The frequency of albums I was interested in slowed down drastically in the final three months of 2016. I also purposely decreased my rate of consumption because I had finally managed to burn myself out after a whirlwind year of keeping up with new releases. That being said, the small number of albums I did fall in love with prove the truth of the phrase "quality over quantity." I also managed to discover some earlier albums that had slipped under my radar and form a clearer opinion of others I had neglected. The result may seem like a hodgepodge of "leftovers," but listening to them (in my opinion) quickly proves they are anything but.
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").
As evidenced by my last post, this album took a minute to grow on me. But in a year dominated by musical documents of black existence in environments fraught with racial tension, including her own sister's, Solange's A Seat at the Table is perhaps the most impactful. Woven into a tapestry of other black voices speaking their defeats and triumphs, its songs run the gamut of emotional response, from fatigue ("Weary") to anger ("Mad") to annoyance ("Don't Touch My Hair") to pride ("F.U.B.U."). All the while, the musical palette remains remarkably consistent as Solange's effortlessly sultry vocals glide across minimalist beats and slinky bass lines. This steady serenity provides power and strength to Solange and her community, for whom she has specifically crafted this album. Others must appreciate without taking ownership. 
I cannot believe this album came out in January and I nearly went the entire year without hearing it. Wriggling is singer-songwriter Abi Reimold's debut full-length, and its uncomfortable cover is representative of the songs within: nakedly poignant, brutally raw, just as likely to reveal their dark, ugly underbellies as their tender, pink softness. In under forty minutes, Reimold takes her listener on a hurtling roller-coaster ride across the entire spectrum of human emotion. Every song is full of gut-punching curve-balls. "Arranged" and "Feed" build into chaos from unassuming beginnings, while "Dust" is an ominous slow burn. "Trap" and "Won't Clot" are more traditionally pretty, but their lyrics hurt: "There's a trap in the pillow/A trap in the glass/In every test that I've passed/Every check that I've cashed."
For some reason, I've been going back and forth on how much I like And the Kids' Friends Share Lovers for months now. But I keep ending up with its songs on loop in my head, which must count for something. While the album may not be particularly revolutionary, it presents a consistent array of catchy, charming, just slightly quirky indie pop. Every song has the feel of a top 40 hit for the "cool" crowd, coasting along on flawlessly constructed hooks and Hannah Mohan's smooth, even-tempered vocals. Some, like "Kick Rocks" and "Cheer for Babies," have retro vibes that should appeal to fans of Tennis and Alvvays. Others sound more polished and modern, squeezing tension from the steady build of instrumentation and Mohan's subtle vocal twists on oft-repeated phrases ("I Dropped Out," "I Can't Tell What the Time Is Telling Me").
Love & Hate has been sitting unheard in my Spotify library for months now, which turned out to be a huge mistake because it is excellent. Michael Kiwanuka sings like a grittier reincarnation of Sam Cooke, presiding with steady, wise confidence over songs that combine vintage soul influences with more contemporary twists on folk, funk, and R&B. His music has a sprawling, epic quality; it takes its time unfolding then passes through several movements before reaching its culmination. Opener "Cold Little Heart" spends five minutes getting into a layered, cinematic groove before transforming into a soulful jam. Even shorter tracks, like "Black Man in a White World" and "Rule the World," feel similarly expansive. One becomes so immersed in the album's rich sonic landscape that the very concept of time ceases to exist.
It's been four years since Y La Bamba's last album, but Ojos Del Sol picks up right where they left off. Although it treads the band's well-worn path of effortlessly organic Hispanic folk-pop, it avoids stagnancy by standing as their most consistent and immediate effort yet. Luz Elena Mendoza's easy, earnest voice remains a constant centerpiece but shines brightest on the tender acoustic title track and the richly harmonized "Ostrich." Their instrumental and melodic subtlety allows Mendoza to wring every last drop of emotion from the lyrics, imbuing both English and Spanish with painful longing. The sense of catharsis is not so heavy as to be overbearing, though. Instead, it's balanced against moments of pure, unbridled joy in the rambunctious gang vocals and vibrant, rollicking melodies of "Libre" and "Nos Veremos."
