gambino, the project of visionary artist Donald Glover, released his debut album, *Camp*, in 2011, he was an alternative media phenomenon. The *Derrick Comedy* alumni and *30 Rock* writer made his name in improv long before he was a household name as a musician. It’s this mindset that informs his debut LP, *Camp*, an album as indebted to the quick-wittedness of his improv comedy roots as the rap albums he grew up idolizing. On the album opener, “Outside,” Glover outlines his feelings of loneliness and isolation from the community he was raised in. Over pulsating drums and a soulful choir, he raps, “Mrs. Glover ma’am, your son is so advanced/ But he’s acting up in class and keeps peeing in his pants/And I just wanna fit in, but nobody was helping me out/ They talking hood shit and I ain’t know what that was about.” On “Les,” Gambino raps over a heartbeat-like pulsing bass and stirring strings that accentuate his pop side. Aside from his versatility, the artist also found success thanks to the way he used the internet to harness his audience. It was a one-stop shop where he could interact with his fans and introduce them to his new music. *Camp* is a heady, intense album, with Glover introducing pop-rap beats as an obvious counterbalance to his heavy meditations on race, religion, and the unique role of hip-hop in the cultural sphere. The LP serves as an introduction to a style of music Gambino would hone over the years, blending intense, thought-provoking ideas with moments of levity and playfulness. Some would argue that he mastered this approach with his hit TV show *Atlanta*, but it all began with his debut album, *Camp*.

Wiz Khalifa’s breakthrough wafted so casually to the top of hip-hop’s 2011 heap it’s easy to miss how accomplished it actually was. It’s a party-rap album that happily parlays party-rap traditions into modern pop songwriting and production, in ways that helped crack open the conversation for what pop and hip-hop hybrids could be. And at a time when the luxurious melancholy of Drake was starting to cast its long, warm shadow over the culture, Wiz—like Snoop Dogg before him—presented himself as nothing more than a laidback dude looking for a good time. “They say all I rap about is bitches and champagne,” he shrugs on the album-opening “When I’m Gone.” “You would too if every night you seen the same thing.” The difference with Wiz is that you can tell he’s enjoying it. Lyrically, he’s a charm offensive: He’ll be there when you call (“Roll Up”), he loves his camo shorts (“Taylor Gang”), and he wields his endless supply of joints like magic wands that, with a wave, can make the stress of daily life disappear (pretty much every song). But the sheer catchiness of the music—its sing-along choruses (“Black and Yellow”), its synthesizer sparkle (the benny blanco-produced “No Sleep”)—turn even his modest goals into the kind of anthems that elevate partying to a spiritual pursuit. “Know some who say life’s a bitch,” he raps on “The Race.” “Well, I’ma keep flirting.”