The traditional idea of the major label rap album seems on the decline — though that didn't stop Nicki Minaj, Future and YG from making great ones — as fans of hip-hop, a genre in its 41st year, are more and more driven by the Internet, bringing worldwide attention to local talent from Washington, D.C. (Shy Glizzy) to Santiago, Chile (Ana Tijox) to Atlanta (too many to name). Though this often means SoundCloud singles (the lo-fi hits of I Love Makonnen, Dej Loaf, Bobby Shmurda and OT Genesis are giving modern rap radio its most independent feel since the Eighties), there's no shortage of great mixtapes, free drops and, in the case of Run the Jewels, high-quality 320kbps self-drops of an album headed to record stores. Here are 40 of the best.
Shy Glizzy has climbed to the top ranks of a conspicuously competitive D.C. scene, thanks in part to the national success of his hit record "Awwsome." His delivery shows a slight debt to Lil Wayne, yet where a rapper like Young Thug pushes his experimentalism further, Glizzy introduces restraint, tightening his voice into a consistent, piercing tone. His formulation of street rap is straightforward, even workmanlike, but at its most emotive — as on Percy Keith feature "Ungrateful" — it goes for the gut. D.D.
The 21st and 22nd albums from E-40 continue the pattern he's adopted since leaving Warner Bros. in 2009: Flood the streets with product. It is great and it is overlong, and its 28 songs shouldn't be consumed in one setting. Generous to a fault, he makes room for both Dej Loaf, who delivers a killer verse on "Baddest in the Building," and T-Pain, who croons out an Auto-Tune chorus for "Red Cup." 40 raps effectively on "Programmin'" about coming up in Vallejo's streets ("cutting the grass, no time to play with toys"); but just as often he'll crank up the slaps and bug out on "Straight Mobbin'" and "Bass Rocks." There are the stabbing funk keyboards of "707," and an odd but heartfelt interpolation of Chic's disco chestnut "I Want Your Love" for "Give Me Love." He's an O.G., the "Same Since 88," but "Choices (Yup)" proves he can be just as innovative as any New Bay upstart. In short, Sharp on All Corners is E-40 with no filters, and it shouldn't be any other way. M.R.
Open Mike Eagle is a smart-alecky associate of the indie label/crew Hellfyre Club, and an inheritor of a West Coast tradition for jabberwocky-styled experimental rap. On his fourth album, he refines his talent for witty punch lines into satire and existential crisis. "I'm bad at sarcasm, so I work at absurdity," he admits over the mopey indie-pop of "Dark Comedy Morning Show." Puncturing and massaging his ego over glitches from vets like Jeremiah Jae, Kenny Segal and Dibia$e, Mike models himself as an outsider too smart and conflicted for rap and its tradition of clichés — which is probably why he's been running in alternative comedy circles and getting Hannibal Buress to spit on his record. M.R.
Together, Royce Da 5'9" and DJ Premier are responsible for some great lyrical rap music: From 2002's "Boom" to 2004's "Hip-Hop" to 2008's "Shake This," the duo often bring out the best in each other. But they've never done a full project together until now, and while PRhyme is not apt to do as much damage as it would have a decade earlier, it's nonetheless one of 2014's most electrifying rap full-lengths. At only nine tracks, it moves in, hits hard, and leaves you wanting more. Premo's beats are Nineties hip-hop head comfort food, but Royce approaches his writing and rapping with the hunger of a 20-year-old aiming for his first blog post. Although its target demo is now on the other side of 30, the saturated ranks of younger stars makes an album like this stand out, one where a Jay Electronica verse moves with more force than the slate of 2014 rookies getting quadruple the attention. D.D.
"Try Me," the hypnotically deadpan single by this unknown Detroit native was as unlikely as it was striking. With an unforced, insinuating singjay flow, 23-year-old Deja Trimble became a staple on the radio by almost pityingly informing her foes that she was a "Nazi" with a "heart full of demons" who would go after your "whole motherfucking family," among other things. It was startling, to say the least. On Sell Sole, Dej reveals a warmer, more playful voice, but her uniqueness is most apparent when she settles into a bluntly cold-eyed delivery — "Bird Call" almost rivals "Try Me" for vividly vicious threats and on the fiery yet melancholy "Blood" (featuring Young Thug), she thrillingly flashes her versatility while mourning the death of her father and other family members. Just as comfortable rapping or singing (especially on the R&B freaker "Easy Love"), Dej is still developing her persona, but she's not to be trifled with. C.A.
On this crisp, compact six-song EP, this Memphis protégé of local star Yo Gotti is game to please, doing his Future Jr. thing in an Auto-Tune-y flow over butterfly hi-hat clicks, sharp snare shots and smeary synths swirls. "Made Me" sounds like purped out Steve Reich, while the hit single "Yayo" rides a hero's march stomp and spins a dumb-but-infectious series of cocaine-as-food metaphors. J.D.
French-Chilean singer-MC Ana Tijoux exchanged samples for in-studio production on her luscious, impeccably paced fourth album. Tijoux aligns herself with Chile's indigenous people through Andean panpipes and charango guitars, deplores urban overdevelopment and, in "Todo Lo Sólido Se Desvanece En El Aire" (All That Is Solid Melts Into Air), imagines a world without capital. An album informed equally by KRS-One and murdered nueva canción singer Victor Jara. R.G.
The North Side of Long Beach as described by Vince Staples, a fatalist by 14, scarred by witnessing brutal police, rival gang sets, constant funeral services and his father selling methadone and heroin through the screen door. Hell Can Wait details the broiling summer between his freshman and sophomore years of high school. The beats thump with punishing low-end, ratcheting the tension in Staples' tales of shootouts similar to the Wild West — or at least the ones immortalized by Snoop and Tha Dogg Pound. But don't mistake this for West Coast gangsta rap revival. The 21-year old assassin interpolates everything from Goodie Mob to Mary J. Blige, and shouts out Black Panthers and the obscure corpses slain by cops that never incited a movement. For the final nail, Staples raps with the cockiness and surgical details of a young Pusha T. J.W.
With his first free mixtape release since 2011's breakthrough T.R.U. Realigion, the rapper born Taheed Epps sends his uniquely silly punchlines raining down from hip-hop's penthouse — but he isn't always satisfied with the view. "Crib in My Closet" celebrates the Dolce inside, but when Epps looks out he sees burdens, responsibilities and memories from a haunted past. "Freebase" explores the last of those as distorted voices swirl in the background, and on "Trap Back" he stays awake longing for the days when he lived at ground level, selling drugs rather than making music. Uneasy lies the neck that wears the chainz. N.M.
On recent albums like last year's Twelve Reasons to Die and this year's 36 Seasons, the Wu-Tang Clan's most consistent solo artist has refocused on concept albums that blend his love of Blaxploitation-style action and vintage Seventies cop funk. 36 Seasons is backed by the Revelations, a New York retro-soul unit that spin elongated grooves out of old soul standards like the Fuzz's "I Love You For All Seasons." As for the comic-book plot, it's a thrilling tale straight out of Luke Cage: Hero for Hire. Tony Starks returns to Shaolin after a nine-year absence only to be betrayed by rapper AZ, who performs magnificently in a co-starring role as a crooked cop: "The link to the cartel…it's that Denzel in Training Day shit." M.R.
Memphis rapper Gangsta Boo, a veteran associate of local stars Three 6 Mafia, and Houston's BeatKing collaborate on a mixtape-themed-album that celebrates their hometowns and the idea of Southern underground hip-hop itself. There are appearances from H-Town artists like Lil Flip and Paul Wall (who's on a song that turns his own "Still Tippin'" into a gauzy creeper) and Tennessee titan 8 Ball. The beats are rife with horror-flick string swipes, spine-tickling keyboard runs and crisp drum crackle. BeatKing brags about his in-demand dick and drops lines like "Fuck you, loser/I been getting money since the PT Cruiser," and Gangsta Boo gives us a fright-night image of walking red-eyed on ghetto streets looking for a feast that'll have you going to bed with the lights on. J.D.
TV's smartest and most eclectic hip-hop crew got dark and real on their second conceptual album in a row, a bleak 33-minute threnody of self-professed satire that won't leave you laughing. Nina Simone, musique concrète, wanton atonality and jazzy spirituals provide interstitial inspiration throughout this concrete-jungle collage of hustlers, strivers and creeps. Piano, strings and spacious beats sculpt the contours of nihilistic notions like Black Thought's "No idea how much time's left, fuck tryin' to cherish it." R.G.
Wise words from Kenny Dennis: "You've got to bet big. Win big. Lose big. No even stevens." Few creative gambles come more risky than the high-concept Kenny Dennis saga, now three records and an EP, in which Chicago indie-rapper Serengeti plays a middle-aged, blue-collar ex-rapper into the Bears, Tom Berenger and Benzedrine. The jokes grow more insular with every plot twist as he raps with a Great Lakes accent as thick as his mustache. On Kenny Dennis III, our hero forms hip-house candy-rap group Perfecto with his old pal Ders (played by Anders Holms of Workaholics). They tour Midwestern malls, squabble in drive-thru parking lots and generally "have a time." What makes it special is that, somehow, Seregenti infuses the Adult Swim off-brand jokes with ineradicable sadness — the slow fade of time's passage, the desire to recreate one's youth, the impulse to go hard and potentially cash out one last time. J.W.
For a while it seemed like we'd never hear new music from Lil Boosie (now Boosie Bad Azz), the celebrated Louisiana rapper who went to prison in 2008 and was indicted on murder charges in 2010. After a protracted legal battle, Boosie was released this past March, and the day before Halloween he dropped Life After Deathrow, a mixtape whose mere existence is a minor miracle. His first full-length of new material in four years was released into a changed hip-hop landscape, but Boosie sounds like no one other than himself, delivering origin stories and tales from the streets in a direct, conversational flow. On opener "I'm Coming Home" he writes about his time in prison and then gloats about his freedom, which makes "Life That I Dreamed Of" — in which Boosie contrasts his wealth with so many of his friends who could only dream as far as Biloxi, Mississippi — one of the most victorious rap songs of 2014. J.S.
Richmond, California's IamSu! built his rep on addictively louche hits like "100 Grand" and E-40's "Function." On Sincerely Yours, the rapper and his HBK Gang reveal broader ambitions, from sampling Jazzanova's nu-jazz gem "No Use" for "Ascension" to culling from the Jones Girls' "Nights over Egypt" for "Martina." He alternates between rhyming melodically on "I Love My Squad" and, in the case of the synthesized funk of "Girl," adopting his sweetest Drake pose. And yes, he doesn't forget the ratchet cuts either. For all the viral buzz of earlier projects like Million Dollar Afro, this is IamSu!'s chance to prove that he's not just an underground rap star, but an artist with emotional range that uses "the music as my therapist." M.R.
Chief Keef's work since 2012's Finally Rich remains, by and large, beneath the radar. Media fascination, restricted largely to his arrest record and controversies, has moved on. Yet the rapper has retained a creative restlessness and cohesive, evolving aesthetic. While rappers from Bobby Shmurda to Dej Loaf to O.T. Genasis build upon his older work to massive success, he's moved in new directions. On Back From the Dead 2, he became a rapper-producer, releasing a record that seethed with menacing, coiled energy. The bleak world from which he came still shapes his sound; it's a bleak and lonely record, with few guests and a darkly psychedelic shape formed by drugs and likely PTSD. Yet he finds a gleeful humanity inside the world's rotten core, with bluntly potent, economical rapping that gets strong mileage per word. D.D.
The marvelously dense Lese Majesty may be the most surreal album to come from Seattle's Black Constellation unit. It's not so much a suite of overlapping songs as thought balloons from leader Ishmael Butler. Sounds swerve from the shoegaze drone of "Dawn in Luxor" (where he testifies how "blackness is abstracted and protracted by the purest"), to the dubby bass of "They Come in Gold," the loping fusion jazz of "The Ballad of Lt. Maj. Winnings," and the booty bass shake of "#Cake," perhaps the group's most accessible moment. Lese Majesty evokes post-millennial, futurist images of black kings and queens, a "New Black Wave," with enigmatic sounds as mysteriously intoxicating as any produced this year. M.R.
Bishop Nehru is an 18-year-old with true school New York rap pumping through his veins; DOOM is a timeless rap presence (why do you think he wears the mask?) who was around 18 when he first appeared…in 1989. Together, they're more comfortable than two artists separated by two decades should be. Bishop is the young straight man spitting like he studied his Special Ed and Chill Rob G; DOOM is the older wild card with beats that land on something kitschy and comfortably weird between Prince Paul and Madlib. C.W.
Homeboy Sandman songs are dense and word-drunk, spilling past the margins, demanding repeat listens. They're modern East Coast koans in perpetual communion with that old Freestyle Fellowship challenge: Can you find the level of difficulty in this? Hallways represents the latest unfurling from the Ivy League-educated Queens native, whose wry angst and self-reflection have filled up two full-length albums and five EPs since signing to Stones Throw in 2012. Over restless slaps and cartilage-cracking beats from Oh No, Jonwayne and Knxwledge, Sandman unleashes a therapist's office worth of anxiety fit for a lost rap soundtrack to Deconstructing Harry. He frets over infidelities, hypocrisies and loneliness; the smell of tobacco smoke and what his proximity to hipsters says about him. Obsessed with the noise in his head and the rapidly changing neighborhoods surrounding him, Homeboy re-works rap forms and functions into something truly personal. J.W.
To call Isaiah Rashad's first release a "demo" is to both accurately describe and underrate its qualities. It's so raw that you can almost hear the hiss of low-bitrate MP3 compression and the Chattanooga, Tennessee artist still sounds like he's processing his thoughts. On "Ronnie Drake" he leapfrogs from bragging about his "coke flow" to decrying an overly aggressive police force. He'll sing for a spell about how his absentee father left him "having problems with myself," and then he'll decide to go hard on "niggas who fake trill." Meanwhile, the production from TDE's in-house team of laptop beat wizards recalls the clouded highs of past free-lease classics like Kendrick Lamar's Overly Dedicated and Ab-Soul's Longterm Mentality. Given how casual Rashad sounds, it's remarkable how often he achieves frisson, whether it's the croaked vocals of "Hereditary," or just holding his own with labelmates Jay Rock and Schoolboy Q on "Shot You Down." Rashad is destined for more polished work, but with luck he won't sacrifice the honesty of Cilvia Demo in the process. M.R.
Big K.R.I.T.'s second Def Jam album offers country-rap metaphysics for a post-OutKast era. On "Do You Love Me for Real," his ride represents a beautiful woman (memorably voiced by the jazz singer Mara Hruby) that he caresses with erotic abandon over bluesy Southern soul. "Cadillactica" is both muse and metaphor. It's a life force that propels him to rise above the humble origins of "Mo Better Cool" without forgetting the value of family, community and "Soul Food"; and mourn the world's troubles on the quiet storm melancholy of "Angels." K.R.I.T. has long embraced his role as a post-millennial student of Nineties Dirty South vintage, but here he's got a new confidence in his own abilities, no homage required. He raps alongside Devin the Dude and Bun B as an equal, not a student, and when he asserts himself as a "King of the South," it's hard to argue. M.R.
On his sixth album, Rick Ross' music hasn't substantially changed: He still writes each verse with dense snowflakes of words, consonant rhymes of elegant architecture; his beats still recall hip-hop's commercial zenith even as the genre slips further from the klieg lights. A surging rookie class pushes Ross' name from the headlines — art more ridiculous, art more real, art that does both at once — but no rap music is quite as opulent, as lushly orchestrated, as formally executed as the clean droptop raps of "Supreme," as evocatively grandiose as "Rich Is Gangsta." Mastermind may not be his best album but consistency is rarely this effortless or rewarding. D.D.
In the most underwhelming year for commercial rap music since Rick Rubin woke up in his dorm room, Mac Miller signed a record deal worth a reported $10 million. That contract came on the heels of Faces, a primarily self-produced mixtape that's the least pop full-length the 22-year-old has ever released. So what gives? Miller has deftly aged along with his fanbase, slowly transforming his music from squeaky and excitable kegger anthems to insular, stoned scribbles. Faces is his most blunted album yet, a 24-track inventory of drugs, snacks, Will Ferrell quotes and punchlines absentmindedly mashed into his iPhone. People in suits are betting money on this kid, but he remains blissfully focused on the everyday banalities of life: "I'm playing hot potato on the Winnebago/The chips are stale but they taste OK, though, when they dipped in queso." In a year this messed up, even the idea of eating Ruffles in peace was welcome escapism. J.S.
Pippen to Kendrick Lamar's Jordan in the Los Angeles crew TDE, at least in terms of songwriting, Schoolboy Q is no even-keeled second banana. And while some critics have diminished Oxymoron for its thematic chaos, this major-label debut tingles and palpitates with nonstop personality and moment-to-moment drama. An ex-drug-dealing daddy (daughter Joy pops