Despite my soft spot for Ariana Grande over most other radio pop artists, I've never loved an album of hers front to back. Sweetener isn't exactly an exception to this rule, but it is the closest she's come yet, even though, initially, I had no idea what to think of it. In many ways, it sounds like two albums forced to coexist in constant tension with one another. On one hand, you've got the glossy perfection of tracks like "No Tears Left to Cry," "Everytime," and "Breathin" with their pristine production and radio-ready choruses. On the other hand, there's a weirder, looser vibe to the low-key R&B of "Blazed," "R.E.M," and "Sweetener" that's harder to pin down. There are some missteps, yes, but also a whole lot to love. With a bit of patience (an unusual ask from a pop star), the two sides coalesce far better than one might initially believe.

Blood Orange has been one of the defining artists of 2018 for me. Funnily enough, this has been less because of his actual 2018 release and more because of me falling madly in love with his past work, particularly Cupid Deluxe. In comparison, Negro Swan feels somber and muted, more concerned with setting a consistent mood than cranking out catchy melodies. Nearly every song goes through several permutations, never settling into a single form for long, but this is nothing new; here, though, it occasionally feels tiring and aimless rather than innovative. Still, there are plenty of moments that shine, for their intricacy ("Charcoal Baby," "Hope"), for their infectiousness ("Nappy Wonder"), and for their intimacy ("Saint"). So, who knows, maybe I'll be fully singing its praises a few months from now.

Lotic's Power is a difficult album to describe because it takes countless different shapes that can't be easily slotted into preexisting categories. At its beginning and end, "Love and Light" and "Solace" offer beautiful reprieves, twinkling glimmers of hope, but they only achieve their full effect when the volatile constellations of darkness and tumult contained between are conquered. Heaven and hell collide on the title track, which in its heaviest moments resembles the industrial clamor of SOPHIE's "Whole New World/Pretend World." But even more conventionally vocal-based songs, like "Hunted," "Nerve," and "Heart," are complex puzzles due to their smoky, oppressive atmospheres. Listening to them is like wiping your hand across a steamy window for a few brief moments of clarity before it clouds up again.

I'll be honest: after a couple disappointing follow-ups to 2009's career-defining Fantasies, I resigned myself to the fact that Metric had probably lost their magic touch. Then, last year, Emily Haines released an unexpectedly excellent solo album, which is joined now by her band's unexpectedly excellent comeback, Art of Doubt. It's a dark, loose, gritty affair, the end result being that, for the first time in years, Metric actually sound like they have something vital to say. Songs like "Dressed to Suppress" and "Risk" are tightrope acts that skillfully balance ramped-up mid-2000s indie rock nostalgia and a newly refreshed sense of purpose. Elsewhere, although "Seven Rules" finds the band at their weariest, the title track pushes in a scrappier, more punk-leaning direction, proving they've got plenty of fight left in them yet.

Mitski is often positioned at the forefront of the women-led indie rock revival for good reason: the proof lies in her impressive discography, and Be the Cowboy is another solid entry in it. But that very solidness is also its greatest downfall; it's consistently good, there's nary a misstep in songwriting or delivery, but I can't help but feel that the sum doesn't add up to the strength of its parts. Nearly every track lands spectacularly well, from the hurtling desperation of "Geyser" and "A Pearl" to the shimmery disco-pop melancholy of "Nobody" to the serene contemplation of "Pink in the Night." But their impact, for me, ultimately proves ephemeral, evaporating into thin air as abruptly as it hits. There's no ravaging catharsis, as so many others have experienced. Instead, it's nothing more or less than perfectly enjoyable, and maybe that's okay.

Noname's Room 25 starts off swinging at conventional (and often misogynistic) understandings of what it means to be a hip-hop artist. On opener, "Self," she commands the listener's attention with an incendiary one-liner - "My pussy wrote a thesis on colonialism" - before demanding with laid-back swagger, "Y'all still thought a bitch couldn't rap, huh?" The question of whether or not she can call herself a "real" rapper is one that she quashes over and over again across the album's eleven tracks. Her casual, unruffled demeanor allows her to tackle the personal and the political with equal conviction. She just as easily sells "Prayer Song," a breathless condemnation of police brutality, as she does "Don't Forget About Me," a ballad about wanting to be remembered for something good that culminates in the tender declaration, "All I am is love."

Sometimes, there are those artists who hang out at the peripheries of your attention until circumstances conspire to make it the perfect opportunity for you to appreciate them. Maybe that's what happened to me with Santigold. I still haven't dug deeply into her past releases, but I Don't Want: The Gold Fire Sessions sounded like a winner from the first listen. It hits the ground running with "Coo Coo Coo" and "Run the Road," which deftly meld pop and hip-hop sensibilities with strong dancehall influences. From there, it barely slows down for so much as a breath. The tempo occasionally decelerates, as on the effortlessly cool "Valley of the Dolls," but the buzzing tropical energy never dissipates. This is largely thanks to Santigold's delivery, which captures the essence of hazy afternoons spent basking in the sunlight perfectly.

One of my favorite feelings is when a release arrives to sweep me off my feet completely out of nowhere. This is exactly what happened with Sinjin Hawke & Zora Jones' debut collaborative EP, Vicious Circles, which quickly went from being not at all on my radar to one of the most fascinating things I've heard all year. The duo's futuristic electronic soundscapes at first seem more dystopian than utopian: the occult-like Bulgarian chanting in "God," the bone-vibrating beats in "Source of Conflict," the relentlessly battering rhythms in "Lurk 101." But there's an undeniable element of beauty, too, fully encapsulated in the stirring closer, "And You Were One." Its celestial tings, gurgling synths, and pitch-shifted coos all add up to one masterful proof for my imaginary thesis on artificiality as the purest expression of human emotion.

It takes a lot for a standard singer-songwriter record to impress me these days, and that's what I assumed Whitney Ballen's You're a Shooting Star, I'm a Sinking Ship would be, so I went in with low expectations. I quickly realized, though, that it was something a bit more special than that. Ballen is a sharp lyricist, and her sweet-as-pie melodies and guileless, sprightly soprano (which should instantly appeal to fans of Joanna Newsom and Nicole Dollanganger) turn her razor-edged one-liners as unexpected as they are cutting. "Go/Forget about me/I know it's easy," she taunts a lover at one turn, only to own up to her own jealousy at the next - "I've got visions of you fucking her in my dreams" - but not without sneaking in another pointed barb alongside: "I think she's cooler than me . . . She's hitting you up to validate your feelings."