Classics in the Right Way: 25 favorite albums from 2018


A few things you’ll see on my list of 25 favorite records from 2018: Roughly 16 selections by women, depending on how you want to classify husband-wife duos. Four official debuts, but also a number of accomplished works by seasoned pros. Numerous albums that carve out a space between tradition and progression, upholding lineage while pointing to the future. And, in these fractious times, several albums that embrace joy as a matter of intention—choosing a hopeful countenance even when circumstances point in the opposite direction.

Some critics have posited that the album format is in its dying days, to be replaced by playlists and data dumps. Maybe so, but all 25 albums on this list exist as cohesive, self-contained bodies of work, their songs in dialogue with each other, their sequencing precise and important.

I could have listed as few as 10 or as many as 100—and next week, I’ll augment this core 25 with some honorable mentions, some favorite re-issues and archival music, and more. For now, these are all albums that I’ve enjoyed enormously and recommend whole-heartedly.

25. Beyondless | Iceage
Majestic and menacing, Beyondless reckons with the legacy of rock and roll’s golden era without anything resembling slavish devotion. Packed to the gills with riffs, rhythms, sound effects, and gallows humor, it’s the year’s most unpredictable rock album. The songs chronicle depravity, but from the abattoir of Elias Bender Rønnenfelt’s imagination there springs florid storytelling and impressionistic poetry.

24. Between Two Shores | Glen Hansard
For his strongest solo collection yet, the erstwhile Frames/Swell Season frontman casually intermingles autumnal folk, heartland rock, and luminous jazz for an album as familiar and comforting as a favorite afghan—or perhaps a favorite Nick Drake record. It takes the tone of a consoling friend, promising us that time will sort out all our grief eventually—and until then, there’s nothing wrong with having a good, long cry.

23. Ventriloquism | Meshell Ndegeocello
On Ventriloquism, a jukebox record of 80s and 90s R&B hits, Meshell Ndegeocello offers a multi-layered treatise on personal canon. Playing songs largely penned by women and/or people of color, Ndegeocello swaps featherweight synths for rustic folk flourishes and live-band funk—signifiers of respectability for songs that warranted our respect all along. They refract deeper issues of genre, gender, and identity—a covers record as aesthetic argument and stylistic manifesto.

 22. Invasion of Privacy | Cardi B
“Is she a stripper, a rapper, or singer?” asks Cardi B on a debut album that suggests she’s all these things and more, an envelope-pusher and category-killer whose identity can only ever be all of the above. The big surprises here are how rooted she is in hip-hop orthodoxy, but also how much room to roam she finds within traditional frameworks: Invasion of Privacy bursts at the seams with flows, beats, jokes, vulgarity, empowerment, and defiant autobiography. A rags-to-riches blockbuster for the ages.

21. Room 25 | Noname
room 25
Poet-turned-rapper Fatimah Warner—aka Noname—pours forth speech, joking and tongue-twisting and free-associating a dense web of language where everything, including her black life, matters. Her proper debut, following the radiant Telefone mixtape, is sleek and assured, an album that’s at once precise and all-encompassing.

20. Cusp | Alela Diane
You wouldn’t even need the fingers on two hands to count the great albums about motherhood, a list to which Cusp immediately belongs. But that’s not the only thing singer/songwriter Alela Diane has on her mind: She uses the particulars of being a mom to wrestle with the broader topic of becoming, how a day or a season in our life can be a threshold for personal change, a catalyst for transformation. Her songs are presented in warm, clean arrangements, their straight lines contrasting with the deep mysteries contained within.

19. See You Around | I’m With Her
see you around
A trio comprised of Sara Watkins, Sarah Jarosz, and Aoife O’Donovan, I’m With Her is about the super-est group imaginable in today’s acoustic scene, and they betray subtle virtuosity throughout their debut album. See You Around reflects a worldview that’s respectful of folk and bluegrass traditions without ever being beholden to them, and the songs are similarly restless, full of characters seeking solid ground through seasons of tumult and transition.

18. Be the Cowboy | Mitski
be the cowboy
Mitski’s songs sparkle with clean pop perfection; her easeful way with melody may remind you of Aimee Mann, Elvis Costello, or even Paul McCartney. She spikes those buoyant tunes with lyrics of quiet desperation. Each song on Be the Cowboy glimpses either an unattainable future or an irretrievable past—alternate realities where, for all these characters know, everything worked out just fine.

17. 13 Rivers | Richard Thompson
13 Rivers
One of our top-tier shredders makes a blessed return to electric mayhem on an album that’s as muscular and direct as any in his corpus. Thompson’s songs don’t so much rage at the dying light as they wrestle with the darkness in his own soul—“the rattle within,” as one song memorably phrases it. The result is a prickly masterwork, a discontented opus from a guru working at his peak.

16. Isolation | Kali Uchis
On her luminous debut, the Brazilian singer flits from steely hip-hop to dingy New Wave to coy bossa nova; a couple of retro R&B numbers show how easy it would have been for her to fashion this album as a diva’s showcase and a soul revue, but Uchis is far too restless to live in the past. So she’s given us a pancultural pop showstopper that functions as a declaration of independence; her lyrics, about the cost of freedom, remind us that independence and isolation can be two sides of the same coin.

15. Dirty Pictures, Pt. 2 | Low Cut Connie
dirty pictures part 2
Listen beyond the buzz saw guitars, the pounding pianos, and the relentless kick drums and you’ll hear a bar band of startling sophistication, their brashness and bravado belying depth and sturdy craftsmanship. Or, just pump your fist in the air and get swept along in their crackling, unostentatious energy. A near-perfect jolt of pure rock and roll, Dirty Pictures, Pt. 2 is by turns wounded, vulgar, earnest, and hysterical.

14. SASSAFRASS! | Tami Neilson
One of the year’s most classicist country albums also happens to be one of its most colorful—at times bordering on being outright bonkers. Neilson tucks into haunted Appalachian ballads, brassy R&B, swaying nightclub reveries, even Vegas-style showstoppers; sometimes she plays it straight, sometimes she revels in double entendres and caustic humor. Throughout, she proves herself a singer of redoubtable power and control, and a writer whose wit is eclipsed only by her compassion.

13. World on Sticks | Sam Phillips
Sam Phillips is one of pop’s most daring and resilient excavators; she’s made a career off of digging deep for truth and beauty, and on World on Sticks she rummages through the trash and ephemera of a culture given over to hollow materialism. Fortunately, she is also one of our most gifted melodists, and here powers her elastic tunes with thunderous drums, luxuriant string arrangements, and thrumming electric guitars.

12. Time & Space | Turnstile
time and space
A document of bruising physicality but also big ideas, Time & Space is a galvanizing punk album that jostles with riffs, banshee wails, and headbanging fury. It also nods at Chess Records, branches into pure pop, and augments its hardcore wails with sophisticated harmonies. Diplo shows up to add weird keyboard effects, and it’s not even one of the top 10 most surprising moments on the album. Which is, incidentally, just 23 minutes long, every second packed with white-knuckled exhilaration.

11. Sparrow | Ashley Monroe
Monroe, a country singer from Knoxville, Tennessee, has a legitimate claim to 2018’s MVP title; look for her name to show up again on an even higher entry. For Sparrow, Monroe proves once again that she’s unequaled at reimagining country roots and traditions for the present day. Awash with strings, it’s a colorful update on the classic “countrypolitan” sound, its lush orchestrations illuminating the contours of her internal monologues and emotional remembrances.

10. Love in Wartime | Birds of Chicago
love in wartime
The warmest, most humanistic of bands cranks up the electricity for this rangy and roaming opus, jolting their gospel harmonies and brambly folk with punchy rock and roll vigor. While their previous album presaged “real midnight,” this one supposes that it’s already come and gone, and beckons us to pick up the pieces. The whole record plays out like a swift kick in the ass for anyone who thinks they have the luxury of complacency; in a dispiriting year, it was a lighthouse, an oasis, and a life preserver.

09. Thelonious Sphere Monk | MAST
The worst possible way to celebrate the skewed genius of Thelonious Monk would be with an overly reverent tribute album—and this songbook record by Tim Conley, aka MAST, never even comes close. Instead, he chops, screws, and bedazzles beloved Monk classics, dressing them up with bells and whistles, augmenting them with lurching hip-hop beats, kicking them down a flight of stairs and then ultimately setting fire to them via a crackling live band. The result qualifies as the year’s most bewitching jazz and its most immersive electronica—an album that uses the past as a jumping off point for boundless imagination.

08. This Too Shall Light | Amy Helm
An exercise in community and a testament to the redemptive act of singing, This Too Shall Light features songs of joy and sorrow, lifted up in smudged harmony by Helm and her troupe of harmony singers, Birds of Chicago among them. The songs come from disparate sources—Allen Toussaint, T-Bone Burnett, The Milk Carton Kids, even Rod Stewart’s immortal “Mandolin Wind” is here—and Helm brings confidence and grace to each one. She is one of our great soul singers, and here she proves herself to be both a keeper of the flame for her father’s legacy and an able blazer of her own new trails.

07. Streams of Thought Vol. 2 | Black Thought & Salaam Remi
In 2018, no rapper had harder bars than Black Thought, an all-timer who’s just beginning to get his due. For his second solo joint of the year, he offers a head-spinning and endlessly quotable feast of language, nimbly pivoting from self-aggrandizement to sociopolitical arguments to stirring endorsements of the steel-driving work ethic he embodies. Producer Salaam Remi creates warm, funky environments, drawn largely form blaxploitation tropes, giving this GOAT candidate the regal adornment he’s always deserved. Old-head rap executed with such flair, it sounds less like the past than a whole new wave.

06. Historian | Lucy Dacus
For her second solo album, singer/songwriter/shredder/boygenius member Lucy Dacus writes about romantic dissolution and human frailty—but always from a therapeutic remove: It’s not a break-up album or a death album so much as an album about the stories we tell, the way we make sense of tragedies, the role we play in curating one another’s history. These masterful songs—pitched between emotional acuity and writerly sophistication—are paired to sleek rock arrangements that soar, grind, and erupt as needed.

05. All the Things That I Did and All the Things That I Didn’t Do | The Milk Carton Kids
On their first album to feature outside musicians, the folksy duo conjures a loose, borderless Americana that recalls such inclusionary classics as The Basement Tapes and Willie Nelson’s Stardust—all the while retaining the whimsy, melancholy, and close harmonies that make them The Milk Carton Kids. The songs reflect dissolution: Sometimes they’re about wayward nations, sometimes they’re about faithless lovers, and sometimes it seems like it might be a little of both. Like Amy Helm’s record, it was produced by Joe Henry, enjoying a banner year.

04. Honey | Robyn
In her alluring new suite of songs, recalcitrant Swedish pop star Robyn journeys through heartache, memory, self-inventory, and in the end, defiant hope. She’s always walked a fine line between steeliness and vulnerability, but none of her albums tremble quite like Honey, which features some of her most cracked vocals, her most porous song structures, and her most lovelorn lyrics. It adds up to an immersive song cycle that washes over you, waves of sorrow followed by waves of cathartic joy.

03. Look Now | Elvis Costello & The Imposters
look now
Has everything you might want in an Elvis Costello album—unless all you want is loud guitars and paranoid songs about girls, in which case there’s just no helping you. Intricate and tuneful, ornate and direct, Look Now consolidates decades of tutelage in pop songcraft; it has the confidence of a master but the exuberance of a young buck. Its songs—all richly empathetic, most about or from the perspective of women—make it the year’s most rewarding album by a dude.

02. Interstate Gospel | Pistol Annies

Pistol Annies cover art
Finding solidarity in songs of divorce, depression, and quiet desperation, the Pistol Annies emerge with their wisest and funniest album yet. The one thing Miranda Lambert, Ashley Monroe, and Angaleena Presley don’t know how to do is sugarcoat, and Interstate Gospel is bracing for its candor—yet its emotional directness is channeled through childhood remembrances, archetypes, saloon soliloquies, and randy rock and roll; meanwhile, the outlaw dreams of their first couple of albums have blossomed into a more sophisticated American roots milieu, one that’s grounded in tradition but refracted through modernity. In the middle of the worst of it, they’ve made an album that reflects the best in each of them.

01. Golden Hour | Kacey Musgraves
Festooned though it may be with disco balls and kaleidoscopic sound effects, Golden Hour is a country album through and through. You can hear it in the air, the empty space between Musgraves’ words; and you can hear it in the words themselves, plainspoken even when they’re clever. They’re not clever quite as often as they were on Musgraves’ fine earlier albums—which, it turns out, is perfectly fine. She’s toned down her impish wit for songs of disarming sincerity, perfectly wed to a colorful production palette so visceral, you can almost feel this music on your skin. Musgraves is still enough of a cynic to question her own right to be happy and to wonder when the other shoe’s gonna drop, yet what dazzles the most about Golden Hour is its sense of awe: Inspired by her new marriage, Musgraves is seduced by hope, surprised by joy, and bowled over by a world of marvels beyond anything she could have imagined. It’s an album about grown-up love and childlike wonder, and a vision of country music as something timeless, borderless, consoling, and fun.

Made for This: On quick study Cardi B


On her debut album, Invasion of Privacy, Cardi B raps that she was “made for this.” It sounds like a brag, but if anything, the typically cocksure MC is selling herself short. A relatively new kind of celebrity, Cardi B leveraged Instagram infamy for reality TV stardom before “Bodak Yellow” vaulted her into hip-hop’s upper echelon; even her haters won’t deny that she has God-given charisma, immense personal magnetism, and innate media savvy. What impresses the most about Invasion of Privacy, though, is how self­-made she sounds. Cardi kicked the album down the road a few times, delaying its release so that she could truly become a student of hip-hop—not just its culture, but its mechanics. She’s also spoken openly about working with ghostwriters, something that many rappers would decry as inauthentic. For Cardi, though, it’s a sign of her hustle: She’s made herself an apprentice in order to get really good, and really good she’s become. She’s got an encyclopedia of flows—compare her playful Caribbean lilt on “Be Careful” with the crisp, percussive boasts of “Money Bag.” At 25, she’s somehow old enough to remember when MCs filled their bars with jokes, in sharp contrast to the moodiness that’s settled over hip-hop in the streaming (read: Drake) era. (MVP zinger: “My little 15 minutes lasting long as hell.”) And her technical finesse isn’t the only way in which Invasion of Privacy feels classicist: It runs a relatively lean 13 songs with a clear opener (“Get Up 10,” an explosive scene-setter) and a definitive ending (“I Do,” a scorching, what-more-could-she-say denouement), all of which feels oddly out of place amidst the album-as-playlist ethos of Post Malone and Migos. It’s almost surprising that there aren’t any skits here, so vividly it recalls the glory days of mid-2000s rap blockbusters, yet there’s never a sense that Cardi’s a throwback; she’s simply studied up, made the effort to give her music a strong foundation of history and craft. “What bitch working hard as me?” she asked when “Bodak Yellow” first dropped, and she’s been backing it up ever since.

By doing the work and honing her chops, Cardi’s made a debut that’s self-assured, multi-dimensional, and consistently entertaining—but more than that, she’s developed the vocabulary she needs to tell her story, combining personal flair with a familiar vernacular. Her hip-hop scholarship goes deep enough that she can pull its most shop-worn tropes into her service; Invasion of Privacy is structured around her actual rags to riches story, and fame and money are invoked throughout not just for their material value, but as spiritual tokens, metaphors for how her self-made hustle has already born fruit. “Look, they gave a bitch two options/ Stripping or losing,” she says at the album’s outset, and it’s hard not to think of Jay Z’s famous don’t-try-this-at-home admonishments (“Like I told you sell drugs/ No, Hov did that/ So hopefully you won’t have to go through that.”) Hers is neither a cautionary tale nor a story for direct emulation; she’s merely testifying to her personal road to redemption. Aggressively vulgar and unrelentingly antagonistic, Cardi is conversant with hip-hop’s most combative strands, and on Invasion of Privacy she takes the genre’s most hallowed subject matter (i.e., why I’m doper than you) and bends it toward feminism. KRS-One famously compared hip-hop lyrics to “confidence sandwiches,” and Cardi’s come fully loaded; she’s done everything her male counterparts can do, backwards and in high heels, so she’s earned the right to clap back at Hov on “Drip” (“Anna Mae got cake by the pound,” she taunts, a belated but definitive answer to Jay’s controversial “Drunk in Love” line) and to offer a femme flip to Project Pat on “Bickenhead,” a song that weaponizes sex and has men getting played (“Spread them ass cheeks open, make that pussy crack a smile/ Lock your legs ‘round that nigga, make him give your ass a child”). On the chorus, Cardi laughs all the way to the bank: “Get some guap, guap, get some chicken/ guap guap, get some bread.”

Impeccable though she is in her old-school craft, Cardi’s no retro act. She’s perfectly comfortable with modernity, navigating trap beats and hazy sound effects on “Drip,” a Migos team-up that’s as good as anything on Culture II. (Takeoff’s speakerbox-rattling, doubled-timed verse is one of the year’s best, yet even he can’t steal the spotlight from Cardi.) And even though she’s mostly coloring within the lines, her oversized personality spills out all over the place: Witness the joyous energy of her boom-bap Bronx boogaloo, “I Like It,” where Cardi’s home-town pride is so infectious, the only term for it is roots music; she plays with dialect, with flow, and with history itself, flipping a Pete Rogriguez sample into something that’s of a piece with Latin pop circa 2018 but also proudly in hip-hop’s wheelhouse. “Best Life,” one of the album’s lynchpin tracks, brings Chance the Rapper on board to interrogate success and connect Cardi’s materialism to divine blessing; the song’s prosperity gospel isn’t as nuanced as what Chance offered on Coloring Book, yet it allows Cardi to bring a certain cosmic awareness to her rise-to-stardom story: “I got further than them hoes said I will ever get/ and that only goes to show that only God knows.”

Not that she’s too eager to share credit with the Almighty; “I did this on my own,” Cardi boasts, unashamedly self-made. But success is seldom uncomplicated, and Invasion of Privacy’s triumphalism leaves a little room for self-doubt. Behind its barreling aggression, “Money Bag” reveals the insecurities of a suddenly-rich person who frankly has no idea what to do with all her cash. Perhaps it is telling as well that on the most intimate song here, a slow crawl “Thru Your Phone,” the dominant emotion is mistrust. It’s worth noting that Invasion of Privacy came out around the same time as Kali Uchis’ Isolation, a declaration of independence but also a reminder that it’s lonely at the top. And, like Janelle Monae’s new Dirty Computer, Cardi’s record celebrates liberation but does so in the context of familiar traditions and institutions (in Monae’s case, actual elder statesmen, from Prince to Stevie to Brian Wilson, play pivotal roles throughout the album; in Cardi’s, the context is hip-hop orthodoxy). Invasion of Privacy asserts its auteur’s hustle and testifies to her unique point of view, even as it hints at both the cost of success and the tried-and-true structures needed to achieve it. Maybe, in the end, no one’s truly self-made after all.