With Take Care, Drake has his accelerated Kanye West moment — when a little too much ambition and all the asshole feelings he's got inside coalesce into an insular, indulgent, sad-sack hip-hop epic.
His paranoia is as thick as Drake's on the similarly inward If You're Reading This It's Too Late, from earlier this year. However, I Don't Like Shit, I Don't Go Outside is a much leaner, less showy effort (Drake is an actor, Earl decidedly is not), and Earl turns his pen on himself, too, not just everybody else.
Like frontman Bradford Cox’s solo records as Atlas Sound, Halcyon Digest exists mainly as another iteration of his shifting id, deeply plumbing memories real and imagined with a sound by turns spare and sumptuous.
On Coloring Book, he displays the most joyful part of his universe, and invites listeners across the globe to share in the festivities.
Mutant, even as it threatens to filibuster itself at over an hour long, feels like the album that Xen was meant to grow into, with every lesson that Vulnicura taught integrated at a molecular level.
Now, less shy about their place in the world and shot through with adult resignation, the band's anthems play as a sort of mortality blues. But with I Hate Music, Superchunk prove that we were weren't wrong to believe.
Weakness has more guests than a typical Sand joint; no problem when they keep the pace of Shad announcing himself as the “teacher at the school of hard knocks.”
m b v seems like both the "logical next step" after Loveless (as if bands were subject to teleological pressures) and utterly contemporary.
By the time Prydz is ready to release his sophomore album sometime around 2026, new fans with no memory of this massive moment in progressive house’s history will be grateful to have a text this authoritative to refer back to.
Hop Along’s thrilling sophomore effort plays out like sonic arrhythmia — it seems impossible that Frances Quinlan could successfully quaver through such a variety of highs and lows without being sent into cardiac arrest.
It’s a high-watermark of post-irony indie, a cracked safe of perspectives previously unheard in lump-throated punk. It plays like a sketchbook, but you’ll grow to hum every Sharpie stroke.
Bright, busy, and unapologetically direct, Heartthrob nonetheless makes everything Tegan and Sara did before seem perversely obscure.
On the second album of her “Heart” trilogy she improves on the Linndrum sonics of her debut.