The usual disclaimers apply: These rankings can and will change (though I’d be very surprised if my #1 and #2 looked any different come December). There’s still plenty that I haven’t heard, and a couple of these are still new enough that my assessment of them might change. But for now, if you’re looking for recommendations or just want to catch up…
I’m not sure which brings me more pleasure: The thought of so many Enneagram 4 dads using this album to further their post-folkloreemotional breakthroughs, or the thought of so many teenagers literally discovering rock and roll through Rodrigo’s snarling pop-punk. (Serious question: When’s the last time guitar-based music lit up the pop charts like this album has?) I think she’s a prodigiously gifted writer, conjuring a rush of emotions with equal parts operatic exaggeration and scalpel precision. She’s funny when she’s being passive-aggressive, funnier when she’s just being aggressive, and devastating in her smart, specific takes on heartache. Not unlike her pal Taylor, Rodrigo captures what it’s like to be young and know everything, cataloging her experiences with bruising finality. Singalong album of the year, though only when my kids aren’t around to soak up the potty mouth.
Hardware | Billy F. Gibbons
With Hardware, the septuagenarian ZZ Top leader has delivered the year’s most irresistible rock and roll record—and, along with The Marfa Tapes, one of its deepest explorations of Texas’ rich musical heritage. Working with a small combo, an endless reserve of guitar tricks , and his own craggy drawl, Gibbons does a lot with a little, offering everything from pulverizing riff rockers to surging power pop, from frenzied surf-rock to spooky spoken-word narration. There’s a vague dirty-old-man-ishness to his lyrics that hinders my enthusiasm just a tad, but any sense of tastelessness is countered by solid jokes (“you’d think I was a highway the way she hit the road”). There’s nothing flashy or hip about it, but boy is it a pleasure.
Path of Wellness | Sleater-Kinney
There are a few things you won’t hear on the tenth Sleater-Kinney album: The urgency of Dig Me Out. The menacing grandeur of The Woods. The adventurous spirit of The Center Won’t Hold. Janet Weiss. Heck, even Corin Tucker’s glorious banshee wail is notably absent. So what do you get instead? Lots of low end. A reminder that, for as great as they’ve always been with riffs, they’re equally gifted with groove. Eleven songs that seldom rise to the A-level but never drop below a solid B. Proof that a perfectly-fine Sleater-Kinney record would be the envy of most band’s catalogs.
The Off-Season | J. Cole
I tend to admire J. Cole albums for their storytelling prowess, but this time around, I’m taken by the sheer verbal dexterity and old-head rap thrills. Bar for bar, this may be the toughest, fiercest Cole album yet, and his joy on the mic is infectious. His biggest flex? Recruiting young guns like 21 Savage and Lil Baby, bending their gifts to accommodate his more technical, braggadocious style.
Daddy’s Home | St. Vincent
I grew up listening to albums by David Bowie and the New York Dolls, so I have no problem with artists who revel in artifice. The problem with St. Vincent’s latest metamorphosis isn’t that it’s so obviously a costume, but that it’s an unpersuasive one. Her replication of louche 70s rock is impressive but never immersive; it’s the difference between seeing a stage show that really pulls you into its world, versus one where you simply sit back and admire the wigs. That this belabored cosplay is paired with lyrics that are ostensibly about her own family drama (I’m sure some press release has christened this “her most personal album yet”) is neither here nor there. There are some strong songs, and I’d put “My Baby Wants a Baby” on any best-of playlist, but overall this feels like the least essential St. Vincent album.
JORDI | Maroon 5
I actually harbor some affection for the earliest Maroon 5 albums— back when they actually sounded like a band, and when they traded in a blue-eyed soul style that was somewhat distinctive on the pop charts. This year’s model feels as algorithm-driven as anything by Greta Van Fleet, a mashup of current trends, anodyne lyrics, and cloying guest features that lacks anything resembling a point of view. They have become a band that signifies nothing but populist ambition. Okay, okay: The song with Stevie Nicks on it is pretty catchy.