DAMN. finds Kendrick Lamar
running
circles
around
his
competition after the critical and
commercial successes of Good
Kid, M.A.A.D. City and To Pimp
A Butterfly, but it doesn’t always
feel like a victory lap. While
songs like “ELEMENT.” and
“LOYALTY.” find Kendrick at his
most arrogant, other tracks like
“YAH.” and “FEEL.” partially
dispel this illusion of confidence,
instead portraying his stardom
through a lens of paranoia and
bitterness. The sonic palette is
correspondingly bleak as well
as
somewhat
anachronistic:
Motown-esque Fender bass tones
and old-school tags by Kid Capri
mingle with hard-hitting 808s and
rolling hi-hats. There is a subtle
anxiety pervading the album,
created
by
dissonant
chords,
paranoid lyrics and the ominous
recurring motif of a sound best
described as a distorted flock of
birds, reminiscent of the looped
tape effects found in “Tomorrow
Never Knows.” Kendrick’s lyricism
is as sharp as ever, every song
packed with clever and insightful
bars, particularly on “FEAR.” and
“XXX” where the storytelling
and social commentary in both
are among his very best. Even
the less substantive tracks such
as “LOVE.” and “GOD.” are well-
made and absorbing, providing
some necessary respite from the
weighty topics of the adjacent
songs.
Part
of
what
makes
this work so compelling is the
ambiguity:
Kendrick
weaves
together egotism and self-defeat,
dissonance and brightness, to
create an album that feels less
like a celebration and more like a
contemplation.
— Jonah Mendelson, Daily Arts
Writer
Lamar
4B — Thursday, January 4, 2018
the b-side
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
There is a bizarre, nebulous
space between 18 and 21 that
sometimes gets called “19 and
20,” but is more aptly titled
“melodrama.”
New
Zealand
pop queen Lorde spins her
sophomore album from the
heartache and hormones that
dominate that space, and holds
a mirror and a microscope up
to the world my peers and I are
moving through.
Lorde
is
my
peer,
too.
And
while
celebrities
age
prematurely,
our
emotional
experiences
run
parallel
to
each
other.
Her
first
album Pure Heroine defined
my high school years. But
that’s an easier moment to
define. On Melodrama Lorde
dances through post-teenage
wreckage: broken glass on a
floor sticky with champagne
bought with a fake ID. She
parses wisdom from the tragedy
that is growing up and realizing
that every heartbreak isn’t the
end of the world and every new
love isn’t its beginning.
Lorde
traverses
this
glittering
world,
but
never
seems to wholly belong to it.
She asks, early on: “But what
will we do when we’re sober?”
a question that looms over
the rest of the album. What
happens when the party ends
— “lights are on and they’ve
gone home, but who am I?” she
asks later. What happens when
the album ends and she’s no
longer “young” or “new?” What
happens when the novelty of
novelty wears off?
Melodrama is everything a
20-year-old is: anxious, poetic,
vulnerable
and
alive
with
beauty. This isn’t just the album
of the year; it’s the album of a
generation.
—
Madeleine
Gaudin,
Managing Arts Editor
Top Albums: Lorde’s Melodrama soars to the top
AMELIA CACCHIONE / DAILY
FILM
1. Melodrama, Lorde
2. DAMN., Kendrick
If Top Dawg Entertainment
is a world-class university —
with
label
superstar/professor
Kendrick Lamar integrating his
encyclopedic knowledge of all
things historical and cultural into
each one of his lectures, er, songs —
SZA is its blossoming student, now
equipped with new knowledge
and building on previous lessons
(see: 2014 studio debut Z). This
scholarly tinge informs Ctrl, a
genre-crossing release that really is
as sonically malleable as it is sheer
listening pleasure. As with any
album of this year-defining caliber
there are those characteristically
breathtaking moments: When the
singer boasts of “secretly banging
your homeboy” before admitting
to an unwelcome dependence over
a lush guitar on “Supermodel,”
for example, and also on “Broken
Clocks” with a soulful punch
(“Can’t beat ‘em just join the
party / I don’t wanna don’t need
nobody”). SZA ultimately gives
a deeply personal lecture where
her insecurities and strengths
meet elegant, layered production;
a
stream-of-consciousness
broadcasted as gorgeous poetry in
(R&B) motion.
— Joey Schuman, Daily Arts
Writer
3. Ctrl, SZA
From the opening chords of
Process, there’s nowhere else to
go but within. They’re plucked
from
some
strange
universe
that
Sampha
has
carefully
constructed, where the entirety
of the album exists. It’s where
synths, strings and keys not only
play off one another, but mimic
each other. “Plastic 100C,” a slow
moving anthem about the fear of
climax, opens up this world; what
unfolds over ten tracks is a kind
of fragmented dance, urgent at
times, languid at others.
So much of Process is about
relationships,
both
romantic
and familial. Sampha’s mother,
Binty Sisay, passed away in 2015,
and though largely unspoken
(at least explicitly) he seems to
navigate that grief through his
other relationships. His mother
sometimes sits behind the “you” in
these lyrics, and Sampha spins out
this delicate web of love and loss
with beautiful vocals. On Process,
Sampha finally perfects the R&B
palette he has curated for years,
with greatness only hinted at.
— Matt Gallatin, Daily Arts
Writer
4. Process, Sampha
Forgive
those
who
thought american dream was
underwhelming, or even stale,
at first. Initially it could have
felt as if the group failed to
veer from its trademark album
format of catharsis: Each song
an at least six-minute post-punk
curation of doggedly burnt out
emotion. Slowly, however, the
album has a way of seeping
in. There’s the nuance of each
synthy progression on “how do
you sleep”; the nu-disco overload
on “tonite”; James Murphy’s
hollowed-out vocals in “american
dream.” Such a diverse collection
of sounds backs up Murphy’s
characteristically
dense-yet-
concise lyricism. “oh baby” is
arguably the gem of the album,
a warm croon replete with
an
indescribably
’90s
sound
and
emotionally-weaponized
melodies. In LCD’s universe,
time is merely a construct both
in literal track length and full
listening
absorption.
With
american dream, too, it may take
a while. But like in any measure
of musical temporality, somehow,
eventually, you’re going to need
to hear whatever Murphy says
(even without realizing as much
beforehand), and you’re probably
going to cry as you do.
— Joey Schuman, Daily Arts
Writer
LCD Soundsystem
5. american dream,
If you would have told 2010
Styles fans that he would go
on to launch a solo career full
of floral Gucci suits, a heavy
coating of tattoos and a lyrical
comparison between a cocaine-
filled nose and a tunnel full of
traffic, they would be hesitant
to believe you. Yet, all of these
things have come to fruition
quite wonderfully. Harry Styles
is simultaneously tender and
exclamatory;
Styles
peacocks
as a young, Jagger-esque rocker
while lamenting and praising
genuine affection. Aware of his
audience’s and his own aging,
he includes blushingly-intimate
details without being crass (See:
Fellow 1D alum Liam Payne’s
“Strip That Down”). Harry Styles
is an extremely strong debut,
well-suited for One Direction
veterans and new listeners alike.
— Carly Snider, Daily Arts
Writer
Harry Styles
6. Harry Styles,
Since the release of his
mixtape in 2009, Tyler, The
Creator
has
established
himself as a master storyteller,
fabricating a cohesive fairytale
that spans across three albums.
Bastard,
Goblin
and
Wolf
introduce us to a variety of
Tyler’s alter-egos: Wolf Haley,
Dr. TC, Tron Cat and Sam,
among others. His characters
exist within the fictional world
of Camp Flog Gnaw, dropping
in and out of therapy sessions
and asylum visits. Everything
is a little unhinged, including
the storyline, which seems to
be purposely made difficult to
follow. Every time you think
you’re starting to understand the
motive behind all the madness,
you get lost in the chaos of non-
linear timelines, songs that just
don’t make sense and blunt
rhymes wrapped in barbed wire.
Flower Boy is different.
Tyler,
The
Creator
deconstructs the entire world he
spent nearly eight years building.
From this wreckage, Flower
Boy unfurls: a multicolored
dreamscape
rich
with
expressive vocals and flowing
background
instrumentals.
Individual tracks are wistful
reflections on everything from
old relationships to burgeoning
sexualities. They flow together
effortlessly, creating an intimate
connectivity that is unmatched
in any of his previous work. This
is Tyler, The Creator at his most
sincere, trading in subversion for
vulnerability. Multiple personas
and convoluted narratives are
replaced
by
straightforward
acceptance: “Tell these black
kids they could be who they are
/ Dye your hair blue, shit, I’ll do
it too.”
Understanding the necessity
for growth, he allows himself
to bloom: Flower boy T finally
found his wings.
— Shima Sadaghiyani, Daily
Music Editor
Tyler, The Creator
7. Flower Boy,
Big Fish Theory is a futuristic
wet dream. It’s polished synths
and
sleek
electronic
beats
bring to mind the basement of
a Tron-esque club. Presiding
over the entire scene, Vince
Staples acts as the nihilistic
neon demon. His flow is almost
manic, a relentless frenzy of
energy that illuminates the
glitch among the glamour of
rap stardom. Individual tracks
are hybrids that mesh rave
and hip hop to create dark
bangers: social commentary
on the dance floor. “Crabs in
a Bucket” and “Party People”
especially revealing the fame
that weighs heavy on Staples’s
shoulders. Amid the lacquered
shine of expensive cars and
stacks of cash, stereotypes
and
expectations
of
what
a young African American
man should be creep next
to
disillusionment
and
hopelessness.
There is no reserve as Vince
Staples dives into Big Fish
Theory. He embraces his own
cynicism, traversing the bleak
landscape with ease, leaving
behind a mirage of pulsing
tempos
and
slick
rhymes;
destitution
disguised
as
a
macabre celebration.
— Shima Sadaghiyani, Daily
Music Editor
Vince Staples
8. Big Fish Theory,
Julien Baker
9. Turn Out the Lights,
Ah, the state of the UK in 2017:
The reality of Brexit settles in,
and Fabric has its license revoked.
Dark times in London called for
a dark album from Peckham’s
preeminent Lonely Boy, Archy
Marshall.
More so than any other record
this year, The OOZ is dense;
at times the album is difficult
to finish, but it always finds a
way to immerse you, almost
hypnotically, to
the absolute
fringes of the world it creates. It
spans from Barcelona, the home
of Archy’s mysterious girlfriend,
to Bermondsey and the corridors
of Le Marais.
Though the album is a bit
of a globetrotter with regard
to influences and references, it
mainly takes place in the extreme
depths of Archy’s insecurities,
anxieties,
doubts
and
fears.
The listening experience is like
evaporating into a cloud of smoke,
only to be pulled back into the
guck of a world you’re trying to
escape.
Although
this
is
familiar
territory for a King Krule album,
sonically it deviates into jazz
fusion and much harder rock
sounds than we’ve heard from
Archy before. He screams a bit,
but he also cries, growls and
mumbles. It’s clear that he’s still
figuring things out, and that likely
won’t end when the year does too.
— Shayan Shafii, Daily Arts
Writer
10. The OOZ, King Krule
On his third studio album,
bassist and vocalist Thundercat
solidifies his brand: a marriage
of
goofy
techno-funk
and
dissonant
jazz.
On
Drunk,
Stephen
Bruner’s
seemingly
improvised
melodies
and
signature falsetto have a certain
mesmerizing
charm.
When
blended with his undeniably
groovy beats and bass lines, they
create a sound that is just left of
center. For 51 minutes, you are
in Thundercat’s ethereal and
almost nonsensical world, as he
meows in the background of “A
Fan’s Mail (Tron Song Suite II)”
and asks where he left his phone
on “A Bus in These Streets.”
As a bonus, you run into yacht
rock legends Kenny Loggins
and Michael McDonald and hip-
hop king Kendrick Lamar while
you’re there.
— Mike Watkins, Daily Arts
Writer
11. Drunk, Thundercat
Read more online at
michigandaily.com
12. MASSEDUCTION,
St. Vincent
On Turn Out the Lights,
Julien Baker peels off every
layer of her skin and exposes her
most vulnerable self. She steps
further into the insecurities
that she revealed on her 2015
record, Sprained Ankle, dealing
with the ghosts of substance
abuse and the self-doubt that
follows. Her haunting voice
creates a personal conversation
where she whispers her biggest
secrets, her deepest regrets and
her greatest fears into your ear
as goosebumps grow on your
arms. The record’s tranquil
piano and guitar flow into the
river of emotions that Baker is
pulling out of her gut, creating
one harmonious moment of
catharsis that is Turn Out the
Lights.
— Selena Aguilera, Daily
Arts Writer