Experimental production duo 100 gecs, whose music is an unholy mash-up of electronic, pop, emo, rap, and shit-posting, kicked off in a big way this year. While I haven’t fully embraced the gec lifestyle, I can see the appeal; I found myself constantly circling back to their album, 1000 gecs, in a desperate attempt to understand why I couldn’t get parts of it out of my head. This track in particular sounds (and the title looks) like a mid-2000s third-wave emo song thrown into a woodchipper, and maybe it’s only because I consumed so much of that music by proxy during my sister’s Hot Topic phase, but I kind of like it.



This exuberant pop anthem, wedged into the middle of their ambitious new album [USA], is proof that chiptune producers Anamanaguchi would likely make a killing if they outsourced their services to other artists more frequently. Featuring the bubbly vocals of HANA, it’s a four-minute thrill ride of kaleidoscopic sounds, a joyous explosion that spins singledom into a sparkling emancipation from the expectations of dating and the endless search for a soulmate. “We’ve all been looking for the one/And all we’ve ever done/We’ve drifted further from the fun,” HANA chirps, building up to a boldly declarative hook: “I am not the weaker one when I’m here on my own.”



This song immediately hooked me with its hilariously blunt lyrics about being given the runaround by a friend you know is talking shit behind your back, delivered by Banoffee in a comically exaggerated drawl. She uses the tennis metaphor to establish herself as someone who usually keeps their cool: “I don’t do a backhand/I don’t play games/Never been a tennis fan/Not in my nature to play.” However, once she catches wind of this so-called friend “run[ning] [their] mouth like a tractor,” she has no choice but to defend herself. I think it’s a scenario almost everyone can relate to, and it’s all wrapped up in one of the most unique pop songs I’ve heard this year.



As solid as Emily Reo’s Only You Can See It is, this song is such a perfectly-constructed representation of everything she does well that it’s hard not to feel like the rest of the album pales in comparison. It takes the somewhat cerebral approach of Reo’s previous work and reconfigures it for a more streamlined and catchy sound. Using childlike sing-song melodies and cheerleader-esque chants to craft a deceptively cute package, she addresses the complete mental exhaustion that accompanies being ogled and insulted ad infinitum by misogynistic men. Its closing lines will leave any woman knowingly nodding along: “What do you deserve from me?/N-O-T-H-I-N-G! . . . Wish you had earned that PhD in R-E-S-P-E-C-T!”



Australian electronic producer Flume released an acclaimed mixtape early this year, which has a lot of interesting elements but is a bit too abstract as a whole for me to put in regular rotation. What’s really held my interest are a couple of his collaborative pop one-offs. “Let You Know” with London Grammar is a tasty appetizer, but this song feels like the main course. Vera Blue’s lovely and emotive voice is a perfect match for the nostalgic ruminations in the lyrics (“When I was seventeen, nicotine loving had me rushing out the door”). But then Flume’s production takes a sledgehammer to her romanticized recollections, smashing them into digital smithereens, a brutal reminder that constantly looking back might not be so productive after all.



I don’t have many nice things to say about Pitchfork these days, but I do have to credit their top 100 songs list for introducing me to this spectacular dance banger. I had never heard of Georgia previously, but her upcoming album, Seeking Thrills, is now one of my most anticipated of 2020. I’ve been listening to this song multiple times a day and still can’t really explain why it’s so wildly intoxicating. Maybe it’s simply that it sounds massive but not generic. The off-kilter hook - “I was just thinking about work the dancefloor” - throws you for a loop. You don’t know exactly what it means, but the beat commands you to keep moving, so you think with your feet instead of your head, and suddenly it all makes sense.



I listened to Guayaba blindly after seeing two or three artists I follow praising her on Twitter, and her album, Fantasmagoría, is certainly a singular and very intense listening experience that uniquely centers her Cuban heritage alongside other musical influences. Sometimes she sings in a beautifully rich and soulful tone, and sometimes she raps in an ominously deep and confrontational growl, and these vocal personas are such polar opposites, it’s hard to believe they’re the same person at all. Here, both are on display in a dizzying back and forth that reflects the intense whiplash of being trapped inside a suffocating relationship. Fantasmagoría may not have ended up in my top albums, but I highly recommend giving the entire thing a shot.



This song really snuck up on me. At first, I didn’t think it was anything remarkable, but I couldn’t shake the desire to keep trying it again. Then, finally, all the emotional subtleties fell into place to hit me like a ton of bricks. HAIM isn’t a band that’s celebrated for their restraint, but this song proves they can thrive there if given the opportunity. Danielle Haim works magic with her vocal delivery, imbuing a simple “do-do-do” with all the weight of the world. Later, over a tasteful saxophone solo, she commands breathily, “Walk beside me/Not behind me/Feel my unconditional love,” which cues me melting into a puddle at her feet. Throw in Alana and Este’s gentle harmonizing at the end, and that’s it, my heart’s on the floor, I’m finished.



It’s been a few years since we’ve heard from Infinity Crush, but she clearly hasn’t lost her talent for wringing the maximum amount of emotional potency out of sub-three-minute bedroom pop songs. Here, she sings about feeling like her body no longer belongs to her, even after distancing herself from the toxic person who laid claim to it. “You don’t own my body anymore, do you?” she asks hesitantly, sounding on the verge of tears. She goes on to rationalize, “I was fine/I was good/Always did what I should,” even as she recognizes the trauma inflicted by this person - “Look at me/Look at this/How I move just to exist” - is on them, not her.



Julia Jacklin’s Crushing is inconsistent, but there are a few tracks that sound like instant classics, especially this one. The first time I heard it, I stopped dead in my tracks. On its surface, it’s a fairly simple folk-rock song, but I think that’s part of the reason why it’s so good: it sounds like something familiar and comfortable, even when you know you’ve never heard it before. Lyrically, it explores that bittersweet feeling of falling out of love, the sense of realizing someone isn’t right for you while simultaneously reeling over everything that will disappear along with them. “You know my body now and I know yours,” Jacklin sings, ultimately leading her to ask herself, “Who will I be now that you’re no longer next to me?”



For a few months, I was stuck driving a car where the only music option was the radio. Where I live, that narrows your options down pretty quickly to top 40, country, or ‘80s nostalgia. My point is that, during that period, one of the few songs I actively anticipated and got excited about hearing was this one. There’s something about the way the vocals abruptly kick in with no preamble that makes you want to start singing along, and the rush of getting through the rapid-fire chorus in one breath is surprisingly exhilarating (and I don’t think it’s just the lightheadedness). All that is to say… Guys, I think Katy Perry made my song of the summer.



Kero Kero Bonito is a band that’s constantly reinventing themselves, and the trio does it again with their heavily political three-song EP, Civilisation I. Not only have the lyrical themes taken a decidedly more serious turn, but there’s been a musical shift to a more organic sound palette as well. Think of it this way: if Kero Kero Bonito were painting in neon before, their colors are more earth-toned now. Through it all, Sarah Midori-Perry’s chirpy voice remains the one constant. This song’s aesthetic is half video game, half rainforest simulation. Despite its upbeat nature, it grows increasingly unnerving as Midori-Perry starts to sound like she’s glitching out, doomed to eternally “relinquish all [her] weapons” to some unknown but “terrifying” force.



On this song, Kilo Kish gives voice, quite literally, to that moment when you just want to scream for everyone around you to shut the fuck up. Her typically cool and unbothered delivery is constantly interrupted by a stream of frustrated shrieks and yelps. “Sick of that song?” she teases relentlessly in the chorus before raising her middle finger in a carefree “oh well.” Meanwhile, the electronic backing behind her grows more and more frantic, exploding in a metal-esque, sped-up finale that devolves into a gaggle of distorted voices. “Bitch,” they aggravatingly taunt, revealing the source of the song’s well-earned frustration.