"Shannon," I told myself at the beginning of January, "Don't get so caught up in new releases this year. You know it'll only drive you crazy in the long run. Don't do it." Flash forward three months and I've somehow got 20 albums to talk about. Listen, I can't help it if seemingly every single one of my favorites is conspiring to release their latest offerings all at once. Combine that with new discoveries and suddenly there's no time left for anything else. Already, quarter two is shaping up to be just as stacked. I have no choice but to give in - and even less choice when it comes to meticulously documenting it all. Just resign yourself to taking this journey with me. It's easier that way. (Or scroll to the Spotify playlist at the end for instant gratification.)
CARE is the musical project of Justin Majetich, whose sprawling, ambitious compositions are brought to full-blown, technicolor life with the assistance of a cast of instrumental and technical collaborators. A concept album that charts the rise and fall of a violently passionate love affair, Luv in the Ruins could certainly be described as bloated, messy, awkward, and melodramatic. However, in this case, these descriptors aren't necessarily bad things because they mirror the emotional ups and downs that accompany a turbulent relationship between two twenty-somethings convinced they are one another's soulmates. The album's rambling, neurotic narrative perfectly encapsulates one lover's struggle to accept the fact that they are not, a slowly-unfolding revelation that occurs amidst a bevy of uniquely millennial distractions.
On the heels of their least compelling release and the loss of half their members, the odds were stacked against Eisley from the moment they announced I'm Only Dreaming. However, despite the notable absence of the band's signature three-part harmonies, Sherri DuPree-Bemis does a formidable job of taking sole control of both the singing and songwriting reins. The result is an album closer to The Valley's bright, energetic pop than the dense and brooding abstraction of Currents. Songs like "Always Wrong," "Defeatist," and "You Are Mine" have an immediate charm, courtesy of Dupree-Bemis' bubbly vocals and knack for churning out one killer hook after another. As satisfyingly consistent as the band's pop sensibilities are, the album's most surprising moment is also its best: the sinister, darkly violent rock lullaby "Louder Than a Lion."
Guy Blakeslee's Entrance, often associated with "freak folk" mainstays like Devendra Banhart and Will Oldham, has been around in various permutations since the early 2000s, and Book of Changes marks his latest self-reinvention. It has the feel of a personal musical triumph, even to those unfamiliar with Blakeslee's past work. Broad in scope, its instrumental palette encompasses rich vocal harmonies, stirring strings, jaunty harpsichord, resonant acoustic guitar, and more. Compositionally, it's just as varied, an homage to Blakeslee's scattered influences that never feels stale but instead puts a new twist on classic sounds, from the '60s-styled pop of "Always the Right Time" to the bolero-influenced "I'd Be a Fool" to the country/flamenco hybrid "Molly" to the George Harrison-like organic rock of "Revolution Eyes."
Folk-blues band Hurray for the Riff Raff's The Navigator is as much an album of protest as celebration; it honors Puerto Rican culture, history, and art while at the same time criticizing an America that largely devalues the people behind it. Although "Rican Beach" is deceptively upbeat, Alynda Segarra's vocals encapsulate a weary soul, its pain intensified by the lyrics: "First, they stole our language/Then they stole our names/Then they stole the things that brought us fame." The devastating impact of colonialism and assimilation carries over into the album's six-minute pinnacle, "Pa'lante," which incorporates the voice of Puerto Rican poet Pedro Pietri. In the face of overwhelming odds, Segarra promotes persistence with an urgent battle cry: "To all who had to hide . . . To all who had to survive, I say pa'lante."
Once an artist surpasses the ten-year mark in their career, it generally becomes less and less likely they'll outdo their early victories, particularly when that victory is as complete as Jens Lekman's sophomore album, Night Falls Over Kortedala. Yet, against all odds, with his fourth full-length, Life Will See You Now, Lekman may have just managed to one-up himself. The album features some of his catchiest melodies yet - good luck getting the breathless chorus of "Wedding in Finistére" out of your head or stopping yourself from humming the sweetly mischievous "Hotwire the Ferris Wheel." It also highlights Lekman's storytelling at its most witty and sincere: "Evening Prayer" tells the story of two friends drawn closer by one's experience with a tumor. Through it all, Lekman's smooth baritone never wavers.
Julie Byrne's Not Even Happiness is a journey of self-discovery as well as a more literal journey, one that begins uncertainly, almost by accident: "I crossed the country and I carried no key . . . I sought peace and it never came to me." As Byrne makes her cautious way through the mutable landscapes of America and the delicate labyrinth of her psyche, she encounters sights both ceaseless ("southwestern towns . . . fields that span forever") and singular ("dew on a rose . . . a double rainbow"). All the while, her soothing voice is accompanied by tastefully minimal acoustic arrangements and subtly engaging melodies. At the album's end, she concludes, "I have dragged my life across the country," implying that the listener has been dragged alongside. It's hard to mind, though, when the road is paved with so much effortless beauty.
At just 27, Laura Marling has established herself as a formidable ambassador of twenty-first century folk, having released six remarkably consistent albums in only nine years. Semper Femina is the latest and, in many ways, perhaps the best. Its title derives from Virgil: "varium et mutabile semper femina." Marling transforms this dismissive characterization into a symbol of woman's perseverance and adaptability; of her eponymous muse in "Nouel," she sings, "You'll be anything you choose/Fickle and changeable are you/And long may that continue." This gently sensual expression of female love is on display from the album's opener, "Soothing," the sinuous languor of which also sets an atmospheric precedence. Even the loose and bluesy "Nothing, Not Nearly" possesses the even-handed maturity of a woman in control.
Since 2006, Los Campesinos! have been chugging along with a small but devoted fan base and a string of consistently great albums, establishing themselves as indie rock stalwarts when so many peers have fallen by the wayside. Sick Scenes and its predecessor, No Blues, are separated by nearly four years, which amounts to a century for a band who's rarely been idle. The album deftly picks up where they left off, the verbose, neurotic lyrics and their snarky delivery greeting familiar listeners like an old and tirelessly self-deprecating friend. Songs like "A Slow, Slow Death" and "Got Stendahl's" continue the trend toward a more mature and serious sound that has been cultivated in the band's last couple releases, while energetic punk-y blasts like "I Broke Up in Amarante" and "5 Flucloxacillin" recall their ramshackle early material.
Based purely on aesthetic enjoyment, Darling of the Afterglow may be my favorite thing of 2017 so far. It certainly lacks much of the disarming, cerebral weirdness of Lydia Ainsworth's debut, Right from Real (for example, nothing approaches the psychedelic trippiness of the extreme vocal distortion in "Moonstone"). However, it takes the underlying melodic genius and exaggerates it to the nth degree, resulting in what are easily some of the most undeniable pop songs to reach my ears in months: I dare you not to want to immediately hit the repeat button on "What Is It" or "Spinning." At the same time, Ainsworth's penchant for serpentine arrangements, unusual instrumentation, and dark, witchy atmospherics remains on full display, as on gorgeously layered, slow-building midtempos like "Afterglow," "Open Doors," and "Into the Blue." 
As someone entirely unversed in the world of hip-hop, I'm not going to pretend I hold the ability to speak intelligently or meaningfully on the subject. What I can speak on is my personal enjoyment of Nnamdi Ogbonnaya's Drool, which I happen to find an incredibly inventive and fun listen. Ogbonnaya merges rap with DIY aesthetics and math rock sensibilities, a culmination of the various underground projects in which he's been involved. His flow is diverse, allowing him to take on different personas to suit the song's mood, from a nervy, fast-paced spitfire on "let gO Of my egO" to a deep, raspy drawl on the politically-charged "N0TICE." There are so many catchy choruses ("dOn't turn me Off," "iVyTRA") that happen organically rather than feeling pasted on for pop appeal, and quirky synth melodies provide unexpected texture.
On Nothing Feels Natural, the debut from D.C. punk-rockers Priests, no one is spared from criticism. The band's diatribes are often political. "Pink White House" targets millennials who engage in capitalism without questioning it - "Come on sitcom/Come on streaming/Come on nostalgia, nineties TV/Ooh, baby, my American dream," Katie Alice Greer moans, sensuality laced with sarcasm - and "Puff" recalls a friend who suggests Burger King as a band name. But Greer's storming, bluesy howl, accompanied by gritty instrumentation, just as frequently skewers the personal. "Suck" calls out a needy lover: "Always want someone to be your mom/But I can tell you that I won't hang around long." When Greer declares, "It's always white boys like you obsessed with the police," the line between political and personal dissolves.
After finding the last couple Margot and the Nuclear So & So's records lackluster, I was initially uninterested in Richard Edwards' debut under his own name, Lemon Cotton Candy Sunset. But I'm glad I gave it a chance because that first listen held something akin to the magic I felt the first time I heard Margot's The Dust of Retreat. Although musically closer to the band's later releases, it possesses a renewed passion that cuts straight to the bone. Considering Edwards endured both a debilitating illness and a failed marriage during its creation, it's no surprise the album packs such a punch. Whether in the jazzy discordance of "Disappeared Planets," the stripped-down balladry of "When You Get Lost," or the twangy desperation of "Rollin', Rollin', Rollin'," Edwards always manages to carve the beauty from his most intense pain.
Sampha's Process is slightly frustrating to me as an album because I adore the singles but find a majority of the rest a bit impenetrable. Although they vastly differ in mood and tempo, there's no denying the melodic power of "Blood on Me," "(No One Knows Me) Like the Piano," and "Timmy's Prayer." Sampha's passionate vocals and strong songwriting skills take center stage as he deftly merges R&B and soul with pop sensibilities and chilled-out electronic atmospherics. On much of the rest of the album, though, the atmosphere seems to take over, making the melodies harder to find. There are moments that work - "Plastic 100°C," "Under" - but it never quite coalesces into a consistently compelling whole for me. Still, Process contains enough glimpses of musical genius to be worth the listen.
Division is Shannon Wright's ninth album as a solo artist and twelfth album of her entire career. So deep into their discographies, most artists mellow out into a pleasant but bland maturity, which Wright flirted with for an album or two before deciding it didn't suit her and shaking herself awake. In the last few years, she's settled into a solid pattern of alternating between intense bluesy rock, atmospheric piano balladry, and spacey electronic experimentation. At just over thirty minutes long, Division easily tackles all three in "The Thirst," "Soft Noise," and "Accidental" respectively. Throughout, Wright's voice is still a force to be reckoned with, ranging from a hoarse whisper to an impassioned howl. Ultimately, the album is mid-tier Shannon Wright, but that's only because she's been so staggeringly great for so long already.
Yours Conditionally is Tennis' fourth album of summery '70s AM radio pop, and it finds the duo finally perfecting their unabashedly retro formula. Alaina Moore's light, ringing voice is perfectly suited to the warm, sunny washes of guitar and keyboards she crafts alongside husband Patrick Riley. Their musical chemistry shines through bubbly earworms like "Fields of Blue" as well as low-key ballads like "Baby Don't Believe," the gauzy tranquility of which fits Moore's subtly soulful delivery like a glove. Beneath the unerring prettiness, though, the lyrics are surprisingly sharp. In "My Emotions Are Blinding," Moore cleverly lampoons misogynistic stereotypes. After bemoaning her womanly weakness, she croons with a wink, "I'll be giving all my attention to the world's most interesting man/I'm just a vehicle for the material."
Thelma is singer-songwriter Natasha Jacobs, and Thelma is her debut album (there's a song named "Thelma," too, just in case you're keeping count). At just seven songs and thirty minutes long, it's one of the most visceral things I've heard this year. Jacobs has a pleasant voice that occasionally slips into an impassioned quaver or yelp, its variations injecting new meaning into her incantation-style lyrics with each repetition. Her rangy folk-rock compositions swell organically, brimming with nighttime/full moon/sad campfire song atmosphere. You can almost hear the fire roaring in the bold climaxes of "Moxie" and "Haha." In "Peach," Jacobs' voice simmers with the quiet intensity of embers as she intones darkly, "Though I've fed you love respectively sweet/I plague the back of your tongue with instinctual grief."
Tim Darcy has been making waves as the charismatic front man of post-punk band Ought, but his first solo album, Saturday Night, proves his presence is just as commanding on its own. Although there are moments that recall the abstract angularity of his primary band (namely the title track), Saturday Night draws largely on other inspirations. "Still Waking Up" not only references A Hard Day's Night but would easily fit alongside it with its sincere romanticism; the minimalist "What'd You Release?" follows in the same vein. Elsewhere across the album, Darcy draws on the Velvet Underground, Brill Building pop, and distinctive vocalists like Elvis Costello and Roy Orbison. Despite wearing his influences on his sleeve, Darcy has carved out a singular voice that rises above a sea of homogeneous indie rock darlings.
Tiny Hazard's music will be dismissed by many critics because it's sung by an idiosyncratic female vocalist and evokes words like "quirky" and "whimsical" that for some reason have come to hold negative connotations. They'll call Greyland derivative, as though there's a quota for women making challenging, left-of-center music that's been filled by the Joanna Newsoms and CocoRosies of the world. Don't listen to them. Although comparisons can undoubtedly be drawn (as is true of any new artist), Tiny Hazard are clearly genuine in their approach. Alena Spanger's deceptively sweet voice is a force to be reckoned with, capable of both outlandishness ("Like a Child," "Sharkwhirl") and subtle devastation ("Ink," "Greyland"). Impressively, the rest of the band keeps up, confidently following her through the maze-like twists of each song.
On Infinite Worlds, Vagabon says a lot by saying very little. Laetitia Tamko's frank, straightforward lyrics will resonate with anyone who's ever felt like they've given up too many parts of themselves to please everyone else. In only seven songs, a subtle but definite transformation occurs, from meek ("I've been hiding in the smallest space/I am dying to go, this is not my home") to self-assured ("You will raise your voice and talk aloud, but once you didn't have a voice at all") to assertive ("I don't have it in me to give everyone everything/Take what you need and go"). By the end, Tamko has reasserted ownership over herself and her identity, even in a world that remains uncertain. The music further maintains this atmosphere of unassuming confidence in its charming fits and starts, fuzzy lo-fi intensity, and scrappy, imprecise melodies.
I instantly fell in love with Valerie June's "Astral Plane" - it was that magical coalescence of the right song at the right time that is so rare to stumble across. The rest of her sophomore album, The Order of Time, was less immediate, but I'm glad I gave it the time and patience it needed to unfold. Valerie June's strength, as both vocalist and songwriter, is subtlety. While the album has a handful of high-energy moments, most notably the boot-stomping "Shakedown," it is largely built on understated folk-country ballads you feel in your heart rather than your feet. There's something indelible about the rustic authenticity of tracks like "Love You Once Made" and "Two Hearts;" they sink their hooks in slowly rather than all at once, which makes them all the more difficult to remove once they've finally taken hold.
