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

