2016 was seemingly hardwired to self-destruct, as Metallica sang on their furious 10th album – and music stared down the chaos. It was a year of explicitly political R&B molotovs, (Beyoncé, Solange), revolution rock (Green Day, Esperanza Spalding), hip-hop that heals (Chance the Rapper, A Tribe Called Quest) and even one especially poignant country plea from a Red State (Drive-By Truckers). Powerful and unique personalities like David Bowie and Leonard Cohen had the powerful and unique ability to say goodbye with album-length farewells. Anohni sang about the environmental apocalypse over a dance beat. But of course there was also no shortage of messy pop stars, indie rock diarists and proudly indulgent rappers happy to simply let their pens and personalities explode. Here's the year's best.
It's remarkable to think that noise-rappers Death Grips once seemed as unstable as radioactivity: battling record labels, canceling shows and presumptively announcing their breakup via napkin in 2014. Two years later, the Sacramento trio has evolved into a dependably provocative unit that operates at the nexus of punk rock, live electronics and barking energy raps. Fifth album Bottomless Pit offers further refinement: "Giving Bad People Good Ideas" rattles like an old industrial banger, "Hot Head" applies breakcore dynamics like smeared lipstick and "Warping" stutters on a toy piano melody. Then there's MC Stefan Burnett, an animated and muscular presence who splits the difference between DMX and Henry Rollins, and whose vocal performance goes beyond mere war chants. When he quietly shrugs "Eh" over Andy Morin and Zach Hill's whirligig rhythm, he sounds just as devastating as when he's bellowing "My death is money" on "Ring a Bell." M.R.
This L.A. outfit's first four albums faithfully recreated the folksy, confessional vibe of Seventies Laurel Canyon singer-songwriters like Jackson Browne, but with the band's former guitarist Blake Mills producing, the studio now becomes Dawes' playground. "As If By Design" is overrun with wild barroom piano and mariachi horns, while on several tracks Taylor Goldsmith's vocals are filtered with heavy electronics and the drums and guitars are processed to a digital crunch that recalls the more adventurous side of the Black Keys. Goldsmith's lyrics are still thoughtful and earnest ("I'm asking you for help/How do you fall in love with anything?" he sings on the title track), but he's also looser and more playful on cuts like the lead single, "When the Tequila Runs Out" ("We'll be drinkin' champagne"). With this bold left turn into sonic experimentation, Dawes proves that you can be faithful to your roots and still branch out. K.H.
After a Best New Artist Grammy and the well-received Radio Music Society, bassist-composer Esperanza Spalding could have certainly carved out a perfectly mellow career as America's virtuosic ambassador between contemporary jazz, neo-soul and pop music. Instead, on her first album in four years, she bravely and brilliantly machetes through thornier paths, including math-metal shredding ("Good Lava"), Laurie Anderson-style vocalizing ("Rest In Pleasure," "Ebony and Ivy") and brain-boggling progressive-rock majesty ("Elevate and Operate"). This unclassifiable art-funk-prog-bop concept opus is about identity, an unflinching look at love as theater, simmering rage over dreams deferred and class privilege. "Farewell Dolly" yearns for a piece of the pie, but by album's end she's doing a dissonant yet enthusiastic cover of Veruca Salt's Willy Wonka lament "I Want It All" and taking the whole thing. C.W.
The uncanny 1983 of Netflix series Stranger Things was a communicable virus of national nostalgia; and much of the heavy lifting was done via the vintage synthesizers of composers Kyle Dixon and Michael Stein of Austin band Survive. Their warm, pulsating music gave the John Williams era a John Carpenter makeover, tapping playful and romantic melodies with the surging wash of analog keys. Seventy-four brief cues and atmospheres sprawled across four vinyl discs made this the feel-good avant-garde event of the year. More than two hours of vocal-free burbles, drones, gulps and splashes, the albums run the gauntlet from achingly wistful innocence ("Biking to School," "First Kiss") to menacing ambience ("The Upside Down," "No Weapons") to minimalist propulsion ("Gearing Up," "Breaking and Entering") to the absolute panic of 65-second heart-attack "Lights Out." The cassette and CD-R underground has been mining the knob-twiddling era of Tangerine Dream and Vangelis for more than a decade now, but the wildly popular series mixed with Dixon and Stein's diverse emotional palette will likely make this a gateway to the experimental music upside-down for years. C.W.
"If we're all free, why does it seem/We just can't be?" muses Norah Jones in "Flipside," a swinging upbeat anomaly on her first "jazz" album since 2002 breakthrough Come Away With Me. Inspired, in all likelihood, by Roberta Flack's sassy 1969 version of Les McCann's "Compared to What," Jones's tune maintains the emotional and political attitude with more ambiguity. Titled after a bubbling track about deep loneliness, Jones's album feels like an ozone-charged pause before a virulent cloudburst. At 37, her voice has become more nuanced without losing an iota of cool, and her Americana excursions inform a splendid horn-driven cover of Neil Young's "Don't Be Denied." R.G.
The sessions for Iggy Pop's best album in many years were helmed by Josh Homme of Queens of the Stone Age, who created the perfect dark, rangy sound for him to flex in front of. Throughout Post Pop Depression, he's in his finest low-rent punk-poet elder statesman mode. From the rumbling intimation of mortality "Sunday" to the predatory throb of "Gardenia," these songs are sinewy and hard-swinging. Arriving after the passing of his peers David Bowie and Lou Reed, its sense of ravaged anger and survivor's resilience gave the album a mordant urgency. "If I have outlived my use/Please drink my juice," Iggy sings over viscose guitar stabs on "American Valhalla, adding in a harsh grumble, "all I've got is my name." But this reminded us how much raw power he can still summon. J.D.
On the first studio album to contain all four Monkees since 1996's Justus, the "prefab four" – now in their seventies or, in the case of Davy Jones, sadly passed – reassure baby boomers that simple guitar-pop pleasures can last a lifetime. With the production help of Fountains of Wayne's Adam Schlesinger, and new songs/homages by Rivers Cuomo, Andy Partridge and Ben Gibbard, alpha ape Micky Dolenz and associates create a conceptually intriguing artifact that rattles like a tambourine in a distressed time machine. Thanks to resurrected archival material, Dolenz belts out the title track alongside its long-dead composer, Harry Nilsson; Peter Tork sings Gerry Goffin and Carole King's plaintive "Wasn't Born to Follow" over an arrangement recorded in '69; and Tork and Dolenz add new harmonies to Davy Jones's 50-year-old take on Neil Diamond's downbeat "Love to Love." If this sounds strange, one could argue that we need the "Sixties" now more than ever. R.G.
"I got way, way too many issues," groggy Atlanta rapper Future moans on "Lie to Me," his voice-slurry lacquered with narcotic cough syrup and serrated with Auto-Tune. But that confessional vulnerability, the kind which he's staked his last two years of mixtapes on, is in short supply here. His real statement of purpose is "I'm reppin' for the low life," and he offers a worm's-eye perspective on a world that's both exhilarating and exhausting. Evol's pleasures are in how Future's flow negotiates the spare, skittering beats he's provided by the likes of longtime collaborators Metro Boomin and Southside. Oozing like venom, he escalates a little ahead of the rhythm on "Ain't No Time," lags a little behind on "In Her Mouth," falls out of meter entirely on "Savage Time" and repeats the title of "Fly Shit Only" until it blurs. K.H.
Every release from Drake is a love letter to his hometown of Toronto, but Views rises above as a true ode to the city's diversity and its lasting impact on the artist he is today. Borrowing from the Canadian city's deep ties to Afro-Caribbean culture led to his biggest hit to date – the Number One single "One Dance" – and standout moments like the equally breezy single "Controlla." Still, even though he won't always admit it, he's still the Drake from five years ago and his signature relationship-centric self-deprecation pulses through quotable tracks like "Child's Play" while his ego and paranoia duel it out like the rap beefs he knows well. B.S.
Wilco leader Jeff Tweedy is at his most low-key and wistful here, glancing backward at his youth with a perspective that's too wry to be merely nostalgic on "Normal American Kids" and trading in quippy aphorisms like "happiness depends on who you blame" without insisting on their truth. This is an album of brushed drums and hushed voices – even when the tempos race on "Cry All Day," Tweedy's vocals sound like they were recorded with a baby sleeping in the next room. And it's an album of subtle details to be cherished, from its lackadaisical guitar squiggles to its idiosyncratically loping beats to the sort of offhand sing-song melodies that have always been Tweedy's greatest gift. K.H.
The second installment of an album trilogy Maxwell began in 2008, blackSUMMERS'night is a stunning testament to the Brooklyn-born singer's talents as a vocalist as well as a shrewd yet openhearted observer of romantic tensions. Opening with the simmering "All the Ways Love Can Feel," where Maxwell's feather-light falsetto snakes in between brushed drums and gently blasting horns, SUMMERS shows how being an R&B classicist doesn't necessarily mean that one's hemmed in by a certain type of style: The glimmering "Lake by the Ocean," the percolating synth-jazz of "III" and the squalling guitars of the pleading "Lost" all fit seamlessly into his smooth aesthetic. His deeply felt vocal performances and unparalleled ability to ride a groove for just the right amount of time make for an album that can be luxuriated in. M.J.
Harking back to some of his early Seventies work like Honky Chateau and Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, Elton John's 32nd album is a bluesy celebration filled with delicious reflections and sweet celebrations of what has made his career so significant. The album's title track kicks things off with lusty nostalgia, as he recalls the "calypso moon" and loose clothes that highlight his memories, while the gorgeous, dreamy "Blue Wonderful" has him surrendering completely to the pull of love. B.S.
On her second album, this Swedish pop singer-songwriter is just as sexed up and drugged up as she was when she was passing out in the tub on "Habits (Stay High)" or promising "we fuck for life" on "Talking Body." On "Influence" she warns you not to trust her when she's loaded; on the title track she whips out her metaphorical gal boner. And whether she's riffing off a monologue from Gone Girl on "Cool Girl" or lunging into yet another doomed relationship on "True Disaster," Lo crafts the sort of messy but consistent three-dimensional character that's in short supply in contemporary pop. The album's spacey electronic production, with beats dropping in and out, offers the sonic equivalent of the carnal and pharmacological pleasures she sings about. K.H.
Does this sound like anyone we know? "You got a way of running your mouth/You rant and you rave, and you let it all out/The thing about it is, little that you say is true." You can't say that Bernie bae Bonnie Raitt didn't warn us about the Trumpocalypse in "The Comin' Round Is Going Through," her 20th album's politically seasoned outlier. Continuity, faithfulness and perseverance, as we seem to be re-learning, turn out to be underrated virtues. When Raitt and crew hunker down together, they bring the roadhouse to your house in confidently strutting material that blends rock, blues, R&B and gospel with Shaker durability and perfectly crafted slide-guitar solos. But when the party's over – and the party is definitely over – Raitt doesn't shy away from confronting adult demons in ballads like "The Ones We Couldn't Be," a requiem for either a relationship or, perhaps, an administration. R.G.
Although metal's biggest band has reveled in being one of the genre's most unpredictable (no one expected that Lou Reed collaboration), Metallica are always at their best when they allow themselves to just be Metallica. Their 10th album, Hardwired… to Self-Destruct – a two-act psychodrama of sorts about the devolution of humanity – finds them indulging the sounds of their first few records: machine-gun tempos, crushing riffs and apocalyptic lyrics delivered in drill-sergeant barks. The breakneck lead track, "Hardwired," presents James Hetfield's fatalism at its most dramatic ("We're so fucked!") while closing track and album standout "Spit Out the Bone" is an epic indictment of technocracies. Echoes of the group's landmark Black Album and Master of Puppets resound throughout, as do formative influences like Black Sabbath's groove, Mercyful Fate's orchestration and Iron Maiden's theatrical flair, making it the best representation of the Metallica experience in years. Best of all, they didn't even bother writing ballads. K.G.
As America focused its attention on the tangled election morass, New York chamber-pop genius Anohni was clawing at a bigger picture, dancing with tears in her eyes. On the year's most despondent and apocalyptic dance record, Anohni warbles and floats about climate erosion, the surveillance state, the endless death in the Middle East and the basic culpability of humanity itself: "How did I become a virus?" she croons in the title track. The album gets much of its jarring nature from its plainspoken lyrics, a cold, Hemingway-esque twist that updates cold-war dance floor songs like Paul Hardcastle's "19" or Heaven 17's "We Don't Need This Fascist Groove Thang." And no small assist comes from trap producer Hudson Mohawke and avant-garde sound-stretcher Oneohtrix Point Never, who give the entire album the uneasy feeling of Kanye West remixing Ryuichi Sakamoto's 1983 score to Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence. C.W.
My Woman expands the folk-grunge template that St. Louis native Angel Olsen established on 2014 breakout Burn Your Fire for No Witness. Though the title suggests self-confidence, the central figures in her songs aren't always granted the same clarity. But there's a resolve to keep putting one foot in front of the other: "Still got to wake up and be someone," Olsen sings, as though through clenched teeth. She cautiously glides through the shimmering girl-group pop arrangements of "Never Be Mine," the wailing psych-rock freakout of "Not Gonna Kill You" and the woozy, Mazzy Star-style balladry of "Heart Shaped Face." These elements all come together for the gorgeous, seven-minute epic "Sister," which swells and crashes with cinematic grandeur. J.F.
It's been a pretty long time since Sting went for it as a rocker, so it's great to see him tapping that side of his artistry on guitar-banging songs like "I Can't Stop Thinking About You" and "Petrol Head." The sense of urgency comes from a relatable sense of mortality; on "50,000" he reflects movingly on the passing of rock icons like Prince and Bowie, flashing back to memories of sharing the massive Eighties with the Purple One and then fast-forwarding for a bathroom-mirror vision of his own aging face and body. The album's more somber moments use this personal sense of worry to focus on larger concerns, like global warming and Europe's refugee crisis. It's proof he's still a vital pop music force. J.D.
On her most political album to date, Alicia Keys sings from the perspective of a black everywoman with undiminished optimism. Her subjects on Here are many: the angry, struggling woman at the center of the heartbreaking "Illusion of Bliss," the city of New York as personified as a young dreamer on "She Don't Really Care/1 Luv" and the gay couple on "Where Do We Begin Now" that worries about leaving the closet. Much like her widely publicized decision to abandon heavy makeup in public appearances, she strips down her music and largely communicates through her own strident piano chords, save for the occasional homage to classic NYC rap like Raekwon's "Spot Rusherz" ("The Gospel") and Nas' "One Love" ("She Don't Really Care"). There is a bit of spoken-word braggadocio as she declares over the latter, "The chair that I'm sitting on is a throne/Perfection kneels at the seat of my soul." However, her true victory is identifying and empathizing with others, and finding hope that the world, despite all its problems, is changing for the better. M.R.
In the two years since Vancouver punkers White Lung released their caustic breakthrough, Deep Fantasy, they've grown up just enough to write sharper songs but still maintain an edge. On Paradise, singer Mish Barber-Way no longer growls like a tortured gremlin, instead singing about trailer-park aspirations ("Kiss Me When I Bleed") and real-life serial killers ("Demented,""Sister"). Guitarist Kenneth William has abandoned his miasmas of riff-like noise, instead playing with a lighter touch that gives Barber-Way room to work. Emerging both more coherent and more disturbing, it's post-punk without the postmodern baggage. K.G.
A Tribe Called Quest's final album is a wistful mix of nostalgia for their golden-age past, and an inspired protest at a difficult present and future. They talk with amusing grumpiness with André 3000 about the millennial generation on "Kids," and a flicker of the Rotary Connection melody used in their classic love jam "Bonita Applebum" percolates through "Enough!!" Produced by Q-Tip (with help from guitarist and engineer Blair Wells), it sounds starkly different from Tribe's canonical Nineties output. It often has a strange and otherworldly minimalism typified by "We the People" and "Conrad Tokyo," which find Q-Tip punching out harsh keyboard notes; and "Black Spasmodic," which features a grungy, rickety dancehall loop reminiscent of Kanye West's irreverent patchwork The Life of Pablo. The vibe is looking backward and thinking forward, whether it's protesting how people of color and the LGBT community are marginalized or worrying that the world is facing an uncertain apocalypse on "Conrad Tokyo." It's also a fitting sendoff for the late Phife Dawg, who sounds magnificent here, certifying his reputation as an influential hip-hop great. M.R.
Tom Petty made his best record in years when he reformed his pre-Heartbreakers band for 2007's Mudcrutch. But the crew had unfinished business. Petty proves he still does lost-love wistfulness better than anyone on "Trailer" (originally a Southern Accents-era B-side), while he stretches his sound in shadowy, ethereal new directions on songs like the seven-minute "Beautiful Blue." And Petty shares the spotlight with the band more than he did on Mudcrutch's debut: Tom Leadon's psychedelic bluegrass number "The Other Side of the Mountain" and Benmont Tench's wicked boogie "Welcome to Hell" stand as highlights. P.D.
With Sierra Leone and New York City as the backdrop, avant-R&B trailblazer and indie-rock expat Blood Orange explores change and justice in the face of discrimination. The songwriter born Dev Hynes explores identity from multiple angles, from his parents' relocation from West Africa to London ("St. Augustine") to the experiences of a friend and trans woman in Los Angeles ("Desirée"), all above a percolating stew of experimental jazz, synth-pop and Eighties hip-hop. A collage of sounds and ideas, his journey is complemented by samples from iconic drag-ball flick Paris Is Burning, slam poets like Ashlee Haze, and features from Carly Rae Jepsen, Debbie Harry and more from his star-studded Rolodex. B.S.
Country songwriter Brandy Clark's tremendous gift for wordplay and storytelling was never in question, but on her second album she unleashes her inner diva like never before. With help from the savvy production of Jay Joyce (Eric Church, Little Big Town), Clark tries on a number of new looks – like the glammed-up country-disco queen in "Girl Next Door," chiding her man for wanting a "Virgin Mary metaphor" – to find they all suit her perfectly. Her upbeat songs are viciously funny, whether it's the priceless parting shot to an ex in "Daughter" ("Karma's a bitch, so I hope you have a daughter") or the wry observations of small town drama in the surprisingly funky title track. But Clark's slower, more measured numbers like "You Can Come Over" and "Three Kids No Husband" are truly stunning, her aching vocal performances and razor-sharp lyrics expertly articulating complicated, if all too common, human struggles. J.F.