Adeem the Artist digs deeper into their roots on *Anniversary*, the follow-up to the singer-songwriter’s critically acclaimed 2022 record *White Trash Revelry*. A native of the lower Piedmont region in the American southeast, Adeem builds upon the country-inflected folk of past releases to include the blues music that makes up their heritage, finding musical and thematic connections along the way. “Socialite Blues” pairs the Piedmont blues sound with a modern narrative, with an especially charismatic vocal from Adeem. “Rotations” is a clever and heartfelt spin on parenthood, with a gentle arrangement that suits the song’s tender message. And “One Night Stand” makes the case that Adeem could just as easily be a pop country hitmaker, using a big, hooky chorus to center a queer narrative. Adeem recorded the LP with producer Butch Walker in Nashville, setting up for a few days at renowned local studio The Butcher Shoppe. Players on *Anniversary* include Ellen Angelico, Aaron Lee Tasjan, and Megan Coleman, and the record boasts Adeem’s most expansive sound yet, complete with a horn section.
“I live in a weird world,” Allie X declares at the start of her third album, but really, it’s a line she could’ve sung at any point in her career to date. Though her penchant for electropop earworms has put her in the writers’ room for major artists like BTS and Troye Sivan, the chameleonic LA-based singer/producer has always a harbored the soul of a misfit, an outsider identity cultivated by a lifetime battle with an autoimmune illness and her formative years in Toronto’s late-2000s indie-rock scene. Allie’s semi-autobiographical 2020 album, *Cape God*, was a testament to her alt/pop-crossover savvy, pulling in guest features from Sivan and Mitski and contributions from songwriting pros like Simon Wilcox and JP Saxe. But *Girl With No Face* is all Allie: During the pandemic, Allie was forced to go the DIY route behind the boards—a steep learning curve that accounts for the album’s nearly four-year gestation. But within those technical limitations, she found the freedom to be her truest self—*Girl With No Face* is an in-your-face hit of futurist pop informed by the icy synthscapes of Kraftwerk and post-goth textures of New Order as much as the empowering dance-tent anthems of Madonna and Lady Gaga. “This is probably the most cohesive thing that I\'ve done,” Allie tells Apple Music. “It just happened naturally, because it was only me, and it was only my taste. I definitely was intentional about this sound—it sort of became an antidote to a lot of the commercial pop world that I literally live inside of in Los Angeles. So this is where I\'ve been musically, just loving that UK post-punk spirit of the early ’80s a few years now. I just can\'t get enough of it.” Here, Allie X peels back the layers on *Girl With No Face*, track by track. **“Weird World”** “This was written at the beginning of the pandemic, when there was this uncertainty and dystopian feeling that I think everybody had. But I was also coming to terms with the reality of my career. The *Cape God* period had been so busy and then it all just came to a halt very quickly, so I was able to look under the hood of the car and realize everything was very tangled and twisted and not sustainable. So \'Weird World\' sort of coincided with this decision I made to make a lot of changes and transitions both creatively and within my business. The \'weird world\' is this idea of seeing things as they actually are, and how that can actually be an empowering moment, even though it\'s a sad moment.” **“Girl With No Face”** “I\'ve been trying to figure out who this song is about. It just flowed sort of through me when I co-wrote it with my partner, George Pimentel. I got a sense that she was like this sort of vengeful figure who\'s maybe kind of witty. But now I think of \'the girl with no face\' as this presence that emerged as I was alone in a room for years writing this record. She’s like this layer of myself, or this ghost or this voice in the room with me that could be heard but not seen, and she gave me the strength and the aggression that I needed to get through this project. She’s my invisible muse—my cunty muse!” **“Off With Her Tits”** “It\'s hard for me to get too in detail on this one, because I just like this song to speak for itself. The best thing I can say about the song is that it’s a ridiculous satirization of torturous thoughts, where I felt like I could take some power back by just making fun of them.” **“John and Jonathan”** “I was at a fan meet-and-greet in New York in 2018, and two fans came up and were like, \'Hi, I\'m John, and this is my boyfriend, Jonathan. We love your music!\' And I was like, ‘Wait—your names are John and Jonathan? Okay, I gotta write a song called “John and Jonathan”!’ I was on a walk in \[the Toronto suburb of\] Oakville near my parents’ house with my boyfriend, and I remember being on a pier and it just came to me: \'John and Jonathan/Are on the town.\' I got so excited and went back home and just started recording right away. I\'ve written so many of my most successful songs in Oakville at my parents\' dining room table.” **“Galina”** “I have really bad eczema in my inner elbows, and I found this Russian lady named Galina at this naturopathic clinic in Toronto. For years, she made me this cream in her kitchen that worked better than steroids. She would always say, \'It cost me more to make this than I\'m charging you. I get this man in the Swiss Alps to gather these herbs and I make you this cream.\' She was pretty old, so I always worried: \'What happens when Galina retires? It\'s not like this is some patented product.\' So sure enough, in the summer of 2022, I returned to the clinic, and I was like, \'Could I place an order for the cream from Galina?\' And the lady was like, \'Oh, Galina has retired.\' And I was like, ‘What!?! Did she tell anyone the recipe?\' And she was like, \'No, she won\'t tell. There\'s nothing we can do—Galina has lost her memory.\' So the song is about somebody that you\'ve come to rely on who just coldly leaves your life without something that you need.” **“Hardware Software”** “This was not something I thought about intentionally, I just sort of improvised it. And I imagine those words came out because I had been spending so much time in front of a computer. I just remember doing that silly rap and cracking myself up, by myself.” **“Black Eye”** “I\'ve never dealt with physical domestic abuse; my abuse comes more from just the way that I treat myself and my own body. I always feel like I\'m almost willing to throw myself out of a building for the sake of art or for the sake of my career. That\'s what this song is about: my life experience of having a body that is quite fragile. It\'s not supposed to do a lot of the stuff that I make it do. There\'s all this stress and all these physical challenges that I subjected myself to over and over. So \'Black Eye\' is about how it almost starts to feel natural doing that. And it starts to feel like a high—and that\'s when it gets really scary, when these things that are definitely bad for you start to feel good in a way. But there\'s also wit in those lyrics and in the idea of, like, ‘Yeah, bring it on.’” **“You Slept on Me”** “This song was inspired by a tweet that I\'ve seen over and over throughout my career: ‘Y’all are sleeping on Allie X.’ So I thought I\'d just have a bit of fun with that.” **“Saddest Smile”** “I think I\'m commenting on my tendency to be melancholic, and the idea that if there isn\'t some pain behind a smile, I don\'t believe it. Like, I don\'t believe it in myself, and I don\'t believe it in others. Unfortunately, I believe in the struggle—that\'s so deeply ingrained in me. I have this core belief that things aren\'t worth it unless there was some painful journey to get there. It\'s a belief that I\'d like to get rid of—I\'ve discussed it in therapy. It\'s very strong in me.” **“Staying Power”** “I wrote this after having a really rough year, health-wise. \'Staying Power\' is an acknowledgment of my superpower as I see it, which is a really high pain tolerance. It\'s very direct and very sarcastic. This feels like me having a conversation with someone that I\'m really close and comfortable with.” **“Truly Dreams”** “This was a co-write with my partner, and it has a funk in there that wouldn\'t have been there if I had written it myself. So because of the bounciness of the song, I just went to this more optimistic disco kind of place. I always had drag queens in mind when I wrote this. I really relate to drag queens, and this idea that we can put on our look and get out there and live our fantasy. Like ‘Staying Power,’ it\'s a perseverance song, but in a more fantastical way.”
“Genres are a funny little concept, aren’t they?” Linda Martell cackles at the beginning of “SPAGHETTII.” Perhaps the name Linda Martell isn’t a household one, which only proves her point. She was the first Black woman to perform at the Grand Ole Opry, but her attempt to move from soul and R&B into the realm of country in the 1960s was met with racist resistance—everything from heckling to outright blackballing. Beyoncé knows the feeling, as she explained in an uncharacteristically vulnerable Instagram post revealing that her eighth studio album was inspired by a deep dive into the history of Black country music following an experience where she felt similarly unwelcome. *COWBOY CARTER* is a sprawling 80-minute tribute not only to those pioneering artists and their outlaw spirit, but to the very futility of reducing music to a single identifying word. Another key quote from that post: “This ain’t a country album. This is a Beyoncé album.” It’s more than a catchy slogan; anyone looking for mere honky-tonk cosplay is missing a much richer and more complex point. Listening in full to Act II of the presumed trilogy Bey began with 2022’s *RENAISSANCE*, it’s clear that the perennial overachiever hasn’t merely “gone country,” she’s interrogating what the word even means—and who merits the designation. On “AMERIICAN REQUIEM,” in a voice deep and earthy as Texas red dirt, the Houston native sings, “Used to say I spoke too country/And then the rejection came, said I wasn’t country enough.” She nods again, as she’s done before on songs like “Formation,” to her family ties to Alabama moonshiners and Louisiana Creoles. “If that ain’t country,” she wonders, “tell me what is.” With subtlety and swagger, she contextualizes country as an offshoot of the Black American musical canon, a storytelling mode springing from and evolving alongside gospel and blues. Over the wistful pedal steel and gospel organ of “16 CARRIAGES,” she tells you what it’s like to be a teenage workhorse who grows into an adult perfectionist obsessed with ideas of legacy, with a bit of family trauma buried among the riffs. On “YA YA,” Beyoncé expands the scope to rock ’n’ roll at its most red-blooded and fundamental, playing the parts of both Ike and Tina as she interpolates The Beach Boys and slips in a slick Playboi Carti reference, yowling: “My family lived and died in America/Good ol’ USA/Whole lotta red in that white and blue/History can’t be erased.” A Patsy Cline standard goes Jersey club mode on “SWEET ★ HONEY ★ BUCKIIN’,” with a verse from the similarly genre-flouting Shaboozey and a quick note regarding *RENAISSANCE*‘s Grammy fortunes: “AOTY I ain’t win/I ain’t stuntin’ ’bout them/Take that shit on the chin/Come back and fuck up the pen.” Who but Beyoncé could make a crash course in American music history feel like the party of the year? There’s the one-two punch of sorely needed summer slow-dance numbers: the Miley Cyrus duet “II MOST WANTED,” with its whispers of Fleetwood Mac, followed by “LEVII’S JEANS” with Post Malone, the “in those jeans” anthem filling the radio’s Ginuwine-shaped hole. *RENAISSANCE*’s euphorically nasty house bounce returns, albeit with more banjo, on “RIIVERDANCE,” where “II HANDS II HEAVEN” floats on clouds of ’90s electronica for an ode to alternately riding wild horses and 24-inch spinners on candy paint. (Houston, Texas, baby!) There are do-si-do ditties, murder ballads, daddy issues, whiskey kisses, hungover happy hours, cornbread and grits, Beatles covers, smoke breaks, and, on “DAUGHTER,” what may or may not be a wink in the direction of the artist who won AOTY instead. There’s also a Dolly-approved Beyoncification of “Jolene,” to whom the protagonist is neither saying please nor begging on the matter of taking her man. (“Your peace depends on how you move, Jolene,” Bey purrs, ice in her veins.) Is this a genre-bucking hoedown? A chess move? A reckoning? A requiem? If anyone can pull it off, it’s *COWBOY CARTER*, as country as it gets.
“This album is actually an album of questioning. There\'s a lot of introspection, and within that, I\'m answering questions that I\'ve never had the space or capacity to ask,” Brittany Howard tells Apple Music about *What Now*, the Alabama Shakes singer-guitarist’s second solo album. “I was always so busy, I was always running around, I was on tour, I was preparing this, preparing that. This time I told myself when I would go in there and make songs in my little demo room, ‘No one\'s ever going to hear this,’ and it was very freeing.” Of course, people would end up hearing those songs, but that mindset helped Howard write from a brave new perspective. She dives into her personal history and guiding philosophy in a vulnerable way, like she did on 2019’s *Jaime*, but this time, the instrumental choices are bolder and more unexpected than ever before. “Power to Undo” is a folk-rock tune that showcases the album’s central theme. “You have the power to undo everything that I want/But I won\'t let you,” she sings. Once that’s revealed, the song descends into an acid-funk freakout, built around scratchy guitars and ramshackle drums. “‘Power to Undo’ is actually about freedoms,” she says. “A lot of people can experience this feeling of ‘I know I shouldn\'t do that. I know I need to keep moving in this direction.’ It\'s just about this thing chasing you down, and you\'re like, ‘No, you\'re not going to get me, I\'m not going to change directions.’” Elsewhere, on “Prove It to You,” Howard cues up gauzy synths and a dance-floor drum groove that’s made for an after-hours. It’s the furthest from the rootsy rock Howard rose to fame with, but the creative risks of *What Now* suggest an artist more interested in following a muse than replicating past successes. “I am always expanding and evolving and trying new things,” Howard says. “That\'s the most fun about being a creative person—trying things that challenge you and you don\'t know anything about.”
Where the ’60s-ish folk singer Jessica Pratt’s first few albums had the insular feel of music transmitted from deep within someone’s psyche, *Here in the Pitch* is open and ready—cautiously, gently—to be heard. The sounds aren’t any bigger, nor are they jockeying any harder for your attention. (There is no jockeying here, this is a jockey-free space.) But they do take up a little more room, or at least seem more comfortable in their quiet grandeur—whether it’s the lonesome western-movie percussion of “Life Is” or the way the featherlight *sha-la-la*s of “Better Hate” drift like a dazzled girl out for a walk among the bright city lights. This isn’t private-press psychedelia anymore, it’s *Pet Sounds* by The Beach Boys and the rainy-day ballads of Burt Bacharach—music whose restraint and sophistication concealed a sense of yearning rock ’n’ roll couldn’t quite express (“World on a String”). And should you worry that her head is in the clouds, she levels nine blows in a tidy, professional 27 minutes. They don’t make them like they used to—except that she does.
Jordan Rakei’s dreamily delicate voice is as poised as ever on his fifth album, even on tracks where more than 40 people might be contributing. Those sheer numbers are thanks to robust string and horn sections and a smaller choir, lending scope to *The Loop*’s self-produced majesty. Yet for all of the bravura flourishes here, Rakei sounds every bit as intimate as he did when he was cutting tracks in his humble bedroom. “Hopes and Dreams” especially hinges on his confiding vocals, unfolding against a sparse backdrop featuring no drums. It’s one of several songs inspired by Rakei settling into fatherhood, and even the album title comes from the idea that his son may someday have children of his own. Elsewhere, the Brisbane-raised, London-based multi-instrumentalist takes notes from classic soul of several eras, from Marvin Gaye to D’Angelo and beyond. The arrangements are impeccable throughout, whether it’s the warmly dusty breakbeats on opener “Flowers” or the rustling loops and handclaps on “Cages.” There’s a live-in-the-room quality to it all, even when a track like “Everything Everything” bolsters Rakei’s heavenly vocal flutter and a cool rhythmic snap with lively tides of celestial layering. As he meditates on the subtle complexities of parenthood and friendship alike, the instrumentation remains transfixing right alongside his words of wisdom.
When MGMT emerged in 2007 with “Time to Pretend”—a euphoric shooting star of a song that soundtracked every house party and HBO show for the next several years—the synth-pop duo, just out of college, became rock stars overnight. They were big in every sense: a major-label deal, a tour with Radiohead, a reputation for rock shows that felt like raves. But Andrew VanWyngarden and Ben Goldwasser never seemed wholly comfortable with their popularity, and their subsequent albums were far more eccentric and experimental. Then, during the pandemic, the band found themselves back in the spotlight for a reason nobody saw coming: One of their tracks blew up on TikTok. The sudden, explosive virality of “Little Dark Age,” a foreboding, vaguely political track from their 2018 album of the same name, took both men, now in their forties, by total surprise. And yet, when they began writing their fifth album a few months later, they found themselves circling themes of reinvention and rebirth. *Loss of Life* is, despite its title, openhearted and hopeful, and sheds some of the fussy self-seriousness that weighed down their recent records. The arrangements are streamlined. The melodies can breathe. The hooks stick. It isn’t that the band has reverted back to its high-flying, imperious roots; these songs have an emotional sincerity that you just didn’t get on “Electric Feel.” Rather, it feels like a weight has been lifted. Certain moments, like the Christine and the Queens duet “Dancing in Babylon,” even sound like surrender. The album was co-produced by longtime collaborators Patrick Wimberly and Dave Fridmann with additional support from Oneohtrix Point Never. The latter is often cited as someone who takes a curatorial approach to production, and *Loss of Life* asks a lot of big questions about what, ultimately, makes art good. Does it need to be serious to be taken seriously? Is optimism allowed? Tender lullabies like “Phradie’s Song,” the Simon & Garfunkel-esque “Nothing to Declare,” and the twinkling title track—one of those sweeping, distorted psychedelic numbers that feels designed for exploring spiritual frontiers—suggest that MGMT’s answers have softened with age. “Who knows how the painting will look in the morning/When the day is born and life is ending?” VanWyngarden sings on “Loss of Life.” The subtext, if we may: Our time here is short. What matters is that you paint.
With lockdown came huge cultural change. As concerts and recordings were canceled, musicians’ homes became stages and studios. It was a time of reinvention, hastened by necessity. Philip Glass, then 83, was in the middle of a tour when the pandemic struck, and was forced to retreat to his New York apartment. “I had been on the road essentially for half a century,” the American minimalist tells Apple Music Classical, “but suddenly, for the first time in years, I had time to play the piano.” *Philip Glass Solo* is the result of many hours spent at his beloved Baldwin grand piano revisiting and rerecording a selection of his early piano works, some of which he first played on his 1989 album *Solo Piano* (also recorded on a Baldwin). “When I think about my earlier music, I don’t write music like that anymore, so I’m curious about the person who wrote them,” he says. “I am no longer that person. We all change—it’s inevitable. I am no longer that person as a composer, as a performer, or even as a listener.” And indeed, Glass’ performances are noticeably different—they possess a more improvisatory character compared to those 1989 takes, as if he were composing each piece in front of us. *Mad Rush*, by far the longest piece here, is almost three minutes longer—it’s freer, looser. That’s partly explained by the complex relationship that exists between composer and interpreter. “When I was in music school, they almost uniformly told composers not to perform,” remembers Glass, “but interpretation can make you think of the music in a way you wouldn’t have if you were just the composer. When you are an interpreter yourself, you understand the possibilities of the music in a different way. And they sometimes appear to you in real time.” There’s little doubt that the timbre and feel of the piano also play their part in shaping Glass’ interpretations. This particular Baldwin has been shaped by 35 years of constant use—in “Metamorphosis 1” or in the final “Truman Sleeps” you can hear the fragile treble notes battle the instrument’s resounding midrange. “I have done most of my composing on it or next to it,” he explains, “and it’s inevitable that the sound of the instrument you play every day, and the room that you are in, must in some way influence how you hear.” Perhaps this album was influenced, too, by Glass’ sense of a shared lockdown experience. “One thing I will say is that I wasn’t alone,” he says. “During the pandemic, we were all in our homes. So, we did what people have always done: we played music…for ourselves, for others.”
