musicOMH's Top 50 Albums of 2015

Following his scintillating debut under the Father John Misty moniker—2012’s *Fear Fun*—journeyman singer/songwriter Josh Tillman delivers his most inspired and candid album yet. Filled with gorgeous melodies and grandiose production, *I Love You, Honeybear* finds Tillman applying his immense lyrical gifts to questions of love and intimacy. “Chateau Lobby 4 (In C for Two Virgins)” is a radiant folk tune, burnished by gilded string arrangements and mariachi horn flourishes. Elsewhere, Tillman pushes his remarkable singing voice to new heights on the album’s powerful centerpiece, “When You’re Smiling and Astride Me,” a soulful serenade of epic proportions. “I’d never try to change you,” he sings, clearly moved. “As if I could, and if I were to, what’s the part that I’d miss most?”

*A word about the refurbished deluxe edition 2xLP* With the new repressing of the deluxe, tri-colored vinyl that is now available again for purchase, we ask just one favor that will also serve as your only and final warning: The deluxe, pop-up-art-displaying jacket WILL warp the new vinyl if said vinyl is inserted back into the jacket sleeves and inserted into your record shelf. To prevent this, we ask that you keep the new LPs outside the deluxe jacket, in the separate white jackets that they ship in. Think of these 2 parts of the same deluxe package as “neighbors, not roommates” on your shelf, and your records will remain unwarped for many years to come (assuming you don’t leave them out in extreme temperatures or expose them to other forces of nature that would normally cause a record to warp…)! *The LP is cut at 45 rpm. Please adjust your turntable speed accordingly!* “I Love You, Honeybear is a concept album about a guy named Josh Tillman who spends quite a bit of time banging his head against walls, cultivating weak ties with strangers and generally avoiding intimacy at all costs. This all serves to fuel a version of himself that his self-loathing narcissism can deal with. We see him engaging in all manner of regrettable behavior. “In a parking lot somewhere he meets Emma, who inspires in him a vision of a life wherein being truly seen is not synonymous with shame, but possibly true liberation and sublime, unfettered creativity. These ambitions are initially thwarted as jealousy, self-destruction and other charming human character traits emerge. Josh Tillman confesses as much all throughout. “The album progresses, sometimes chronologically, sometimes not, between two polarities: the first of which is the belief that the best love can be is finding someone who is miserable in the same way you are and the end point being that love isn’t for anyone who isn’t interested in finding a companion to undertake total transformation with. I won’t give away the ending, but sex, violence, profanity and excavations of the male psyche abound. “My ambition, aside from making an indulgent, soulful, and epic sound worthy of the subject matter, was to address the sensuality of fear, the terrifying force of love, the unutterable pleasures of true intimacy, and the destruction of emotional and intellectual prisons in my own voice. Blammo. “This material demanded a new way of being made, and it took a lot of time before the process revealed itself. The massive, deranged shmaltz I heard in my head, and knew had to be the sound of this record, originated a few years ago while Emma and I were hallucinating in Joshua Tree; the same week I wrote the title track. I chased that sound for the entire year and half we were recording. The means by which it was achieved bore a striking resemblance to the travails, abandon and transformation of learning how to love and be loved; see and be seen. There: I said it. Blammo.” -Josh Tillman (A.K.A. Father John Misty) All LP versions are 45 rpm. All purchases come with digital downloads.

The peerless indie trio’s first LP in a decade is 33 minutes of pure, lean, honest-to-goodness rock. Corin Tucker is in full command of her howitzer of a voice on standouts like “Surface Envy.” Carrie Brownstein’s haughty punk sneer leads the glorious “A New Wave.” Janet Weiss’ masterful drumming navigates the songwriting’s hairpin tonal shifts, from the glittering “Hey Darling” to the turbulent album closer, “Fade.\" *No Cities to Love* is an electrifying step forward for one of the great American rock bands.

“We sound possessed on these songs,” says guitarist/vocalist Carrie Brownstein about Sleater-Kinney’s eighth studio album, No Cities to Love. “Willing it all–the entire weight of the band and what it means to us–back into existence.” The new record is the first in 10 years from the acclaimed trio–Brownstein, vocalist/guitarist Corin Tucker, and drummer Janet Weiss–who came crashing out of the ’90s Pacific Northwest riot grrrl scene, setting a new bar for punk’s political insight and emotional impact. Formed in Olympia, WA in 1994, Sleater-Kinney were hailed as “America’s best rock band” by Greil Marcus in Time Magazine, and put out seven searing albums in 10 years before going on indefinite hiatus in 2006. But the new album isn’t about reminiscing, it’s about reinvention–the ignition of an unparalleled chemistry to create new sounds and tell new stories. “I always considered Corin and Carrie to be musical soulmates in the tradition of the greats,” says Weiss, whose drums fuel the fire of Tucker and Brownstein’s vocal and guitar interplay. “Something about taking a break brought them closer, desperate to reach together again for their true expression.” The result is a record that grapples with love, power and redemption without restraint. “The three of us want the same thing,” says Weiss. “We want the songs to be daunting.” Produced by long-time Sleater-Kinney collaborator John Goodmanson, who helmed many of the band’s earlier albums including 1997 breakout set Dig Me Out, No Cities to Love is indeed formidable from the first beat. Lead track “Price Tag” is a pounding anthem about greed and the human cost of capitalism, establishing both the album’s melodic drive and its themes of power and powerlessness–giving voice, as Tucker says, to those who “struggle to be heard against the dominant culture or status quo.” “Bury Our Friends” has Tucker and Brownstein joining vocal forces, locking arms to defeat a pressing fear of insignificance. It’s also emblematic of the band’s give and take, and commitment to working and reworking each song until it’s as strong as it can be. “‘Bury Our Friends’ was written in the 11th hour,” says Tucker. “Carrie had her great chime-y guitar riff, but we had gone around in circles with how to make that part into a cohesive song. I think Carrie finally cracked the chorus idea and yelled, ‘Sing with me!’” “A New Wave” similarly went through many iterations during the writing process, with five or six potential choruses, before crystallizing. It enters with an insistent guitar riff, and a battle between acceptance and defiance–“Every day I throw a little party,” howls Brownstein, “but a fit would be more fitting.” The album’s meditative title track was inspired by the trend of atomic tourism and its function as a metaphor for someone enthralled and impressed by power. “That form of power, that presence, is not only destructive it’s also hollowed-out, past its prime,” says Brownstein. “The character in that song has made a ritual out of seeking structures and people in which to find strength, yet they keep coming up empty.” Sleater-Kinney’s decade apart made room for family and other fruitful collaborations, as well as an understanding of what the band’s singular chemistry demands. “Creativity is about where you want your blood to flow, because in order to do something meaningful and powerful there has to be life inside of it,” says Brownstein. “Sleater-Kinney isn’t something you can do half-assed or half-heartedly. We have to really want it. This band requires a certain desperation, a direness. We have to be willing to push because the entity that is this band will push right back.” “The core of this record is our relationship to each other, to the music, and how all of us still felt strongly enough about those to sweat it out in the basement and to try and reinvent our band,” adds Tucker. With No Cities to Love, “we went for the jugular.” –Evie Nagy

Sufjan Stevens has taken creative detours into textured electro-pop, orchestral suites, and holiday music, but *Carrie & Lowell* returns to the feathery indie folk of his quietly brilliant early-’00s albums, like *Michigan* and *Seven Swans*. Using delicate fingerpicking and breathy vocals, songs like “Eugene,” “The Only Thing,” and the Simon & Garfunkel-influenced “No Shade in the Shadow of The Cross” are gorgeous reflections on childhood. When Stevens whispers in multi-tracked harmony over the album’s title track—an impressionistic portrait of his mother and stepfather that glows with nostalgic details—he delivers a haunting centerpiece.

Harpist and singer/songwriter Joanna Newsom’s idiosyncratic take on folk and Americana has always been a powerful—if polarizing—experience. Her fourth album strikes a balance between the ornate orchestral explorations of 2006’s *Ys* and the more stripped-down confessions of 2010’s *Have One on Me*. She blends labyrinthine wordplay (“Bleach a collar/Leach a dollar/From our cents/The longer you live, the higher the rent”) and obscure subject matter (the names of Lenape villages on what is now New York City) into songs that are passionate, sincere, and surprisingly immediate.

“Don’t remove my pain / It is my chance to heal.” Delivered in a wounded cry of desperation, this lyric—from standout track “Notget”—is emblematic of Björk’s profoundly vulnerable ninth studio album. Given sonic texture by her lush string arrangements and the skittering beats of co-producer Arca, *Vulnicura* was written in response to the dissolution of Björk’s longtime relationship with artist Matthew Barney. Following the cosmically conceptual *Biophilia* (2011), it’s disarming yet reassuring to hear the Icelandic icon’s stratospheric voice wailing bluntly about recognizable human emotions. In the vibrant album closer “Quicksand,” she sings of finding new life through heartache: “The steam from this pit / Will form a cloud / For her to live on.”

Following the ecstatic response to their early EPs, Wolf Alice unveil a debut full-length that bristles with \'90s alt-rock fury, disarming pop melodies, and experimental textures. *My Love Is Cool* includes those EPs’ strongest moments (the sugary squall of “Fluffy” and the glimmering crescendos of “Bros”) and expands on their promise. While talented frontwoman Ellie Rowsell coos and belts on the towering lullaby “Your Loves Whore,” she adds ferocious vocal layering throughout the shoegazing screech of “Lisbon.”

Bold experimentalism is key for Californian Julia Holter. Her third album is a melange of thoughtful, alternative approaches to pop. “Feel You”’s harpsichord jauntiness and skittish drums provide the idea platform for the album’s textual tapestry. Syncopated jazz (“Vazquez”), hypnotic shanties (“Sea Calls Me Home”) and aching torch songs (“How Long?” and “Night Song”) all follow, but the tone—while opulent, rich and dramatic—never feels false. “Silhouette” is a gorgeously off-kilter, while “Betsy on the Roof” builds from barely a whisper.

Have You In My Wilderness is Julia Holter’s most intimate album yet, a collection of radiant ballads. Her follow-up to 2013’s widely celebrated Loud City Song explores love, trust, and power in human relationships. While love songs are familiar fodder in pop music, Holter manages to stay fascinatingly oblique and enigmatic on her new album. Have You in My Wilderness is also Holter’s most sonically intimate album. Here, she and producer Cole Marsden Greif-Neill lift her voice out of the layers of smeared, hazy effects, putting her vocals front and center in the mix. The result is striking—it sounds as if Holter is singing right in your ear. It sounds clear and vivid, but also disarmingly personal. The focused warm sound and instrumentation — dense strings, subtle synth pads — adds to the effect. Like Holter’s previous albums, Have You in My Wilderness is multi-layered and texturally rich, featuring an array of electronic and acoustic instruments played by an ensemble of gifted Los Angeles musicians. Have You In My Wilderness deals with dark themes, but it also features some of the most sublime and transcendent music Holter has ever written. The ten songs on the album are shimmering and dreamlike, wandering the liminal space between the conscious and the subconscious.

After a 12-year break between studio albums, Blur remain as intrepid and inventive as they’ve ever been. *The Magic Whip* finds the Britpop icons reuniting with a collection that\' s both wonderfully familiar and endlessly surprising. “Lonesome Street” kicks off with the ecstatic crunch of guitar and then takes on new colors and textures, with psychedelic synth flourishes and kooky harmonies. While the gleefully distorted “I Broadcast” buzzes and roars, the melancholy sway of “New World Towers” and the serpentine soul of “My Terracotta Heart” leave a haunting afterglow.

“In our 20+ years of writing songs, I’ve learned that no matter how escapist, divergent, or even transcendent the creative process feels, the result is more beholden to what is going on at the moment. It’s hard to admit that one is so influenced by what is in front of us. Doesn’t it come from something magical and far away? No, it comes from here. It comes from now. I’m not going to tell you what this record is about because I have too much respect for that moment when you come to know it for yourself.” — Alan Sparhawk, Low

Thanks to multiple hit singles—and no shortage of critical acclaim—2012’s *good kid, m.A.A.d city* propelled Kendrick Lamar into the hip-hop mainstream. His 2015 follow-up, *To Pimp a Butterfly*, served as a raised-fist rebuke to anyone who thought they had this Compton-born rapper figured out. Intertwining Afrocentric and Afrofuturist motifs with poetically personal themes and jazz-funk aesthetics, *To Pimp A Butterfly* expands beyond the gangsta rap preconceptions foisted upon Lamar’s earlier works. Even from the album’s first few seconds—which feature the sound of crackling vinyl and a faded Boris Gardiner soul sample—it’s clear *To Pimp a Butterfly* operates on an altogether different cosmic plane than its decidedly more commercial predecessor. The album’s Flying Lotus-produced opening track, “Wesley’s Theory,” includes a spoken-word invocation from musician Josef Leimberg and an appearance by Parliament-Funkadelic legend George Clinton—names that give *To Pimp a Butterfly* added atomic weight. Yet Lamar’s lustful and fantastical verses, which are as audacious as the squirmy Thundercat basslines underneath, never get lost in an album packed with huge names. Throughout *To Pimp a Butterfly*, Lamar goes beyond hip-hop success tropes: On “King Kunta,” he explores his newfound fame, alternating between anxiety and big-stepping braggadocio. On “The Blacker the Berry,” meanwhile, Lamar pointedly explores and expounds upon identity and racial dynamics, all the while reaching for a reckoning. And while “Alright” would become one of the rapper’s best-known tracks, it’s couched in harsh realities, and features an anthemic refrain delivered in a knowing, weary rasp that belies Lamar’s young age. He’s only 27, and yet he’s already seen too much. The cast assembled for this massive effort demonstrates not only Lamar’s reach, but also his vast vision. Producers Terrace Martin and Sounwave, both veterans of *good kid, m.A.A.d city*, are among the many names to work behind-the-boards here. But the album also includes turns from everyone from Snoop Dogg to SZA to Ambrose Akinmusire to Kamasi Washington—an intergenerational reunion of a musical diaspora. Their contributions—as well as the contributions of more than a dozen other players—give *To Pimp a Butterfly* a remarkable range: The contemplations of “Institutionalized” benefit greatly from guest vocalists Bilal and Anna Wise, as do the hood parables of “How Much A Dollar Cost,” which features James Fauntleroy and Ronald Isley. Meanwhile, Robert Glasper’s frenetic piano on “For Free? (Interlude)” and Pete Rock’s nimble scratches on “Complexion (A Zulu Love)” give *To Pimp a Butterfly* added energy.

Lubomyr Melnyk returns with his new album ‘Rivers and Streams’, the embodiment of his signature style Ukrainian pianist Lubomyr Melnyk has often felt that his unique Continuous Music playing is akin to water – flowing and ever connected. As he further developed his technique, and the more the notes flowed, the closer to water he felt. “I found my hands and arms and everything inside them changing from normal muscle and flesh to well...water.”

“Don’t run away… don’t hesitate for a second”. Let’s get that title out of the way first: White Men Are Black men Too. Please read the accompanying words, straight from Alloysious’ mouth. And then the sticker on the vinyl and CD: ‘file under Rock and Pop’. You probably want to know what that’s doing there, right? Well… (breathes) when everything is post post post post something older and better where do the exceptions go? (Exhale). When the sci-fi 20’s ‘Urban’ might as well be the atomic 50’s ‘Race’, when R&B has no blues and hiphop is a boom bip with a shorty, a hoe, it’s off to the street corner we go… where does a group like Young Fathers, who ‘picknmix from the popular music sweety shop and fly no flags and swear allegiance to no country’ (© - 100 interviews with the group in 2014) - where do they go? They have to go to the place where Beck makes a sandwich with The Beach Boys and Captain Beefheart, where Faust and The Fall tango. In Rock and Pop you are allowed to pretty much be yourself. If you are a blue and green eyed boy from Brixton with the sallowest of white skin you can become the epitome of crystalised soul, itself. It swings both ways. So… Young Fathers are breaking out of the ghetto. Fuck these constrictive selling boxes. For the purposes of this mission, this album, this White Men Are Black Men Too, is rock and pop. And hiphop, too. (Woops, slipped out). No, you don’t box in the R&B Hits 2003 generation that easily. This sticker is only for the business. The listeners can decide for themselves. Microphone technique: orders from the sound engineer: “do NOT cup the mic!”. The sounds are closer on this album, closer to your ears. It sounds as if you are in the room during the recording, possibly experiencing a little existential trauma, but not enough that you don’t notice an earworm hook when you hear one. These hooks, they stay with you. ‘Is that what they mean by pop’? you ask yourself. Could be, Madonna, could be. There are less words than before. Why, for fuck’s sake? Where is the hiphop? It slides in, like a reverse version, a negative, of the hiphop blueprint of eight verses and a sweet, female wail of a hook (while comedy rapper number 6 mutters ‘uh huh, uh huh’, you know, keeping it real). But YFs lob raps into songs that morph into sung verses then back into the tune, with no respect, none! for the law. There’s nothing to lose. Don’t be afraid. 2014 was an interesting year for the group. Yep, awards etc and they played around 130 shows, from Paris to Sydney, via both Portlands and Paisley, too. The album found itself being recorded in a hotel room in Illinois, a rehearsal room in Melbourne, a freezing cellar in Berlin, a photographic studio in London and their normal hole in the ground basement in Edinburgh. It was easy - it’s always easy. You can hear the smiling. ‘Passionate pranksters, always entertaining’. These are grown men, battle fit and in their prime. There are no celebrations of dole queue theatre, no fake politics - there’s no need. YFs are right there in the middle of the question: what is your I.D.? Why claim to speak for a dispossessed white or black class or group or generation? When you can only ever speak for yourself. Someone buys a record - they’re not voting for you. A record isn’t a vote. A free download isn’t a spoilt ballot paper. Keep it real. When they chant ‘nigger nigger nigger’ the group are singing their enemy’s song (and you can all sing along) - it’s not a war cry, it’s the off switch, the left hand turn in the ignition, the pop-hiss of deflation. No more war, motherfucker. The tension is sexual, tuneful, it’s only fun about to kick off. Synesthesiastically, it’s a hue of a reddy blue with a touch of yellow, like most things. Which is, of course, the colour of the future. White Men Are Black Men Too. -------------------------------------------- The album title explained (sort of). This is an extract from an email exchange between members of the group and management. In this extract Alloysious passionately explains his reasoning against worries that the title of the album could be seen as offensive to black people and/or could be seen as negative or pretentious. 19 Jan 2015 “I still prefer the first title by far and stand by it. I'm aware of the points we've discussed but all that sounds like to me is, we are trying to cater to what other people might think, as if it's a negative thing, which it's not. We came at it from a different angle, a positive angle. it's got issues of race and so what? Why should alarm bells start ringing, even though in general conversations race, politics, sex and religion are always the subject matter? Why should it be discussed behind closed doors and never confronted head on? How do we help tackle one of the biggest hinderances in people's lives and the world… by not putting the question forward and not letting people debate positively or negatively about the statement? Motown music helped change the world, made it expectable for blacks to be on radio and seen on tv, MJ did it too. Martin Luther King wanted equality and achieved it to some degree. But, after all that, are things equal in this world? FUCK NO. I still want to ask for it (equality) backed with the best music we've ever recorded. A pop album, our interpretation of what a pop album should be. Weight with words, which is the title plus the pop sensibility of the songs (respectively). I wanna stand for something which I helped make. Folk will complain about absolutely anything… Even it's it from the purest of intentions you just can't win. We don't make music to please other people or write certain lyrics to do so, either. Why start now? When the title was first put forward everybody was excited and 100% there was no fear. That same commitment needs be carried on to make it work despite worries after it's been digested.” Ends.

London-born Benjamin Clementine spent time homeless and busking in Paris, and his voice betrays an urgency to stop passers-by in their tracks. Rich, dramatic, and magnetic, it’s the centerpiece of his debut album. Sparsely accompanied by piano, restrained drums, and occasional strings, it would be a blunt tool without the swooping melodies and poetic lyricism of “London” and “Cornerstone” however, and impish approaches to rhythm and song-shape augment Clementine’s arresting talent.

Behind proudly presents Benjamin Clementine's debut album At Least For Now. Double 12" vinyl gatefold, including full lyrics and credits, and a MP3 download card. Tracklist : A1. Winston Churchill's Boy A2. Then I Heard A Bachelor's Cry A3. London B1. Adios B2. St-Clementine-On-Tea-And-Croissants B3. Nemesis C1. The People And I C2. Condolence C3. Cornerstone D1. Quiver A Little D2. Gone

This thrilling Congolese band mixes old, new, and spacey.

As epitomised by a title track referencing his haemorrhoids, the former Czars frontman has lost none of his candor or humor on this third solo album. His melodic skill remains intact too and, after the electro-pop of 2013’s *Pale Green Ghosts*, Grant investigates robotic funk (“Snug Slacks”), taut techno (“Disappointing”) and sumptuous FM rock (“Down Here”) while skewering ex-lovers and contemplating personal crises. Even on his most upbeat record yet, it’s an ability to amuse, shock and discomfit–sometimes in just one verse–that makes Grant such a compelling songwriter.

It’s been the most spectacular of journeys, from a place in time when John Grant feared he’d never make music again, to winning awards, accolades and Top 20 chart positions, and collaborating with Sinead O’Connor, Goldfrapp, Elton John and Hercules & Love Affair. The fact he subsequently won a Best International Male Solo Artist nomination at the 2014 BRITS alongside Justin Timberlake, Eminem, Bruno Mars and Drake, seemed like some fantasy dreamt up in a moment of outrageous hubris. Just months later, the BBC’s request for a session with a symphony orchestra followed by Grant taking the Royal Northern Sinfonia on a UK tour, confirmed that it was simply the latest spectacular chapter in his personal and artistic renaissance. Now comes Grant’s third album, the invitingly titled Grey Tickles, Black Pressure, a veritable tour de force that further refines and entwines his two principal strands of musical DNA, namely the sumptuous tempered ballad and the taut, fizzing electronic pop song. There are newer musical accomplishments across its panoply of towering sound, like the title track’s new steely demeanour, while the ominous drama of “Black Blizzard” echoes both John Carpenter and Bernard ‘Black Devil Disco Club’ Fevre’s beautiful and icy synthscapes. The contagious, gleeful “You And Him” marries buzzing rock with a squelchy electronic undertow, while orchestral drama swathes the bad-dreamy “Global Warming” and the album’s gorgeously aching widescreen finale “Geraldine”. Grey Tickles, Black Pressure was recorded in Dallas with producer John Congleton (St Vincent, Franz Ferdinand, Swans) - coincidentally the same state of Texas where Grant nailed his 2010 solo debut Queen Of Denmark in the company of Denton’s wondrous Midlake. After that landmark return, which MOJO made its album of 2010, 2013’s Pale Green Ghosts was made in Icelandic capital Reykjavik (where Grant, a native of Buchanan, Michigan, later raised in Parker, Colorado, has lived ever since), which entered the UK Top 20 in its first week and ended up as Rough Trade Shop’s Album of the Year 2013, The Guardian’s No.2 and in MOJO and Uncut’s Top Five). Such recognition, iced by years of sell-out shows across Europe and a recent US tour as special invited guest of the legendary Pixies, should allow the notoriously self-critical and insecure Grant the passing thought that Grey Tickles, Black Pressure will deservedly cement his reputation as the most disarmingly honest, caustic, profound and funny diarist of the human condition in the persistently testing, even tragic, era that is the 21st century. “I do think the album’s great, and I’m really proud of it,” he says. “I wanted to get moodier and angrier on this record, but I probably had a lot more fun making it.” He cites “amazing” session keyboardist Bobby Sparks, “who really funked things up,” as part of that fun; likewise a month of Dallas sunshine “after a brutal dark winter in Iceland. And there was a lot of laughter.” That said, fun isn’t the first ingredient you’d expect when you know the root of the album title. “‘Grey tickles’ is the literal translation from Icelandic for ‘mid-life crisis’, while ‘black pressure’ is the direct translation from Turkish for ‘nightmare’,” Grant explains, an unusually gifted linguist (he’s fluent in German, Russian and now tackling Icelandic). Nevertheless, there are plenty of positive streaks in Grey Tickles, Black Pressure. Grant is in fabulous voice throughout and has moved on from the specific subject matter that shaped both previous albums (though the concept of love always figures into the mix) “Disappointing” – featuring vocal guest Tracey Thorn – is an exuberant tribute to new love, against which Grant’s favourite Saturday Night Live comediennes, Russian artists and “ballet dancers with or without tights” pale in comparison. The album’s other two guests are vocalist Amanda Palmer and former Banshee’s drummer Budgie. Petur Hallgrimsson (guitar) and Jakob Smari Magnusson (bass) from Grant’s live band, and returning arranger Fiona Brice, complete what was a particularly happy studio family. Even the album’s creative process was a triumph against adversity. Having had to include new material for the orchestral tour, John Congleton then asked that Grant turn up in Dallas with all the new material written. In spite of being exceedingly untalented in the art of time management AND the dark, brutal Icelandic winter which always takes a toll, “I got everything written in time,” he says, “and then it was all recorded and mixed in a month - which for me is insane, because I always want more time and I’m such an over-thinker. I intentionally put myself into that situation because I wanted to challenge myself, as I’ve done with every album.” But the end result is indeed a moody, angry record, laced with levering humour and wounded pathos, yet as dark as Reykjavik in February. It starts and ends with spoken word snippets called, simply, “Intro” and “Outro”, both taken from the same Biblical quote (from 1 Corinthians 13) regarding the divinity of love that young John was taught in church. In between are 12 songs that document the reality of love on planet Earth, corrupted by “pain, misunderstandings, jealousy, objectification and expectations,” as Grant puts it. Love corrupted is explored by the likes of the dreamy AOR-gasm “Down Here”, with its “oceans of longing, guessing games and no guarantees”, according to Grant. The funky Crisco-disco of “Snug Slacks” rails against those beautiful people – “the modern celebrity” he says - who so unnerve him, forcing him “to have developed such a very high tolerance for inappropriate behaviour” of the lyric. But there is hatred too. “You And Him” rails against those who’d crush all before them, from the profiteering US food and tobacco industries to property developers and those thugs who perpetuate prejudice and bigotry. The title track posits that “children who have cancer” means we mustn’t indulge in self-pity. However, he notes, we must grin and bare it while waiting for death to take everything we’ve fought so hard to gain. The twisting electro-rhythmic “Voodoo Doll” is a counterbalance, “for a friend who is far away in the throes of depression, I make a voodoo doll and do good things to it, even though things invariably gets messy!” If only Grant had such a benefactor when young, blushing uncontrollably with shame, an awful memory brought to life in the simmering cauldron of “Magma Arrives”. The album’s last two songs are among its finest. “No More Tangles” fights against co-dependency “with narcissistic queers,” he sings, through the metaphor of hair care products. “It’s about not apologizing for who you are and not putting up with unnecessary bullshit from people who do not care about you”. “Although my story is no more or less important than anyone else’s, at least at this point I can admit to being a human who deserves to be happy no more or less than anyone else.” But in “Geraldine” (as in the late Geraldine Paige, “one of freakiest, strongest, coolest actresses I’ve come across”), Grant’s latest actor-inspired song (following “Sigourney Weaver” and “Ernest Borgine”) is Grant’s chance to ask her if she too had to “put up with this shit” that life dishes out. Ongoing health issues (not least of which is handling his HIV Positive status), still processing, “decades of brainwashing,” he says from a traumatic childhood, Grant still manages to keep fighting the good fight, and writing his way out of trouble with another fantastic record. “I want to continue to challenge myself,” he says. “To keep collaborating, to get the sound or the direction that will take me where I need to go. To keep taking the bull by the horns.”

A wondrous debut from the house producer of indie-pop romantics The xx, *In Colour* is the sound of dance music heard at helicopter height: beautiful, distant, and surprising at every turn. Whether summoning old-school drum ’n’ bass (“Gosh”) or dancehall-inflected pop (the Young Thug and Popcaan double feature “I Know There’s Gonna Be (Good Times)”), the mood here is consummately relaxed, more like a spring morning than a busy night. Laced throughout the thump and sparkle are fragments of recorded conversation and the ambience of city streets—details that make the music feel as though it has a life of its own.

Tame Impala may have been forged in the familiar fires of guitar-driven psych-rock, but Kevin Parker began expanding that brief almost immediately, shifting from dank, distorted solos to widescreen, synth-swept fantasias. By the time *Currents* arrived in 2015, the Fremantle home-studio whiz had made his grandest leap yet, offering his particular take on outsized, club-ready pop. That meant mostly sidelining guitars and ramping up the lead role of those synths. Parker had always made Tame Impala records as a solo endeavor, using a proper band primarily to realize songs in a live setting. Yet this third album saw him applying more painstaking control than ever before, not just playing and writing every single part but recording and mixing the entire thing as well. Even fans who had noticed Parker’s increasing pop sensibilities across 2012’s *Lonerism* were somewhat taken aback by *Currents*’ bravura opening statement, “Let It Happen,” an ambitious dance-floor epic that foregrounded glitter-bomb synths and alternately dipping and peaking rhythms. The band’s trajectory changed over the course of a single track, which stretches out over nearly eight minutes and indulges in remix-style record-skipping and lengthy stretches without vocals. Between the disco grooves, Parker still finds time for Tame Impala’s sonic signatures—floaty vocals, soul-searching lyrics, fleeting interludes. As lush as the production is (which you can hear in the joyous vocal layering and panning on “The Moment”), the increased scope of these songs is matched by the same rich emotional content, making it feel like Parker is sharing his most private moments. From the vulnerability displayed on “Yes I’m Changing,” which muses on growing older against unironic soft-rock motifs, to his interrogations of masculinity and romance on “\'Cause I’m a Man,” Parker is still committed to airing intimate, almost diary-like sentiments. Meditative album closer “New Person, Same Old Mistakes” says it all. Still, Parker doesn’t have to distance himself from formative heroes like Todd Rundgren and The Flaming Lips in the name of artistic growth. Evoking the mirror-ball dazzle of roller rinks and discos, here he continues to cherry-pick from the past in order to imagine a sophisticated musical future that’s appealing across multiple fronts but still strikes directly at the heart. And the risky decision to shelve guitars clearly paid off: *Currents* took Tame Impala to the big leagues, where he could now collaborate with Lady Gaga, get covered by Rihanna (a version of “New Person, Same Old Mistakes” appeared as “Same Ol’ Mistakes” on 2016’s *ANTI*), and headline Coachella. It also provided a natural progression to 2020’s *The Slow Rush*, an even more immersive and personal synth-funk odyssey.

Dense, uncompromising and utterly thrilling, this debut album is an explosive introduction to four (decidedly male) Dubliners who bring an unflinching post-rock eye and a crackle of dark wit to frontman Dara Kiely’s personal experiences with anxiety and depression. “In Plastic” sees Kiely, in his distinctive shamanic drawl, thrashing amid a maelstrom of swirling guitars while “Baloo” is an energetic showcase for their industrial dance influences. But it\'s “Paul”–with its rumbling surf licks and pogoing beat–that\'s probably the most potent reminder that, goofy moniker aside, Girl Band should be taken very seriously.

*Art Angels*’ opening trio of songs present a handy summation of Claire Boucher’s singular appeal. The operatic “Laughing and Not Being Normal” opens before making way for “California”. Ostensibly an irresistible country-twanged foot-tapper and easily the catchiest thing she’s recorded, its lyrics unload a bleak commentary on her industry’s treatment of female stars. Next up: the strident “Scream” featuring Taiwanese rapper Aristophanes and plenty of actual howling. Whether discordant and urgent (“Flesh without Blood”, “Kill V. Maim”) or dazzlingly beautiful (“Easily”, “Pin”), *Art Angels* is a Catherine wheel of ferocious pop invention and Grimes’ grandest achievement.

Dance music has undergone a seismic shift in the last decade. So how do synth-pop pioneers New Order respond on their first LP since 2005? For \"Restless,\" they go straight back to their roots. It\'s a shimmering pop opus of ringing guitars, a \'60s radio chorus, and those familiar atmospheric synths from original keyboardist Gillian Gilbert, who returns on *Music Complete*. But she\'s not the only old friend here: keep an ear out for vocals from Iggy Pop and some production tricks from The Chemical Brothers\' Tom Rowlands.

The long awaited album will be New Order’s first full studio release since 2005’s Waiting For The Siren’s Call, and their debut for Mute. Music Complete finds the group revitalised, and where the group has previously pushed toward electronics or guitars, here the two are in balance. Music Complete also marks a return to the studio for Gillian Gilbert, this is her first album with New Order since 2001’s Get Ready.

Courtney Barnett\'s 2015 full-length debut established her immediately as a force in independent rock—although she\'d bristle at any sort of hype, as she sneers on the noise-pop gem \"Pedestrian at Best\": \"Put me on a pedestal and I\'ll only disappoint you/Tell me I\'m exceptional, I promise to exploit you.\" Warnings aside, her brittle riffing and deadpan lyrics—not to mention indelible hooks and nagging sense of unease with the world—helped put *Sometimes I Sit and Think, and Sometimes I Just Sit* into the upper echelon of 2010s indie rock. The Melbourne-based singer-songwriter stares at stained ceilings and checks out open houses as she reflects on love, death, and the quality of supermarket produce, making *Sometimes* a crowd-pleaser almost in spite of itself. Propulsive tracks like the hip-shaking \"Elevator Operator\" and the squalling \"Dead Fox\" pair Barnett\'s talked-sung delivery with grungy, hooky rave-ups that sound beamed in from a college radio station\'s 1995 top-ten list. Her singing style isn\'t conversational as much as it is like a one-sided phone call from a friend who spends a lot of time in her own head, figuring out the meaning of life in real time while trying to answer the question \"How are you?\"—and sounding captivating every step of the way. But Barnett can also command blissed-out songs that bury pithy social commentary beneath their distorted guitars—\"Small Poppies\" hides notes about power and cruelty within its wobbly chords, while the marvelous \"Depreston\" rolls thoughts on twentysomething thriftiness, half-glimpsed lives, and shifting ideas of \"home\" across its sun-bleached landscape. While the topics of conversation can be heavy, Barnett\'s keen ear for what makes a potent pop song and her inability to be satisfied with herself make *Sometimes I Sit and Think, and Sometimes I Just Sit* a fierce opening salvo.

The UK hip-hop pioneer presents his powerful state of the nation address. Where once his arresting, twisting rhymes would focus on personal hardships, now tracks like “Hard Bastards” and “One Thing” present class polemics dressed up as bangers. His sixth album is unrelenting stuff—the disturbing “Crying” literally cuts up the wails of women and children for its chorus—and it’s thrilling to hear the 42-year-old so turbo-charged with purpose. There are more easygoing moments (“Don’t Breathe Out” combines a Barry White sample with a mindful, playful flow) but this is his darkest, most vital work to date.

From: Harry Winklebottom To: Social Media/Marketing/Sales Re: who is Young Guv and why is he ripe for love? Who's @youngguv? He's still underground, but everyone will know him soon. Right now, he only has 1500 followers, so we need to get this kid a checkmark as soon as possible. Here's the rundown: He's a white boy in a backwards snapback with fake Emoji neck tattoos. He's a ripped bald kid fronting one of the most important and successful hardcore bands in Toronto history. He's a ghostwriter eating pasta as he pens al dente tunes for the likes of Sum 41, Kelly Clarkson, Taylor Swift, a few Canadian Idols, Snow, a slew of hardcore bands, Maroon 5 and one or two OVO affiliates. He's a tortured artist turning down Katy Perry's edits to his tunes because she didn't like his babies as they were. He's a child actor playing Ryan Gosling's sexy little brother. Do I need to go on? @youngguv is Ben Cook, and he's putting out an album, Ripe 4 Luv, on one of the greatest labels ever, Slumberland Records. Having been around for a minute, Guv has decided to put together a set of pop tunes that shows off his range as a performer, singer, songwriter, style icon and retweet-worthy pop star. I've heard the album, and its ready to head to marketing. We don't need a billboard for this one, all we need to do is release a single and get it trending worldwide. We're going to break Nielsen SoundScan. We're going straight to #1 on iTunes! Guv got it right the first time with his band No Warning, one of the only Canadian hardcore acts to achieve recognition from major labels in the U.S. He parlayed this experience into a successful career as the creeper peaking through the curtain as better-looking people sing his songs to an appreciative audience. In addition to writing for pop royalty and no-name punk acts, Young Guv has spent the last 7 years playing guitar in fellow Toronto legends Fucked Up, selling 10's of 1000's of singles recorded in various bedrooms, and helping put the East End back on the GTA's music map with his Bad Actors imprint. Guv has been around for a while, and now he's helping new, young talent get around and release classic records. How could you not like this guy? He's got the bone structure to go viral at any moment. Ripe 4 Luv is a beautiful album for beautiful people. Plus, it really shows off his range. There's only one way to describe this record: Guv sings like Prince into expensive audio-nerd mics over power pop backing tracks that evoke Big Star after they got some nookie but before they became depressed about their failure to appeal to the right audience. If that's not good enough for you, then it sounds like Cheap Trick produced by Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis. Or how about Drake's producer 40 manning the boards for a Hall & Oates session? Any of those will help sell this record to the blogs, just pick one and run with it.  That's it, that's what you get when you stream Ripe 4 Luv on Spotify. I'm telling you, this album is just perfect for Billboard's Trending 140 chart. We're going to be rich!

An album by Will Toledo

Holly Herndon's second album Platform proposes new fantasies and rejuvenates old optimism. Herndon has become a leading light in contemporary music by experimenting within the outer reaches of dance music and pop songwriting possibilities. A galvanising statement, Platform signals Herndon's transformation as an electronic musician to a singular voice. For More Info: shop.igetrvng.com/collections/all/products/rvngnl29

Building bold hooks into atmospheric textures, Obaro Ejimiwe has ditched electronica for guitars on a third album that sighs with intoxicating melancholy. With empathy and sharp detail, his lyrics build vivid snapshots of domestic violence (“Yes, I Helped You Pack”), homelessness (“Shedding Skin”) and awkward mornings after (“I’m Sorry My Love, It’s You Not Me”). Alt-rock may be a new venture for Ghostpoet, but it’s charged by his usual commitment to excellence.

On their fifth album, Beach House don\'t veer too far from their template: beautifully spare, sun-bleached ditties that belie their often-dreary subject matter. Sure, there’s a blown-out guitar here (the pleasantly noisy “Sparks”), or a breathy spoken word there (“PPP,” replete with Cocteau Twins-style guitar), but the duo\'s MO remains: “If it ain’t broke . . .” The creeping organ tones and Victoria Legrand\'s gauzy croon are so luxuriant, you almost forget that these are still sad songs—and it’s in that balance of light and dark that they reliably stick the landing.

*Customers outside of North America, please try Bella Union in Europe/UK or Mistletone Records in Australia/NZ. Thanks! Beach House is Victoria Legrand and Alex Scally. We have been a band for over a decade living and working in Baltimore, MD. Depression Cherry is our 5th full-length record and was recorded at Studio in the Country in Bogalusa, Louisiana from November ’14 through January ’15. This time period crossed the anniversaries of both John Lennon’s and Roy Orbison’s death. In general, this record shows a return to simplicity, with songs structured around a melody and a few instruments, with live drums playing a far lesser role. With the growing success of Teen Dream and Bloom, the larger stages and bigger rooms naturally drove us towards a louder, more aggressive place; a place farther from our natural tendencies. Here, we continue to let ourselves evolve while fully ignoring the commercial context in which we exist.

Godspeed You! Black Emperor (GYBE) returns with its first single LP-length release since the group's earliest days in 1997-99. 'Asunder, Sweet And Other Distress' clocks in at a succinct 40:23 and is arguably the most focused and best-sounding recording of the band's career. Working with sound engineer Greg Norman (Electrical Audio) at studios in North Carolina and Montreal, GYBE slowly and steadily put the new album together through late 2013 and 2014, emerging with a mighty slab of superlative sonics, shot through with all the band's inimitable signposts and touchstones: huge unison riffage, savage noise/drone, oscillating overtones, guitar vs. string counterpoint, inexorable crescendos and scorched-earth transitions. Following Godspeed's return from a long hiatus at the end of 2010 to begin playing live shows again, and with the hugely acclaimed 'Allelujah! Don't Bend! Ascend! release in 2012 marking their first new release in a decade, the group continued to perform regularly on their own headlining tours (and as headliners at many leading festivals), often including a new multi-movement piece in concert over the past couple of years. Known to fans and through live show recordings by the sobriquet "Behemoth", GYBE has gradually distilled this new work down to a fastidious and uncompromising essence in the studio, with the swing-time swagger of the opening unison riff in "Peasantry or 'Light! Inside of Light!'" giving way to increasing microtonal divergences and an exhilarating immersion in the harmonic power of massed amplified instruments, before collapsing into some of the most visceral and unalloyed noise/drone the band has yet committed to tape on "Lambs' Breath" and "’Asunder, Sweet'”. The album closes with "Piss Crowns Are Trebled", a classic 14-minute piece of vintage Godspeed, where ascending and descending guitar and violin melodies intertwine over gut-rattling distorted bass in 3/4 time, segueing into a pummeling four-on-the-floor series of sparkling, soaring crescendos 'Asunder, Sweet And Other Distress' finds Godspeed in top form; a sterling celebration of the band's awesome dialectic, where composition, emotion and 'note-choice' is inextricable from an exacting focus on tone, timbre, resonance and the sheer materiality of sound. The album is available on 180 gram vinyl in a gatefold jacket with printed inner sleeve and insert poster, on CD in a 100% recycled custom paperboard jacket, and on all manner of formats in our fractured digital marketplace. Thanks for listening.

Londoner Eska Mtungwazi has clocked up a decade of writing and session work for artists as varied as Tony Allen, Zero 7 and Grace Jones, which could explain the strikingly accomplished songcraft on her debut. That diversity bleeds into songs that warp folk tradition into new shapes and decorate the results with soul (“So Long Eddy”), reggae (“Heroes & Villains”) and gentle psychedelics (“Dear Evelyn”). Throughout, the versatility of Mtungwazi’s voice is as stunning as its emotional power.

After a run of four increasingly ambitious albums in just half a decade you’d perhaps forgive English singer/songwriter Laura Marling a dip in scope and upward trajectory on her fifth record. Not a bit of it. If anything *Short Movie* pushes further, with Marling unafraid to add blockbusting production to her exquisite bare-bones folk (witness the countryfied sass of “Strange” and the rumbling, stadium-ready thunder of “False Hope”). It’s the title track however—an existential epiphany reconfigured as a thrillingly profane call to arms—that stands shoulder-to-shoulder with her best work.