Warning: This post is purely self-indulgent. Proceed at your own risk.

Statistics pump me like few other things in this world manage to do, especially statistics related to how obsessively I consume all things pop culture-related. Last.fm decided to slightly redeem itself from its general decline into mediocrity by putting together an end-of-year feature that's actually pretty cool and useful for stats/music geeks like me. I've already been cataloging my yearly listening habits for a long time, so it's nice of them to program their machines to do a bunch of fancy calculations for me. The only problem is that December is unaccounted for in the shiny graphics below. However, being a stickler for accuracy, I have made sure the top 50 artists/albums/songs that follow encompass all twelve months. I warned you: all of this is probably only interesting if you're me.

2016 was an awful year in many other ways, but it was a great year for music. I reviewed 65 albums and listened to countless more, which is probably a personal best for me. I have to admit that it became somewhat overwhelming and I probably won't be going quite as hard next year, but it was still a largely positive experience. The most rewarding part was discovering and supporting so many smaller bands and artists, many of whom are on their way to becoming long-term favorites. Because of them, I ended up with a treasure trove of exciting new music despite many higher-profile releases failing to move me.

I went back and forth all year on whether or not I would even be capable of numerically ranking my favorites. In the end, the idea of breaking what next year will be a decade-long personal tradition was too disappointing to bear. Whittling down this list was more difficult than any other year I remember. In the end, my only rules were to go with my gut, choose albums that resonated with me on an emotional level, and stop tinkering (for the most part) the moment it felt right. These thirty are, without a doubt, the albums that most clearly defined my year and will remain in frequent rotation long afterward.

Agnes Obel's eerie, ethereal music is beyond time and place, a soundtrack to the universe itself. This has never been truer than on her latest album, Citizen of Glass. "Familiar" has an immediately alien quality: although the cinematic sweep of piano and strings is reminiscent of Obel's previous work, it is juxtaposed against pitch-shifted vocals that quiver inhumanly. The ultimate effect is as unsettling as it is achingly gorgeous. "Stretch Your Eyes" and "Golden Green" are less aesthetically jarring but still throb with dark, quietly thrilling tension. Both Obel's voice and piano-playing have a resonant bell-like quality that injects weightiness at every turn, which is especially apparent in the more hushed cadences of "Trojan Horses" and "Mary." No note is wasted. No syllable is without its meaning. No breath is out of place.

In 2008, Copeland and Lydia released albums that defined both their careers and my personal music taste. One might describe them as melodic rock that emphasizes atmosphere, but their appeal is less about style and more about an indefinable emotional heft that is surprisingly difficult to replicate. For me, no other band has come close, until this year, when I managed to find two. The first is From Indian Lakes with Everything Feels Better Now. Not only do Joey Vannucchi's tender vocals bear a remarkable resemblance to Copeland's Aaron Marsh, but his songwriting is similar, too, whether in the hypnotic repetition of "Happy Machines," the driving pop hooks of "The Monster," or the falsetto-laden moodiness of "Sunlight." Yet Vannucchi's natural talent allows the album to defy mere imitation and become something special on its own. 

Upon seeing the cover art for Lady Lamb's Tender Warriors Club and hearing the catchy first single, "See You," I expected something cute and lightweight but not particularly remarkable. What I got instead was thirty minutes of raw, instrumentally bare blood-letting, a ritual untangling of conflict, heartbreak, and existential crisis. The EP's obvious high points are three expansive ballads, all over six minutes: "Heaven Bent," "Tangles," and "We Are Nobody Else." Aly Spaltro's voice encompasses a broader and bolder emotional palette than any other instrument could, shifting skillfully from a smooth, subtle croon to a ragged, throaty howl. This loss of vocal inhibitions combined with some of Spaltro's most mature and gripping melodies yet creates an intense listening experience, made all the more so by its sheer unexpectedness.

Laish's "Learning to Love the Bomb" is an instantly charming, immaculately constructed pop song I find myself wanting to describe as "pleasant" or "mellow," adjectives that somehow seem like back-handed compliments. In our collective hunger for music that excites and surprises, I think we forget that sometimes good music is just good music. Pendulum Swing is exactly that, a fine album of lush, easily-digestible chamber folk-pop. Songs like "Love on the Conditional," "My Little Prince," and "Rattling Around" have effortless melodies that seem to wash right over you but prove to linger longer than you'd expect. Rich orchestration and wistful harmonies perfectly compliment the bright English lilt and reedy Colin Meloy-esque timbre of Danny Green's voice, which is most beautifully on display in ballads like opener "Vague." 

The Narrative won me over with their excellent 2008 EP, Just Say Yes, and their very good 2010 self-titled album. Jesse Gabriel and Suzie Zeldin then retreated to an upstate NY barn to record their sophomore effort, which circumstances conspired to keep unreleased - until now. Golden Silence boasts a level of maturity and restraint beyond the band's earlier material. It opens strong with driving, hook-filled pop songs like "Moving Out" and "Chasing a Feeling" but is perhaps more fulfilling in its slow, atmospheric, Americana-influenced second half. Gabriel and Zeldin's vocals intertwine seamlessly, injecting "California Sun" and "Reason to Leave" with sweet-sounding but hard-hitting melancholy. Mostly recorded four years ago, in a way, Golden Silence is already a relic of the band's past. Who can say what their actual future will hold?

Earlier, I mentioned two recent albums that give me heavy Copeland/Lydia vibes. Owel's Dear Me is the second and, holy shit, is it a stunner. In fact, it's one of the most gorgeously dynamic and emotive albums I've heard all year and probably the only to truly justify its hour-plus length. Nearly every track is better than the last, which is hard to believe when the album opens with a pair of slow-building epics in "Slow" and "Pale Soft Light." Jay Sakong's voice, equal parts delicate and powerful, is exquisitely supported by Jane Park's violin/viola and the rest of the band's more traditional rock instrumentation. All of these elements rise and fall in unison, creating post-rock inspired swells of sound that culminate in indescribable moments of beauty, such as the ascendant, heart-pounding finales of  "Be Quiet" and "I Am Not Yours."

Slothrust (pronounced "sloth-rust" not "slow-thrust" if you were wondering) should satisfy fans of Mitski, Speedy Ortiz, and Torres with their hard-rocking but deeply emotional second album, Everyone Else. In her rough-around-the-edges voice, Leah Wellbaum expresses insecurity in a strikingly human way despite steeping it in bizarre metaphor. On "Horseshoe Crab," a slow-burning existential ballad, she passionately howls, "Sometimes I feel like I'm a seahorse/Sometimes I think that I'm a horseshoe crab/I don't have anything in common with myself/Except that I came from the sea like everyone else did/But it is so unfamiliar now." Elsewhere, the music is more aggressive, matching Wellbaum's frustration to frenetic instrumentation ("Like a Child Hiding Behind Your Grave," "Rotten Pumpkin").