Not My Tune: December 2017

, by Shannon

best of 2017

2017 in Review: Quarter 4

Normally, I view the fourth quarter of any given year as a time where interesting new releases slow to a trickle. And while that's true this year to an extent, in the sense that I finally stopped feeling like I was breathlessly trying to keep up with one stacked Friday after another, I also ended up being surprised by just how many of the most impactful releases (for me, anyway) of the year came in its last three months. Of the 17 albums in this post, I believe only four are catch-ups from earlier in the year, and seven will feature in my AOTY list (with four of those making it into the top 10)! I'll leave you to speculate a few more days as to which ones made the cut. Until then, I highly recommend any of the below albums you may not have yet heard; they've made my most personally stressful months of the year way more enjoyable than they would have been otherwise!

If at all, you probably remember Anna Nalick as the one hit wonder behind the ubiquitous 2005 alt-pop single, "Breathe (2 AM)," a fairly good song from a fairly good album, Wreck of the Day, which never got the credit it deserved for forging the singer-songwriter pop path later trod by Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson. In the years since, Nalick's output has ranged from sporadic to non-existent. Color me surprised, then, to learn that she not only has a new album, At Now, but that it's a remarkably mature effort, proof that her artistic growth has been germinating, not stalled, all along. Stripped of its former bright-eyed naivety, her voice is as adaptable as her songwriting, from the organic rootsiness of "Drive Him Home" to the icy darkness of "Aura" to the piano classicism of "Knots" to the hooky melodies of the title track.

On first listen, its cluttered electronic soundscapes, along with Will Wiesenfeld's affected nasality and startlingly direct lyricism, make Romaplasm, Wiesenfeld's latest album as Baths, a vaguely disorienting experience. Soon enough, though, its seemingly clashing elements coalesce into infectious polyphony and bombastic beauty. On "Yeoman," "Abscond," and "Adam Copies," disparate parts are painstakingly constructed until they layer over top one another in bright, discordant harmony. Their sheer exuberance makes the minimalist tenderness of "Human Bog" a welcome tonal shift, even as its lyrics quietly devastate. "I'm queer in a way that works for you/The lengths I go to get held onto," Wiesenfeld sings, a sentiment later modified, even more crushingly, to, "Queer in a way that's failing me/I'm not enough of anything."

Utopia is almost certainly the least accessible album Björk has released, and it will probably take months to fully digest (I say this as someone who became a fan via Vulnicura, which isn't exactly an easy listen). Björk's idiosyncratic vocals seem to wander aimlessly, often in discordant layers of harmony, atop fluttering beds of flute that drift in and out and harsh, abrupt beats and samples crafted alongside co-producer Arca. But once you consider the album's tracks not in terms of self-contained pop songs but how they work, emotionally and aesthetically, to support the whole, a certain beauty begins to emerge. On one end of the spectrum, "Losss" is lush and devastating; on the other, "Sue Me" sounds like Björk and Arca having fun (while also coining the motto for shitty men in 2017: "They've just fucked it all up.")

For a while, I've been intrigued by the idea of PC Music without fully getting it. Then I fell hard and fast for PC-adjacent SOPHIE, which I think rewired something in my brain. Pop 2, Charli XCX's second mixtape this year, is executive-produced by A. G. Cook, PC Music's founder, and it's fucking nuts in terms of the mainstream pop sphere, and I love every second of it. Its best songs are weirdly both the most synthetic and the most human ("Backseat," "Lucky," "Tears"). At times, it becomes difficult to separate the burbling, heavily-processed vocals from their melted candy backdrops, resulting in a kaleidoscopic and alien yet oddly poignant cyclone of computer-generated emotion. The hooks, like on "Femmebot" and Unlock It," are also undeniable, even if most of the rap features come off as pretty (charmingly) silly.

Chronologically and alphabetically, Charli XCX's Number 1 Angel mixtape should come first, and, yes, that slightly bothers me, but I heard it already having Pop 2 as a reference point, so it makes sense to talk about it second. Although never quite attaining the computerized euphoria accomplished by Pop 2, it's masterful in its own right. While songs like "Pull Up (3AM)," "Emotional," and "ILY2" maintain the facade of fairly straightforward pop, they're absolutely top-notch, with choruses that in another reality would have propelled them to the top of the charts. On the peripherals of their immediacy are frissons of future-pop experimentation, like the slippery coquetry of "Roll with Me" and the bubblegum hip-hop of "Lipgloss," which drop tantalizing breadcrumbs of the vision fully realized on Pop 2. *

I have to admit: my assessment of Charlotte Gainsbourg's music has always been that it's rather sterile and personality-free. After hearing Rest, though, I've come to the conclusion that either there's been a drastic leap in quality or I've been wrong all along because this album is nearly perfect. While Gainsbourg is no vocal virtuoso, her breathy, sensuous murmur fits its gauzy, dream-like surroundings like a glove, subtly adapting to be equally at home within the grandeur of "Deadly Valentine," the minimalism of the title track, and the whimsy of "Sylvia Says." In the best way possible, Rest sounds like something that might soundtrack a pretentious black and white montage of profoundly random stock footage, which is exactly what you'd expect from an effortlessly cool, endlessly sophisticated Anglo-Frenchwoman.

On Ash, French-Cuban sisters Lisa-Kaïndé and Naomi Diaz, collectively known as Ibeyi, artfully piece the bright shards of their diverse cultural upbringing and influences into a sparkling, incandescent whole that's fully their own. Singing in four different languages (English, French, Spanish, and Yoruba), they switch tongues as easily as they shatter genres, fusing elements of modern pop and hip-hop with Afro-Cuban percussion, gospel choir backing, and jazzy horns. The result is as catchy as it is creative. "Away Away," "Deathless," and "Numb" are earworms of the highest order, and "No Man Is Big Enough for My Arms," which samples Michelle Obama, has to be the most earth-shaking feminist anthem of the year. Yet the sisters also master subtle, spine-tingling beauty in the languid expansiveness of "Transmission/Michaelion."

Since the release of her starkly personal debut, Sprained Ankle, Julien Baker's honest songwriting and emotional delivery have gained her a steady word-of-mouth following, to the point where Turn Out the Lights became one of the year's most anticipated albums before it was even announced. Despite boasting a richer and fuller sonic backdrop (a nuanced string arrangement here, soft background harmonies there), it doesn't stray far from its predecessor's path, which is its biggest strength and its biggest weakness. "Sour Breath," "Happy to Be Here," and "Hurt Less" crank up the intensity, lyrics depressingly relatable, Baker's vocals so painful they ache in the listener's own throat. Although the quiet/loud dynamics begin to veer a touch formulaic, it's hard to fault Baker when they feel like a gut punch every time.

On the electronic-leaning alt-R&B spectrum, Kelela lands somewhere between Banks and FKA twigs. Her debut album, Take Me Apart, achieves precise balance between big, accessible hooks and a darker, colder experimental edge. Its varied but consistent quality shouldn't surprise, as its production roster includes some of the biggest names in the left-of-center pop game (Ariel Rechtshaid, Arca, Boots). But Kelela's central vision - not to mention the cool, controlled expressiveness of her vocals - is never compromised by her collaborators' individual quirks. High-energy standouts like "LMK" and "Onanon" feel at once forward-thinking and nostalgic for past R&B trends, their extroversion tempered by atmospheric slow-burners ("Frontline," "Take Me Apart," "Enough") and spacey, ethereal ballads ("Turn to Dust," "Altadena").

I first heard Kendrick Lamar's DAMN. shortly after it came out, and I didn't think I liked it very much. But it kept popping into my head even months later, and when I finally started making an effort to open myself up to hip-hop in a serious way, it made sense to revisit the album with a new mindset. Not all of it works for me, but the tracks that do hit hard, proving that Lamar is essentially untouchable when firing on all cylinders. "DNA." and "HUMBLE." immediately stand out for the laser-sharp precision of their rapid-fire aggression, but it's slow-burners like "FEEL." and "PRIDE." with their conscious, measured delivery and "LUST." and "FEAR." with their jazzy, soulful elements that make the album repeat-worthy. In fact, my preference for these types of tracks makes me think I need to give To Pimp a Butterfly a second shot next.

Makthaverskan's III sounds exactly like its predecessors, the unsurprisingly-titled I and II, which is not at all a bad thing when the Swedish band has so thoroughly perfected their brand of urgent and gutsy post-punk. Maja Milner has a superhuman set of lungs, and her frenzied intensity is a gripping force of nature, even as she stands in the eye of a relentless cyclone of clanging instrumentation. It's difficult to name highlights because the songs maintain such a consistent tone; at the same time, it's difficult to pinpoint weaknesses because each sounds more exhilarating than the last, despite their similarity. While this is largely due to Milner's vocal charisma, the aggressively catchy melodies don't hurt either. They're flashy and volatile, like caution signs warning you off while simultaneously drawing you dangerously near.

For a long time now, features have been the name of the game in the hip-hop world, which makes it all the more impressive when an artist impresses on the merits of a 16-track album that only contains one. This is exactly what Princess Nokia achieves on 1992 Deluxe, an expanded repackaging of a mixtape released last year. By maintaining a remarkable diversity of flow, the NYC-based rapper easily proves she has what it takes to hold the spotlight on her own. Her most natural state seems to be that of the brassy, give-no-fucks spitfire, as evident on the body-positive anthem, "Tomboy," and the high bravado of "G.O.A.T." But she's just as convincing at pulling off geeky childhood nostalgia ("Bart Simpson"), laid-back hometown pride ("Green Line," "ABCs of New York"), and ominous, deep-voiced intimidation ("Goth Kid").

I had literally never heard of Special Explosion until less than a month ago, but within 30 seconds of hearing "Fire" for the first time, I knew I was onto something special. Built on hypnotically repeated imagery - "There's a fire in the house, and we're burning all the wood that we cut from a tree that fell into the yard in the middle of the winter, and we want to be a little bit warmer than we were last year" - it's a crackling, cozy, autumnal embrace of male/female harmonies and quietly-building post-rock instrumentation. Anyone who knows me knows that these qualities are my kryptonite, and To Infinity possesses them in spades. Even if its other songs fall just short of reaching its centerpiece's emotionally resonant heights, their careful craftsmanship is undeniable in how comfortably their melodies burrow into the listener's brain.

I love St. Vincent and feel that she's only gotten sharper and ballsier as a songwriter with every album; in fact, her self-titled release was easily my favorite album of 2014. That being said, I'm still deciding how I feel about MASSEDUCTION as a whole. The issue is not that it moves in a glossier, poppier direction. In fact, when Annie Clark writes a good pop song, she's up there with the very best, as evidenced by earworms like "Los Ageless" and "Pills." Her voice is also more assured than ever, whether reaching for glass-shattering high notes ("Young Lover") or selling the shit out of gloomy synth torch ballads ("New York," "Smoking Section"). Unfortunately, there are also a handful of songs that feel like filler, a first for a St. Vincent album, which holds MASSEDUCTION back from being as bold an artistic statement as it wants to be.

Stars get a lot of flak for being "easy listening" or "adult contemporary" pop and not really taking any risks. But when they're at their best (Set Yourself on Fire, In Our Bedroom After the War), their melodies and arrangements go down smoother and more beautifully than just about anyone else's. Sadly, their last few releases have been spotty, scattered with only a handful of true diamonds. There Is No Love in Fluorescent Light isn't necessarily a return to form, but for a band deep into its second decade, it's a surprisingly lively effort. As always, Torquil Campbell's suave talk-singing and Amy Millan's sweet croon are a match made in heaven, whether on the joyous, bombastic hook of "Fluorescent Light" or the brooding piano balladry of "The Gift of Love." And on "The Maze," the band shows off their heavier side for the first time in years.

I'm taking a hard late pass on Vince Staples' Big Fish Theory. It's such a fucking cool album that I wish I'd heard before the second to last week of the year. Then again, I'm not sure I'd have liked it if I had. A couple months ago, a full, glorious minute of Kendrick Lamar rapping furiously over a speaker-blowing SOPHIE beat would have meant nothing to me; now, I'm practically euphoric over it. This moment occurs in "Yeah Right," which is clearly a major highlight, but there are so many others, too. Big Fish Theory brings hip-hop to the dance floor with dark, sleek sophistication and plenty of Staples' friends, marrying quick-witted rhymes to breathy hooks (sung by Kilo Kish), heart-pounding drum and bass, and retro sampling - all of which come together as satisfyingly as jigsaw puzzle pieces on tracks like "Crabs in a Bucket," "Love Can Be..." and "Homage."

The Weather Station's Tamara Lindeman is a subtle songwriter, which is both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, what fails to captivate one day might blossom the next. On the other, not all listeners will have the patience necessary for this to happen. Her latest, self-titled release may be her best, as it contains restraint and immediacy in equal measure. It's almost impossible not to instantly love twangy toe-tappers like "Thirty" and "Kept It All to Myself," where the soft insistence of Lindeman's vocals makes sudden bursts of lyrical feeling all the more effective: "I noticed fucking everything/The light, the reflections, different languages, your reflection." But there are also growers like "Impossible" and "Complicit," their vivid imagery ("All through our disagreement, there was a cardinal on the fence") stirring even in near-whispers.

* If you enjoy Charli XCX's mixtapes or weird pop music in general, check out Hannah Diamond's recent three-song release, Soon I won't see you at all. It's available as a free download and full of synthetic, sugar-coated goodness, but "Concrete Angel" especially goes the fuck off and should've been included in my last post.