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