{"id":1254350,"date":"2018-12-11T06:00:00","date_gmt":"2018-12-11T03:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/analyse.optim.biz\/?p=1254350"},"modified":"2018-12-11T06:00:00","modified_gmt":"2018-12-11T03:00:00","slug":"the-50-best-albums-of-2018","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/analyse.optim.biz\/?p=1254350","title":{"rendered":"The 50 Best Albums of 2018"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Lists & Guides<\/span><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

The 50 Best Albums of 2018<\/h1>\n
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From Snail Mail to CupcakKe, Earl Sweatshirt to Jon Hopkins, these are the very best albums of the year<\/div>\n
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By <\/span>Pitchfork<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/div>\n

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Mitski photo by Savanna Ruedy, Earl Sweatshirt photo by Steven Taylor, Snail Mail photo by Sisilia Piring, Playboi Carti photo by Robert Kamau\/GC Images, Ariana Grande photo by Kevin Mazur\/WireImage, Robyn photo by Heji Shin, SOPHIE photo by Charlotte Wales, Matty Healy photo by Magdalena Wosinska, CupcakKe photo by J. Kempin\/Getty Images, Rosal\u00eda photo by Berta Pfirsich<\/span><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/header>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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In 2018, it felt hard to reach consensus on anything\u2014including music. The heavy-hitters of pop and hip-hop returned, but many disappointed; in fact, sometimes, they were just confounding (cough Kanye cough). More than ever, music felt like a playing field where new, exciting artists were sharing the discussion with the veterans, if not taking it over outright. A sea change was underway, the borders eroded\u2014and music was better for it. Here are the best albums of the year.<\/p>\n

Listen to selections from this list on our Spotify playlist and Apple Music playlist.<\/p>\n

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\"This<\/span><\/div>\n
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SOB X RBE ENT<\/p>\n

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50.<\/div>\n

SOB X RBE: Gangin<\/em><\/h2>\n

The quiet miracle of friendship is that it is almost always accidental. Adjacent seats, matching hats, shared cul-de-sacs\u2014any random moment of connection can be the beginning of a lifelong bond. SOB X RBE formed in Vallejo, California, around shared commitments to\u00a0Call of Duty<\/em>, basketball, and rap\u2014and on their debut album,\u00a0Gangin<\/em>, you can feel both the looseness of those links and their intensity. Lul G, Yhung T.O., DaBoii, and Slimmy B make ruffian rap that bruises and bounces in equal measure; their record is a marvel of perpetual motion and brotherhood.<\/p>\n

Gangin<\/em>\u00a0plays like a\u00a0cartoon fight cloud\u00a0set to music: At any given moment, you can snap your fingers or a neck. The record often feels limitless and unbound; the members appear on songs in unpredictable order, sometimes alone, other times as a trio or duo. In lieu of ad-libs or layered vocals, there\u2019s constant fluidity. Flows are passed along and riffed. Verses are packed toe-to-toe, the ideas firing too quickly to pause. The beats are smooth but fleet, complementing and contrasting the group’s harried delivery. Now the future of the group is\u00a0uncertain, but perhaps that, too, is par for the course. Entropy is enabling until it isn\u2019t. \u2013Stephen Kearse<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong>\u00a0SOB X RBE, \u201cAnti Social\u201d<\/p>\n

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Brainfeeder<\/p>\n

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49.<\/div>\n

Georgia Anne Muldrow: Overload<\/em><\/h2>\n

For years, Georgia Anne Muldrow was underground R&B\u2019s greatest utility player. She provided yin to Dudley Perkins\u2019 yang, dropped Roberta Flack rose petals on Mos Def, crafted loopy old soul with Madlib, and teamed with fellow priestess Erykah Badu to bring the notion to \u201cstay woke\u201d to the world at large. But the restlessly creative and bountiful artist has also had a remarkable solo career\u2014and\u00a0Overload<\/em>, her 17th album in 12 years, is her best one yet.<\/p>\n

All of Muldrow\u2019s powers as singer, songwriter, and producer are on display here. A hundred years of the African-American pop vernacular\u00a0are, too: Astral jazz wafts through pop confections, boom-bap turns into soul-quaking confessionals, and Muldrow daydreams Stevie Wonder doing a second-line strut. She makes Afrofuturism resound right here, in the present moment. \u2013Andy Beta<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Listen:<\/strong> Georgia Anne Muldrow, \u201cAerosol\u201d<\/p>\n

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Young Turks<\/p>\n

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48.<\/div>\n

Kamasi Washington: Heaven and Earth<\/em><\/h2>\n

Pity the jazz artist whose work garners major acclaim across genre lines\u2014usually, whether they asked for it or not, a responsibility for the entire art form will be hefted onto his or her shoulders. Luckily, the most recently anointed, California tenor saxophonist and bandleader Kamasi Washington, has an omnivorous creative ambition that continues to expand. This double album is a conceptual trip through outer and inner space, stacked with an ace ensemble cast of players. They go big, as on the frenzied, endlessly ascending jam \u201cOne\u00a0of One,\u201d and deep, with an elongated meditation on the Brill Building gem \u201cWill You Love Me Tomorrow.\u201d The dizzying trip navigates hybrid terrain that includes shimmering exotica and slinky G-funk grooves, moving from the bodily pleasures of soul jazz and funk to the spiritual and cerebral ecstasies of gospel and psychedelia. \u2013Alison Fensterstock<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> Kamasi Washington, \u201cOne\u00a0of One\u201d<\/p>\n

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Ilan Tape<\/p>\n

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47.<\/div>\n

Skee Mask: Compro<\/em><\/h2>\n

Techno doesn\u2019t get more sensual, tactile, or inviting than Compro<\/em>. The music\u2014a ripe and septic mix of dub and breakbeats, bangers\u00a0and ambient interludes\u2014feels so alive and unpredictable that it barely fits that genre tag for more than a minute at a time. As Skee Mask, Munich producer Bryan M\u00fcller uses his mix of analog and digital equipment to conjure a boggy landscape out of which all kinds of sumptuous notes emerge. The sharp, steely drum pads\u2014which cut through \u201cSoundboy Ext.\u201d and \u201cDial 274\u201d like wires passing through clay\u2014are rough enough to keep you dancing in some cement basement all night, but Compro<\/em> could also soundtrack\u00a0an evening spent on an abandoned train platform, staring up at the sky. It\u2019s some of the most astonishing and alive electronic music of the year; it thrashes, it seethes, it wails, it breathes<\/em>. \u2013Jayson Greene<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Listen:<\/strong> Skee Mask, \u201cSoundboy Ext.\u201d<\/p>\n

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Domino<\/p>\n

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46.<\/div>\n

Blood Orange: Negro Swan<\/em><\/h2>\n

Blood Orange\u2019s Negro Swan<\/em>\u00a0opens the door to a more appealing universe\u2014somewhere without requirement to shrink yourself in order \u201cto quote-unquote belong,\u201d as the transgender writer\/activist Janet Mock puts it in an interlude here. Dev Hynes\u2019 inquiry into black depression exhumes his trauma and insecurities, school bullying encounters, and early thoughts of death, delivering diary entries in a yearning tone sometimes reminiscent of Elliott Smith\u2014too tired to shout, too exhausted to keep quiet.<\/p>\n

Negro Swan<\/em> is indulgent in the best way, like a loner showing you around their obsessively decorated bedroom: It has glimmers of angsty Prince, petty Marvin Gaye, desolate psychedelia, bluesy mysticism. Poised between escapism and self-examination, the album welcomes the dispossessed and extends tender, melancholy encouragement to take up space in the world. \u2013Jazz Monroe<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> Blood Orange, \u201cNappy Wonder\u201d<\/p>\n

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Domino<\/p>\n

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45.<\/div>\n

Cat Power: Wanderer<\/em><\/h2>\n

Chan Marshall pulled off one of the year\u2019s great conjuring tricks on Wanderer<\/em>, her first album in six years. Rarely has music this well constructed sounded so utterly effortless, as if blown along by the wind rather than stitched together in the studio. Wanderer<\/em> is so low-key that it could easily pass you by, but this delicacy is also its charm. The understated textures on songs like \u201cNothing Really Matters\u201d and the Rihanna cover \u201cStay\u201d feel like a whisper in the ear or a nap under a tree, deliciously simple pleasures that linger. Wanderer<\/em>\u2019s warm-hearted sound is all soft vocal strokes, muted guitar, and hushed piano. It is a triumph of quiet introspection and musical restraint, a spellbinding record that works its\u00a0magic by sleight of hand. \u2013Ben Cardew<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> Cat Power, \u201cStay\u201d<\/p>\n

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44.<\/div>\n

Camp Cope: How to Socialise & Make Friends<\/em><\/h2>\n

Camp Cope singer-guitarist Georgia Maq\u2019s voice is a beacon of resilience. On the razor-sharp songs that make up her Australian trio\u2019s second record\u2014a mix of folk-rock intimacy, punk incision, and loud emo catharsis\u2014she shares her path forward. How to Socialise & Make Friends<\/em> spins a bracing narrative of feminist solidarity and self-sufficiency in the face of toxic men, and it offers empathy in response to the havoc they wreak.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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On \u201cThe Opener,\u201d the album\u2019s first track and its rallying thesis, Maq sarcastically stitches together a selection of the belittling comments that music industry men have made to Camp Cope since they formed in 2015\u2014undervaluing their abilities, equating their success with their gender. Maq\u2019s biting delivery here carries throughout all of How to Socialise<\/em>: She turns single syllables into triumphs. The title track finds Maq breezing along on her bike with no hands on the handlebar, thriving, humming a mantra: \u201cI can see myself living without you.\u201d It\u2019s one lifesaving sentiment on an album full of them. \u2013Jenn Pelly<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> Camp Cope, \u201cThe Opener\u201d<\/p>\n

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43.<\/div>\n

Sleep: The Sciences<\/em><\/h2>\n

As Juuling\u00a0has taken over high schools around the country, it\u2019s only appropriate that some lifelong stoners in their 40s would come back to remind us that the only acceptable way to inhale vapor is through a bong. Sleep started when its members were teenagers; back then, their now-legendary guitarist Matt Pike had white dreads that flopped around as his guitar solos ascended to heaven. Aside from a new drummer (and Pike\u2019s hair), not much has changed for the band. Sleep are still dedicated freaks and effortless doom metal masters who use their skill to write praise songs to the sweet leaf. Their extended odes boast very sick solos and repetitious bass that burrows deep into your skull. The Sciences<\/em>, the band\u2019s first album in more than a decade, dropped by surprise on the international marijuana holiday, April 20, and while that\u2019s cute and all, it\u2019s a good listen all year round. Throw your vape in the trash, call your dealer, and crank it. \u2013Matthew Schnipper<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> Sleep, \u201cMarijuanaut\u2019s Theme\u201d<\/p>\n

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\"Adrianne<\/span><\/div>\n
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Saddle Creek<\/p>\n

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42.<\/div>\n

Adrianne Lenker: abysskiss<\/em><\/h2>\n

Adrianne Lenker\u2019s\u00a0abysskiss<\/em>\u00a0is a hushed but intense affair for acoustic guitar and voice. The Big Thief frontwoman asks painful questions\u2014\u201cWhat Can You Say\u201d addresses waning love in the most melancholy terms imaginable\u2014but also reassuring answers like those found in \u201c10 Miles,\u201d a rural picture of domestic contentment as seen from a life\u2019s latter half. The album is bookended by death:\u00a0Its specter ripples through both the opening and closing songs, though the softness of Lenker\u2019s voice belies the starkness and even severity of her imagery\u2014an earthy menagerie shot through with wild animals, forests, and other kaleidoscopic fragments of the sublime. \u2013Philip Sherburne<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Listen:<\/strong> Adrianne Lenker, \u201cWhat Can You Say\u201d<\/p>\n

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Def Jam<\/p>\n

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41.<\/div>\n

Ty Dolla $ign \/ Jeremih: MihTy<\/em><\/h2>\n

As two of R&B\u2019s most generous collaborators, Ty Dolla $ign and Jeremih are so consistently the best part of any song they\u2019re featured on that a shared project from the two was bound to be an exercise in decadence. And sure enough, the peanut butter\/chocolate pairing of Ty Dolla\u2019s nonchalant croon and Jeremih\u2019s frictionless falsetto is a triumph of creature comforts. MihTy<\/em> frees the two unshowy showmen to indulge in the tropes of \u201990s R&B, a style there isn\u2019t much room for on the charts these days. But the duo\u2019s forward-looking producers ensure this isn\u2019t just an exercise in nostalgia. They continually introduce sly, contemporary twists on these classic sounds, especially lead architect Hitmaka, whose plush, pillowy inversions of trap provide the singers a backdrop every bit as sumptuous as their voices. \u2013Evan Rytlewski<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> Ty Dolla $ign \/ Jeremih, \u201cRide It\u201d<\/p>\n

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40.<\/div>\n

Iceage: Beyondless<\/em><\/h2>\n

Iceage make bold moves, and Beyondless<\/em> is their boldest yet. This time around, the Danish punks\u2019 arsenal is particularly robust, as brass and violins and hammered dulcimers throw momentum and sophistication behind the slurring poet up front, Elias Bender R\u00f8nnenfelt. Their aesthetic palette has widened well beyond the confines of their punk origins: Just look at \u201cShowtime,\u201d which features the band diving into a trombone-heavy burlesque pastiche. It\u2019s a fun bit of vaudeville\u2014until you realize the central character is a singer who shoots himself in the head in front of a packed audience.<\/p>\n

R\u00f8nnenfelt has talked about how he wrote the album after touring a changing planet\u2014one with more barbed-wire barriers, more refugee camps, and a more palpable sense of fear. This discouraging state of\u00a0affairs pervades the record. There are sarcastic celebrations about the horrors of war (\u201cHurrah\u201d) and stomping meditations on how death is around the corner (\u201cThe Day the Music Dies\u201d). Even the album\u2019s banger, \u201cPain Killer,\u201d bolstered by a Sky Ferreira guest turn, is about toxic codependency. That\u2019s the pull of Beyondless<\/em>\u2014an album that pairs bleak narratives with frenzied, over-the-top rock\u2019n\u2019roll. \u2013Evan Minsker<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Listen:<\/strong> Iceage, \u201cPain Killer\u201d [ft. Sky Ferreira]<\/p>\n

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39.<\/div>\n

The Internet: Hive Mind<\/em><\/h2>\n

The Internet\u2019s fourth album, and their first in three years, represents a reunion of sorts. The members took their time between projects to follow their own curiosities, in both solo work and collaboration. The clearest beneficiaries of this branching-out are in Syd\u2019s renewed vocal confidence, dancing around tracks in melodies that are pleading, catchy, and coy all at once, crooning her way through all manner of romantic conquests. Steve Lacy\u2019s guitar work unfolds into a more romantic and playful bounce, painting the backgrounds.<\/p>\n

The Internet\u2019s main bag has long been trying to keep a foot in so many genres\u00a0that the genres themselves become useless. Here they still dip into smooth R&B, as in \u201cStay the Night,\u201d and funky dance tracks like \u201cRoll (Burbank Funk)\u201d and bossa nova like \u201cLa Di Da,\u201d but it all serves\u00a0their\u00a0greater, unified sound.\u00a0Hive Mind<\/em> is the full realization of what\u00a0the Internet has been reaching for since their inception: They have finally become a genre unto themselves. \u2013Hanif Abdurraqib<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> The Internet, \u201cRoll (Burbank Funk)\u201d<\/p>\n

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38.<\/div>\n

Kali Uchis: Isolation<\/em><\/h2>\n

In the abundant femme art-pop brilliance of this year, Kali Uchis\u2019 bilingual debut album, Isolation<\/em>, announces her as\u00a0a genre-defying visionary. Like Janelle Mon\u00e1e, St. Vincent, or latter day-Beyonc\u00e9, Colombian-American Uchis pays tribute to pop\u2019s past while making it sound new through glowing homage to black and Latinx jukebox favorites and a global roster of collaborations housed in classic soul\/R&B aesthetics. She\u2019s a stylist for sure, but her retro dream world sounds more OutKast downtempo psych funk and less Bruno Mars roller rink pander. That said, her solid songcraft should win her fans across all generations, while her lyrics, full of POC feminist empowerment aphorisms and frank millennial sex-positivity, speak to how to grow up and love right. And if that doesn\u2019t work, her breakup anthem \u201cDead to Me\u201d will hex the ex, and the gooey G-funk groove \u201cAfter the Storm\u201d will salve the wounded soul. \u2013Daphne Carr<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Listen:<\/strong> Kali Uchis, \u201cDead to Me\u201d<\/p>\n

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37.<\/div>\n

JPEGMAFIA: Veteran<\/em><\/h2>\n

First, you notice the beats. JPEGMAFIA\u2014raised in Brooklyn and across the South but established as an artist in Baltimore\u2014is a preternaturally gifted producer, the textures of his beats all jagged and interlocking just so. It\u2019s ordered anarchy, informed by noise music and screeching dial-up modems; on Veteran<\/em>\u2019s \u201cReal Nega,\u201d he uses a vocal gag from the late Ol\u2019 Dirty Bastard as\u00a0sonic scaffolding. But what makes \u201cPeggy\u201d\u2014as his cultish and rapidly expanding fanbase refers to him\u2014such a magnetic artist is his ability to gobble up all the broken syntaxes, unhinged YouTube comments, and Senatorial screeds that define this era and regurgitate them back in a focused burst. He has that unique ability as a writer to make verses that are dripping in irony seem, in aggregate, to convey a sincere and unmistakable message. Veteran<\/em> is the sort of album that will spawn hundreds, if not thousands, of imitators in basements and bedrooms across the country\u2014and not a single one will replicate it. \u2013Paul A. Thompson<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> JPEGMAFIA, \u201cReal Nega\u201d<\/p>\n

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36.<\/div>\n

Rico Nasty: Nasty<\/em><\/h2>\n

Nasty<\/em>\u00a0marks the capstone in a breakout year for DMV upstart Rico Nasty. The album blends her sugar-rush raps with a mosher\u2019s fury for maximum thrash, all while she perfectly balances the aesthetics of her awesomely named alter-egos (primarily Tacobella and Trap Lavigne). It can be dizzying to keep pace with her many styles throughout the record, from sing-song teases to punchy romps with blistering flows. Soundtracked in large part by one of the year\u2019s most impactful producers, Kenny Beats, doing some of his most dynamic work,\u00a0Nasty<\/em>\u00a0pushes Rico to the front of a class of rap shapeshifters. And in running the full gamut of her talents, she reveals more of herself than ever before. \u2013Sheldon Pearce<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Listen:<\/strong> Rico Nasty, \u201cCountin Up\u201d<\/p>\n

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35.<\/div>\n

A.A.L (Against All Logic): 2012 – 2017<\/em><\/h2>\n

Throughout this decade, Nicolas Jaar has cultivated a brand of shadowy electronic music that aims to subvert, challenge, and disrupt everything we know about electronic music. These brainy exercises are great at poking at our preconceptions, but by consciously avoiding repetition, sticky melodies, and cresting dynamics, they can also come across as impenetrable, distant. In this context, 2012 – 2017<\/em>, a compilation of tracks under Jaar\u2019s A.A.L (Against All Logic) moniker, plays like a dancefloor-filling complement to all those head games\u2014a record for the body. It\u2019s one of the most accessible things he\u2019s ever released, a contemporary house album stuffed with bass that thumps where you expect it to and glorious soul samples that wail to the heavens. And yet, no one would confuse this album with something by, say, Disclosure. Jaar still manages to work in some of his offbeat moves, like the pointillistic drums on \u201cI Never Dream,\u201d or the subterranean clatter that shades the ebullient piano chords of \u201cCityfade.\u201d Jaar is a genius when it comes to upending dance music traditions, but here, he\u2019s just as masterful at honoring them. \u2013Ryan Dombal<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> A.A.L (Against All Logic), \u201cCityfade\u201d<\/p>\n

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34.<\/div>\n

Neneh Cherry: Broken Politics<\/em><\/h2>\n

What a welcome surprise that this decade may wind up containing Neneh Cherry\u2019s most sustained, rewarding creative peak. No disrespect to her 1989 breakthrough, Raw Like Sushi<\/em>; it\u2019s just math, as she\u2019s released two strong solo albums, one vibrant jazz project, and a sizzling remix collection since 2010. Broken Politics<\/em> reunites her with producer Four Tet, whom she paired with on 2014\u2019s Blank Project<\/em>, but they don\u2019t repeat their steps; while\u00a0that first collaboration favored starkly thumping electronic compositions, Broken Politics<\/em> pursues a supple variety.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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That is the case even when it stomps\u2014as on the uptempo highlight \u201cNatural Skin Deep,\u201d which offers a battery of whirling samples, metallic percussion elements, sirens, and even a saxophone break. A similar timbral sensitivity carries over to the more reflective pieces. On \u201cSynchronised Devotion,\u201d Cherry sings beautifully of \u201cliving in the slow jam\u201d as a political stance\u2014one that emphasizes the connection that remains possible inside a song while the broader culture is crumbling. \u2013Seth Colter Walls<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> Neneh Cherry, \u201cNatural Skin Deep\u201d<\/p>\n

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33.<\/div>\n

Sheck Wes: MUDBOY<\/em><\/h2>\n

When some people hear the words \u201cNew York\u201d and \u201crap\u201d in the same sentence, the first things that come to mind are \u201clyrical\u201d and \u201cboom bap\u201d: terms that speak to both revered and reviled styles of rap, with roots in the late-\u201980s to mid-\u201990s Golden Age of Hip-Hop. But the sound of New York rap\u00a0in 2018 isn\u2019t monolithic, nor is it trapped in a time capsule. Sheck Wes, the son of Senegalese immigrants and a Harlemite, is an example of this diversity. His debut, MUDBOY<\/em>, contradicts any notion of what New York is supposed<\/em> to sound like. Propelled by \u201cMo Bamba,\u201d Wes\u2019 smash with the producers 16yrold and Take\u00a0a Daytrip, the sound of MUDBOY<\/em> is a melting pot of the 20-year-old Wes\u2019 influences.\u00a0Largely produced by homegrown teen beat-makers Lunchbox and Redda,\u00a0the record features robotic post-EDM synthesized highs (\u201cGmail\u201d) and thunderous low ends (\u201cLive Sheck Wes,\u201d \u201cWanted\u201d) in the vein of the 808 sound that old-school New York producers introduced and Southern producers perfected. As for Wes the rapper, his nasal baritone is used to great effect to exclaim \u201cBitch!\u201d and tell stories of mobbin\u2019 through the city, causing mayhem and being banished to Senegal (\u201cJiggy on the Shits\u201d). Looking for New York rap? This is what it sounds like. \u2013Timmhotep Aku<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Listen:<\/strong> Sheck Wes, \u201cJiggy on the Shits\u201d<\/p>\n

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\"Image<\/span><\/div>\n
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Transgressive<\/p>\n

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32.<\/div>\n

Let\u2019s Eat Grandma: I\u2019m All Ears<\/em><\/h2>\n

Not long ago, Jenny Hollingworth and Rosa Walton were twin Alices in Wonderland: two teens from Norwich, England who wore matching outfits and wrote fanciful songs about mushrooms and treehouses. But with I\u2019m All Ears<\/em>, their second album as Let\u2019s Eat Grandma, the pair bridge the gap between eccentricity and innovation. Their playful curiosity persists, but it is put to use exploring disparate corners of the pop and pop-adjacent world, from stirring piano balladry on \u201cAva\u201d to disco pomp on \u201cDonnie Darko.\u201d \u201cHot Pink\u201d stands out for its grating industrial noise and weaponized emblem of girlishness; it flashes a colorful middle finger to the duo\u2019s detractors. However, it is blue\u2014the ubiquitous, pallid blue of glowing screens\u2014that more noticeably tints the record. Hollingworth and Walton apply an effortlessly contemporary lens to tried-and-true themes of togetherness, aloneness, and the transitional state between the two, adroitly capturing both IRL emotions and those refracted through phone keyboards. At 19 and 20, the pair are certainly young, but don\u2019t call them the future of pop: They\u2019re the present. \u2013Olivia Horn<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> Let\u2019s Eat Grandma, \u201cHot Pink\u201d<\/p>\n

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\"Arctic<\/span><\/div>\n
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Domino<\/p>\n

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31.<\/div>\n

Arctic Monkeys: Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino<\/em><\/h2>\n

The Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino<\/em> isn\u2019t the most appealing vacation spot. The views are incredible, but the VR masks are grimy and unreliable. The on-site taqueria\u2019s not bad, but there\u2019s better food down near Clavius if you\u2019re willing to leave the resort. The performers all seem to experience existential crises as soon as they take the stage. It all sounds a little sleazy. What\u2019s more remarkable is that it\u00a0all feels real.<\/p>\n

Arctic Monkeys\u2019 bold gambit\u2014a hairpin turn from good, ol\u2019 fashioned rock\u2019n\u2019roll into bachelor-pad psych-pop\u2014only pays off because of their commitment to world-building. It\u2019s what gives Alex Turner\u2019s one-liners and commentaries on screen-addled modernity their emotional ballast. All of the album\u2019s narrators are looking for an escape, whether from our planet\u2019s charring husk or a lover who\u2019s haunted them for years. It\u2019s an album for a near-future where technology is better but everyone\u2019s still miserable, and you leave it with immense empathy for the sad-sack lounge lizards just looking for a new friend or two. \u2013Jamieson Cox<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Listen:<\/strong> Arctic Monkeys, \u201cStar Treatment\u201d<\/p>\n

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\"Christine<\/span><\/div>\n
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Because Music<\/p>\n

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30.<\/div>\n

Christine and the Queens: Chris<\/em><\/h2>\n

In a year in which our rights to be whoever we want to be and love whoever we want to love were increasingly threatened, art that blows up the gender binary and shatters traditional ideas of sexuality feels more necessary than ever. On her second album, Christine and the Queens\u2019 H\u00e9l\u00f6ise Letissier invents a new persona\u2014the tough, in-your-face androgyne Chris\u2014to challenge and question the things male rock stars get away with. Over sinuous new wave funk, Chris sings about paying for sex (\u201c5 dollars\u201d) aggressively pursuing pleasure (\u201cDamn [what must a woman do]\u201d), and shrugging off commitment (\u201cgirlfriend\u201d)\u2014the kinds of things that would be seen as \u201cmasculine\u201d if you believed in that concept. \u201cSome of us just had to fight\/For even being looked at right,\u201d Chris sings on \u201c5 dollars,\u201d summing up the way it feels when the world expects you to behave a certain way, but you just can\u2019t play by their rules. And in 2018, that was a whole lot of us. \u2013Amy Phillips<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> Christine and the Queens, \u201c5 dollars\u201d<\/p>\n

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\"Boygenius<\/span><\/div>\n
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Matador<\/p>\n

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29.<\/div>\n

boygenius: boygenius EP<\/em><\/h2>\n

Julien Baker, Phoebe Bridgers, and Lucy Dacus are three beloved indie rock singer-songwriters with their own distinct styles and standalone careers, and\u00a0their self-titled debut EP as boygenius is a testament to the\u00a0magic of collaboration. Each song is arranged around\u00a0each woman\u2019s artistic quirks, and they elevate their individual strengths while finding dynamic harmony. On \u201cMe & My Dog,\u201d Bridgers\u2019 gauzy folk-rock is brought into focus by the immediacy of Baker\u2019s disruptive vocals and Dacus\u2019 keen, steady guitar. Dacus\u2019 introspection is made full and sweet on \u201cBite the Hand\u201d with the help of Baker and Bridgers\u2019 cascading vocals, while Baker\u2019s cutting delivery on the confrontational \u201cStay Down\u201d is softly centered by piano and hushed harmonies. The trust and appreciation\u00a0between\u00a0band members is palpable\u00a0throughout. \u2013Braudie Blais-Billie<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Listen:<\/strong> boygenius, \u201cBite the Hand\u201d<\/p>\n

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Anti<\/p>\n

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28.<\/div>\n

Deafheaven: Ordinary Corrupt Human Love<\/em><\/h2>\n

In 2018, the Smashing Pumpkins (sort of) got back together, and an excellent Smashing Pumpkins album was released. But these two things have absolutely nothing to do with one another, because that excellent Smashing Pumpkins album was actually made by Deafheaven.<\/p>\n

For the past half-decade, the San Francisco-bred band have been experimenting with the soluble qualities of black metal, heating it up and melting it down until it evaporates into dream pop. But more than ever before, on Ordinary Corrupt Human Love<\/em>, their atomic fusion of melancholy and infinite madness assumes the lighter-waving splendor and communal ecstasy of arena rock. The elegant piano-led build of \u201cYou Without End\u201d (aka Deafheaven\u2019s \u201cTonight, Tonight\u201d) and serene, stargazing sway of \u201cNear\u201d are disarming enough, but it\u2019s the 11-minute \u201cHoneycomb\u201d that best illustrates Deafheaven\u2019s shifting priorities: What begins as a blast-beat blur gradually dissolves into a Siamese Dream<\/em> of an outro that\u2019ll have you scouring the liner notes for a James Iha cameo. Of course, George Clarke\u2019s tonsil-ripping growl remains several degrees more fearsome and ferocious than even Billy Corgan\u2019s most anguished wails, but then, what do you think a raging rat in a cage\u00a0is supposed to sound like? \u2013Stuart Berman<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> Deafheaven, \u201cYou Without End\u201d<\/p>\n

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\"Fat<\/span><\/div>\n
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Fat Possum<\/p>\n

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27.<\/div>\n

Soccer Mommy: Clean<\/em><\/h2>\n

Nashville songwriter Sophie Allison\u2019s\u00a0debut studio album as Soccer Mommy is one of 2018\u2019s most affecting portraits of romance. Allison\u2019s longings are humble: She self-identifies as more of a dying flower than a sunbeam on \u201cLast Girl,\u201d idolizes an ice cold heartbreaker on \u201cCool,\u201d and just wants to be \u201cthe one you\u2019re kissing when you\u2019re stoned\u201d on \u201cSkin.\u201d On Clean<\/em>\u2019s hushed centerpiece, \u201cBlossom (Wasting All My Time),\u201d dreams are consistently darkened by reality. But despite this vulnerable (and often self-loathing) sense of self, Allison looks forward with confidence. She knows that untangling the mysteries of life and love can\u2019t be rushed; after all, spirits are governed by our blood and the stars (as she suggests on \u201cScorpio Rising\u201d). By the time Allison concludes \u201cI want to be who I wasn\u2019t\u201d on the closer \u201cWildflowers,\u201d Clean<\/em> faces a horizon full of hope. \u2013Quinn Moreland<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Listen:<\/strong> Soccer Mommy, \u201cCool\u201d<\/p>\n

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\"Vince<\/span><\/div>\n
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Def Jam<\/p>\n

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26.<\/div>\n

Vince Staples: FM!<\/em><\/h2>\n

Dropped in angst-ridden, pre-midterms early November, Vince Staples\u2019 FM!<\/em> is the exact length of a television sitcom\u201422 minutes\u2014and as snappily edited as one. \u201cWe gon\u2019 party til the sun or the guns come out,\u201d Staples sings on the opener, \u201cFeels Like Summer,\u201d tire-slashing the idyllic illusion of California, his home. Throughout FM!<\/em>, he applies that sardonic, pitch-perfect wit to a wild, compressed experiment of twitchy songs made with California collaborators Ty Dolla $ign, Earl Sweatshirt, Kamaiyah, and more, in a format that mimics the iconic rap radio show \u201cBig Boy\u2019s Neighborhood.\u201d<\/p>\n

With the album\u2019s cover art, Staples deliberately borrows the gleeful, cartoonish vibe of Green Day\u2019s Dookie<\/em>,\u00a0playing up the contrast between those anthems of teenage angst and his own. He may sing \u201cWe just wanna have fun,\u201d but references to \u201cdead homies\u201d resurface in song after song; what purports to be party jams become hymns to the fallen. Reality inevitably intrudes: \u201cMy black is beautiful, but I\u2019ll still shoot at you,\u201d he says, unflinching. Experimental and abrupt, the album ends all too soon, yet it feels convincing and complete, and Staples\u2019 sobering revelations linger. \u2013Rebecca Bengal<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> Vince Staples, \u201cFeels Like Summer\u201d<\/p>\n

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\"Image<\/span><\/div>\n
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Interscope \/ AWGE<\/p>\n

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25.<\/div>\n

Playboi Carti: Die Lit<\/em><\/h2>\n

Playboi Carti\u2019s debut studio album is a little darker and much stranger than the Atlanta rapper\u2019s previous work. Instead of the jovial trap of his 2017 debut mixtape, the mosh pit invades Die Lit<\/em>\u2019s personal space. Producer Pi\u2019erre Bourne brings a more luxurious version of the manic energy that he bottled on last year\u2019s \u201cMagnolia,\u201d with features from Nicki Minaj, Travis Scott, and Young Thug, who all dig deep into their pools of personality for more exaggerated takes on their signature sounds. The result makes for a\u00a0take on rap that\u2019s more rambunctious than lyrical\u2014and all the stronger for it. On Die Lit<\/em>, Carti sounds more alive than ever before. \u2013Trey Alston<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Listen:<\/strong> Playboi Carti, \u201cPoke\u00a0It Out\u201d [ft. Nicki Minaj]<\/p>\n

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\"Image<\/span><\/div>\n
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Domino<\/p>\n

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24.<\/div>\n

Julia Holter: Aviary<\/em><\/h2>\n

Dense, sprawling, and hugely varied across its 90-minute length, Julia Holter\u2019s Aviary<\/em> is an art-pop album that unapologetically puts the emphasis on art. Like Robert Wyatt, Laurie Anderson, or Scott Walker, Holter\u2019s music is so idiosyncratic and instantly identifiable that it could come from no one else, and her admirable commitment to the form and structure of a double-album-sized idea leads to a work that is challenging and rewarding in equal measure. Aviary<\/em> takes strengths from Holter\u2019s earlier records\u2014an ear for delicate melody and an expert fusion of pop form and modern composition\u2014and boils them down to their essence, then twists them into gnarled and sometimes frightening new designs. \u2013Mark Richardson<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> Julia Holter, \u201cTurn the Light On\u201d<\/p>\n

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\"Cover<\/span><\/div>\n
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Cactus Jack \/ Epic<\/p>\n

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23.<\/div>\n

Travis Scott: Astroworld<\/em><\/h2>\n

Young rap fans and radio programmers have loved Travis Scott for awhile, but Astroworld<\/em> propelled awareness of his sound-design flair to a new level. Critics had previously tended to view Scott as a skillful convenor of other talents, rather than a talent in his own right. While that networking and curatorial skill was still evident on Astroworld<\/em>\u2014which recruits everyone from Stevie Wonder to the ghost of the Notorious B.I.G.\u2014what\u2019s striking about the album is how it all sounds like Travis Scott. The host rarely gets overshadowed by the guests; the broth is never spoiled by the ridiculous number of cooks.<\/p>\n

\u201cSicko Mode\u201d splits its song publishing between 30 names and involves five producers, yet still triumphs as the album\u2019s banger. \u201c5% Tint\u201d is another killer, with its stereo-panning growls and vocals like anesthetic gas seeping under the door in a \u201960s spy movie. Doubts persist about Scott ever becoming the Kanye-level major artist he aspires to be;\u00a0his lyrics, rarely memorable, mostly traffic in hollow hedonism. But you don\u2019t turn to Scott for insights into our contemporary decadence, you come for the exquisitely intricate ear candy: queasy stereo-sculpted effects, dilated smears of texture, startling vocal treatments. More about mood than meaning, Scott\u2019s music is a glistening vapor that fills headphones and car interiors with cocooning unreality. File under \u201cambient.\u201d \u2013Simon Reynolds<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Listen:<\/strong> Travis Scott, \u201cSicko Mode\u201d [ft. Drake]<\/p>\n

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\"Image<\/span><\/div>\n
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4AD<\/p>\n

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22.<\/div>\n

U.S. Girls: In a Poem Unlimited<\/em><\/h2>\n

U.S. Girls is the\u00a0work of solo artist Meghan Remy, who\u2014now a decade into her career\u2014has grown cynical and sinister, but hasn\u2019t lost her gift as a reliable and sharply focused narrator.\u00a0In a Poem Unlimited<\/em>\u00a0plays as a book might read, with the speaker\u2019s gaze always directly honed and a storyline unfolding eagerly but not so loosely that it can\u2019t be followed. Remy\u2019s targets are largely men, from St. Peter to Barack Obama to the vast specter of maleness haunting each corner of a country\u2019s violence. From the haunting opener \u201cVelvet 4 Sale\u201d to the danceable anti-war \u201cM.A.H.,\u201d the songs work because Remy sings earnestly and patiently about revenge and reckoning\u2014something\u00a0she\u00a0knows is coming. The album also plays host to over\u00a020\u00a0guests, and the collaborations echo the album\u2019s tone: There is a fight and the fight cannot be approached alone. In a Poem Unlimited<\/em> manages to be a record\u00a0for the times, without bowing to the vastness of all miseries. It knows its targets. \u2013Hanif Abdurraqib<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> U.S. Girls, \u201cVelvet 4 Sale\u201d<\/p>\n

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\"The<\/span><\/div>\n
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Dirty Hit \/ Interscope<\/p>\n

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21.<\/div>\n

The 1975: A Brief Inquiry Into Online Relationships<\/em><\/h2>\n

The 1975 are, in a word, unsubtle. On A Brief Inquiry Into Online Relationships<\/em>, they grapple with obvious questions\u2014Is true love deeply felt and simply expressed? Is the internet bad? Is Trump bad?\u2014and answer in the affirmative every time. It\u2019s also clear that \u201cLove It If We Made It,\u201d the big set piece of their third album, is a 2018 redux of \u201cWe Didn\u2019t Start the Fire,\u201d with its topical shouts-outs of everything from fossil fuels to kneeling on football fields\u2014and for a band that has historically drawn from the crystalline guitars of the \u201980s, pulling from Billy Joel isn\u2019t really out of step. Cultural references pour out of frontman Matty Healy\u2019s mouth in a barrage, a litany of blunt phrases ranging from the death Lil Peep to the figurative death of Kanye West.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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A Brief Inquiry<\/em> is a Saturn Return of an album, the sound of turning over new leaves, kicking heroin (or Twitter), and not letting the waves of modernity knock you down. The band\u00a0is at their most luxurious and diverse here; their pop gently beckons. The way the album goes from acoustic confessions to a choir-backed neo-soul jam to pleading ballads spangled with vocoder and digital gloss has a way of disarming each and every layer of cynicism. It is a weapon of mass sincerity, deployed in these worst of times. It may be the only thing that works. \u2013Jeremy D. Larson<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> The 1975, \u201cLove It If We Made It\u201d<\/p>\n

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\"Beach<\/span><\/div>\n
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Sub Pop<\/p>\n

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20.<\/div>\n

Beach House: 7<\/em><\/h2>\n

Beach House have characterized the vibe of 7<\/em>, the band\u2019s seventh record, as \u201cpre-apocalyptic,\u201d which also feels like a fitting way to describe the various devastations and dark omens of 2018. How does a person keep on, knowing that the present path could very well end in ruin? 7<\/em> suggests lunging toward the unknown in the most glamorous way possible; it\u2019s the fuck-it spirit of Prince\u2019s 1999<\/em>, filtered through a throbbing synthesizer and played only at twilight, just as the temperature starts to dip and stars begin speckling the horizon. Aggressively layered synthesizers and guitars build a wall of sound that\u2019s both forceful and enveloping. Victoria Legrand\u2019s wispy-but-menacing vocals express some vague melancholy, but they\u2019re filled with hope, too\u2014nobody knows, after all, what might happen next, and in those dusky moments, anything is still possible. \u2013Amanda Petrusich<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> Beach House, \u201cDrunk in LA\u201d<\/p>\n

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\"Cardi<\/span><\/div>\n
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Atlantic<\/p>\n

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19.<\/div>\n

Cardi B: Invasion of Privacy<\/em><\/h2>\n

After breaking out last year with \u201cBodak Yellow,\u201d Cardi B had a lot to live up to. But with her debut album, Invasion of Privacy<\/em>, she didn\u2019t just meet expectations: She soared over them. The project cements her evolution from self-described \u201cstripper hoe\u201d to bonafide rap star, without losing any of the infectious personality that made\u00a0her a cultural beacon in the first place.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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The full complexity of her Cardi-ness is on display here. She teams up with fellow boss-bitch SZA on \u201cI Do,\u201d where she deploys brash one-liners about not needing a man for anything. She\u2019s just as charismatic while flashing her vulnerable side on \u201cBe Careful,\u201d when she warns a cheating partner that he\u2019s on his last strike, and spills out words of gratitude on the wholesome \u201cBest Life\u201d with Chance the Rapper. That sense of range also transfers to her exploration of genre, as she expertly flips between boogaloo-inspired Latin trap, Southern hip-hop twerk anthems, tender R&B jams, and neck-snapping freestyles. It\u2019s not so much a question\u00a0anymore\u00a0whether you like Cardi or not: it\u2019s which Cardi you like most. \u2013Michelle Kim<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> Cardi B, \u201cBe Careful\u201d<\/p>\n

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\"Sophie<\/span><\/div>\n
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Future Classic \/ Transgressive<\/p>\n

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18.<\/div>\n

SOPHIE: OIL OF EVERY PEARL\u2019s UN-INSIDES<\/em><\/h2>\n

Graduating from the glossy, cyborg music crafted with her PC Music collaborators to a dynamic world of lurching machinery, heavily distorted pop, and uncanny beauty, SOPHIE came into her own on her auspicious debut album. OIL OF EVERY PEARL\u2019s UN-INSIDES<\/em>\u00a0is a vivid artistic statement made by a musician finally prepared to step into the spotlight, a fact made manifest on opener \u201cIt\u2019s Okay to Cry.\u201d It finds SOPHIE singing her own lyrics for the first time, delicate yet unerringly passionate. Elsewhere, the record renders\u00a0SOPHIE\u2019s world in bold pops of color and mercurial transitions, from the serrated, post-club squeals of the dom-sub fantasy \u201cPonyboy\u201d and the beauty complex-defying \u201cFaceshopping\u201d to the stirring, stripped-back atmospherics of \u201cIs It Cold in the Water?\u201d\u00a0SOPHIE\u2019s willful deconstruction of self and form, tearing away at expectations and norms with cacophony and ambience alike, makes\u00a0OIL<\/em>\u00a0a startling, moving experience. \u2013Eric Torres<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> SOPHIE, \u201cIt\u2019s Okay to Cry\u201d<\/p>\n

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G. O. O. D. Music \/ Def Jam<\/p>\n

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17.<\/div>\n

Pusha T: Daytona<\/em><\/h2>\n

Pusha-T\u2019s long-awaited third solo album also happens to be the most accomplished release of Kanye West\u2019s high-concept 2018 albums series produced in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Across Daytona<\/em>\u2019s lean 21 minutes, Pusha\u2019s elocution-deliberate, quasi-malevolent midtempo flow jumps out of the speakers, offering up snarling lyrics about street life and clapbacks to Lil Wayne, Birdman, Harvey Weinstein, Donald Trump, and his nemesis, Drake. As producer, West serves up a seven-track array of finely diced \u2019n\u2019 sliced, gritty soul samples, showcasing head-bopping, hooky production on opener \u201cIf You Know You Know\u201d and chilling forlornness on \u201cSanteria,\u201d a track about Pusha\u2019s murdered road manager. Confident and flexing, Daytona<\/em> is Pusha-T\u2019s most compelling solo album; who says hip-hop MCs can\u2019t do their best work after age 40? \u2013Jason King<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Listen:<\/strong> Pusha-T, \u201cIf You Know You Know\u201d<\/p>\n

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Domino<\/p>\n

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16.<\/div>\n

Jon Hopkins: Singularity<\/em><\/h2>\n

Jon Hopkins is a master sound manipulator: a bass technician, a texture craftsman, and a pastoral abstractionist. Five years after the release of his breakthrough album,\u00a0Immunity<\/em>, the British producer returned with Singularity<\/em>, which further expands the scope of\u00a0his heady electronic compositions. Tracks like \u201cEmerald Rush\u201d and \u201cEverything Connected\u201d are designed to translate\u00a0in peak hours\u00a0at the club and in meditative headphone sessions alike; songs like \u201cEcho Dissolve\u201d and \u201cRecovery\u201d display Hopkins\u2019 penchant for raw piano, blending his performances with field recordings and digital noise.<\/p>\n

Within each song\u2014and the album as a whole\u2014Hopkins\u00a0paints enormous sonic cliffs and valleys worthy of the psychedelic California desert adventures that inspired the record. It\u2019s this understanding, combined with his\u00a0earnest quest for spiritual catharsis, that informs every sternum-rattling drop and wistful synthesizer expanse on Singularity<\/em>. Like all great producers,\u00a0he knows that a song\u2019s impact is only as great as its dynamic arc. \u2013Noah Yoo<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> Jon Hopkins, \u201cEmerald Rush\u201d<\/p>\n

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Self-released<\/p>\n

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15.<\/div>\n

Noname: Room 25<\/em><\/h2>\n

Room 25<\/em> is the soundtrack to Fatimah Warner coming into her own\u2014not just as an artist, but as an adult and self-actualized black woman. Within the 35 minutes of her second record as Noname, she gives us the full range of who she has become: a confident rapper, a passionate lover, a survivor of heartbreak, and a reluctant public figure.\u00a0On \u201cBlaxploitation,\u201d she expresses a consciousness of her blackness and its meaning in the world without veering into performative wokeness; her personhood isn\u2019t couched in bravado as much as\u00a0it is steeped in self-awareness. On \u201cDon\u2019t Forget About Me,\u201d she exposes her own hurt and insecurity while finding strength in vulnerability.<\/p>\n

The evolution of Noname\u2019s skills matches the evolution of her music itself. Words tumble, somersault, and stick landings in a style that owes its swagger to rap and its cadence to spoken-word poetry. The production straddles genre lines as well, with producer and multi-instrumentalist Phoelix providing sonic backdrops replete with live instrumentation that are part jazz, part neo-soul, and all grounded in hip-hop. If her 2016 mixtape\u00a0Telefone<\/em> was the introduction to Noname\u2019s talent, Room 25<\/em> is the proof that she\u2019s arrived. \u2013Timmhotep Aku<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Listen:<\/strong> Noname, \u201cBlaxploitation\u201d<\/p>\n

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Sacred Bones<\/p>\n

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14.<\/div>\n

Amen Dunes: Freedom<\/em><\/h2>\n

Freedom<\/em> is the first Amen Dunes album to feature Damon McMahon\u2019s face on the cover, his familiar frizzy curls shorn into a tidy buzz cut. It proves to be an unsubtle advertisement for the music contained within, as the Brooklyn singer-songwriter emerges from the psych-folk sprawl of 2014\u2019s Love<\/em> with a newfound clarity and concision; where he once let his voice drone and decay into the haze, McMahon delivers Freedom<\/em>\u2019s meditations on survival and faith with a confession-booth candor. But even as his songs adopt the ebullient rhythms of \u201980s Paul Simon and liberally quote Phil Collins hits, McMahon is still chasing transcendence through hypnotic, shape-shifting arrangements and wandering melodies that gradually become unglued from their established structures. \u201cWe play religious music\/Don\u2019t think you\u2019d understand, man,\u201d he sings atop\u00a0the ethereal funk of \u201cBlue Rose,\u201d but it proves to be less a word of warning than an invitation to get lost. Freedom<\/em> presents no less profound a spiritual journey than McMahon\u2019s previous work; he\u2019s just guiding us down a better lit, more smoothly paved path into the unknown. \u2013Stuart Berman<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> Amen Dunes, \u201cBlue Rose\u201d<\/p>\n

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\"TirzahDevotion\"<\/span><\/div>\n
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Domino<\/p>\n

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13.<\/div>\n

Tirzah: Devotion<\/em><\/h2>\n

Tirzah\u2019s debut EP, 2013\u2019s I\u2019m Not Dancing<\/em>, turns out to have been prophetically titled. Collaborating with her longtime friend Mica Levi\u2014the visionary, Oscar-nominated film score composer and Micachu and the Shapes mastermind\u2014the London singer-songwriter offered a rough-hewn take on dance-pop that the pair would sharpen on 2014\u2019s No Romance<\/em> EP. On Devotion<\/em>, Tirzah\u2019s debut full-length and latest team-up with Levi, she again pursues a sparse, sketch-like approach that is beautifully made, though not for the dancefloor.<\/p>\n

Turning away from club-ready UK grime and garage sounds, Devotion<\/em> redirects Tirzah\u2019s grainy vocals and Levi\u2019s destabilizing production into an extraordinary set of pared-down and scuffed-up R&B reflections on adult love. With its unvarnished loops and disarmingly blunt lyrics, Devotion<\/em> dreams up a unique space somewhere between the lo-fi cello epiphanies of Arthur Russell and the digital pop futurism of Kelela. The album varies impressively within its distinct niche, finding room for crunching distortion, sad-robot vocal textures, and gritty drum shards. Devotion<\/em> truly is like a prayer, a hushed offering from Tirzah\u2019s private world. \u2013Marc Hogan<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Listen:<\/strong> Tirzah, \u201cGladly\u201d<\/p>\n

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\"Image<\/span><\/div>\n
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Self-released<\/p>\n

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12.<\/div>\n

CupcakKe: Ephorize<\/em><\/h2>\n

As CupcakKe, Chicago rapper Elizabeth Eden Harris alchemizes high raunch and vigorous navel-gazing. On her third album, Ephorize<\/em>, her prickles have sharpened and her introspection has gotten more vivid: It\u2019s like watching a flowering cactus grow tall and bloom. Her songwriting is also at its most generous, attending to her own insecurities on \u201cSelf Interview\u201d and giving a messy group-hug to queerdom on \u201cCrayons.\u201d<\/p>\n

But it\u2019s not all wholesome, thank God: There is\u00a0sex aplenty on Ephorize<\/em>, and CupcakKe has not receded from her role as a character annihilator. She relishes in piercing hypocrisies, often to establish her standards. At her most low-voiced and vulnerable on \u201cTotal,\u201d CupcakKe starts examining mediocre relationships via their opportunity cost. \u201cPost Pic\u201d praises the timesaving joys of a sexting-only arrangement, with fun, gear-shifting swerves. The album\u2019s\u00a0standout, the magnificent \u201cDuck Duck Goose,\u201d is a playground of sloppy, bodily thrills. Ephorize<\/em> is busy and porny, but the deep current of the album asks us to be good to one another. We have time to treat each other well, Ephorize<\/em> tells us, and still make it to all our dick appointments. \u2013Maggie Lange<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> CupcakKe, \u201cDuck Duck Goose\u201d<\/p>\n

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\"Ariana<\/span><\/div>\n
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Republic<\/p>\n

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11.<\/div>\n

Ariana Grande: Sweetener<\/em><\/h2>\n

In some ways, big-budget pop was stuck in purgatory in 2018. Rap dominated the charts, and young guns like Troye Sivan, Billie Eilish, and Normani didn\u2019t cross the \u201chousehold name\u201d threshold; many of the heavyweights, the Katys and Rihannas and Biebers, didn\u2019t\u00a0do much.\u00a0And yet Ariana Grande fully ascended to\u00a0Mount Olympus\u00a0with Sweetener<\/em>, an album filled with barnburners but also tremendous personality and even pathos.<\/p>\n

There are so many moments of catchy ecstasy on Sweetener<\/em>, like the one-two punch of \u201ceverytime\u201d followed by \u201cbreathin.\u201d But beneath the soft edges and the streaming-friendly pop sheen, there\u2019s also a deep sense of grace, growth, and self-expression. What is it about the soaring quality of Grande\u2019s voice that sounds so much like eyes-closed, fists-clenched freedom? Between a terrorist bombing and breakups, here is a woman who has had a trying and, at times, terrifying few years; she puts it all in her music. \u201cno tears left to cry\u201d is a classic, convincing diva ode to resilience, and a song like \u201cpete davidson\u201d chronicles her personal life so closely, it\u2019s basically a chapter in her memoir. If Sweetener<\/em> was not quite enough to lift all of pop in 2018, it was\u2014for those of us who seek our own salvation within the genre\u2014a much-needed sugar rush. \u2013Alex Frank<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Listen:<\/strong> Ariana Grande, \u201cbreathin\u201d<\/p>\n

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\"Image<\/span><\/div>\n
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Warp<\/p>\n

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10.<\/div>\n

Yves Tumor: Safe in the Hands of Love<\/em><\/h2>\n

Listening to Safe in the Hands of Love<\/em> is like entering freefall. There are reference points, landmarks\u2014a snare drum, a funk bassline, a pop vocal\u2014but they whir past the ear. The drums tower over the mix; the bass fizzles; the vocal melodies tease but never coalesce into hooks. Samples begin midway through a note, as though someone has pressed play on a tape recorder a half-second too late. Where there should be the calming harmonies of a backup singer, anguished screams surface instead. Thorns choke the whole album.<\/p>\n

In Sean Bowie\u2019s third album as Yves Tumor, the experimental musician obscures the usual entryways to a pop song, demanding that the listener clear a new route. It\u2019s immediate and arresting work; plenty of music soothes pain, but little engages so directly with the mechanism of how the body responds to trauma, by assuming a new shape for survival. Safe in the Hands of Love<\/em> approaches this process with a stark, unflinching gaze, holding the promise of resilience in its chaotic, beautiful brutality. In a year when any given day could be a new opportunity to wake up and hurt, Safe in the Hands of Love<\/em> offered a disorienting form of reassurance. \u2013Sasha Geffen<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> Yves Tumor, \u201cLicking an Orchid\u201c [ft. James K]<\/p>\n

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\"Image<\/span><\/div>\n
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Self-released<\/p>\n

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9.<\/div>\n

Tierra Whack: Whack World<\/em><\/h2>\n

Fifteen\u00a0songs, 15 minutes: Tierra Whack did that. Whack World<\/em> is a surreal audio-visual album that reveals the vivid imagination of the Philadelphia-raised artist, jumping from ideas with the snap of a finger. In her debut record\u2019s short runtime, Whack explores the power of less as more, using every chance to land a new style, flow, or sound. She taps into her moody, sing-rap side on songs like \u201cFlea Market,\u201d then she gets on her Philly street-tale spitter tip\u00a0with \u201c4 Wings,\u201d then widens her sound entirely, floating\u00a0into the realm of current pop-rap radio stars on \u201cFruit Salad.\u201d The 15 minutes thing isn\u2019t a gimmick; it\u2019s Tierra cutting all the fat, getting straight to the point, and giving everyone the rare album that demands instant replay. \u2013Alphonse Pierre<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Listen:<\/strong> Tierra Whack, \u201cFruit Salad\u201d<\/p>\n

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\"Low<\/span><\/div>\n
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Sub Pop<\/p>\n

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8.<\/div>\n

Low: Double Negative<\/em><\/h2>\n

Twenty-five years ago, when blaring angst was in, Low emerged as part of the slowcore movement\u2014a group of bands who discovered untapped expressive possibilities in slowing down and dreaming away. The Duluth, Minnesota, outfit has continued to evolve unpredictably, delivering\u00a0a long string of thoughtful, progressively rewarding albums. With Double Negative<\/em>, their best work yet, Low once again rise above the cacophony by subverting it.<\/p>\n

In a year when all art could be mined for political subtext,\u00a0Double Negative<\/em> captured\u00a0its pervasive dread like nothing else. Digitally deconstructed with producer BJ Burton, the record\u2019s electronic noise attempts to strangle the human voice. Static prevails and flickering tones are almost untraceable to the instruments that made them. As austere as Double Negative<\/em> gets, the mournful harmonies of Mimi Parker and Alan Sparhawk keep it from ever seeming impenetrable. \u201cIt\u2019s not the end, just the end of hope,\u201d Sparhawk murmurs into the maelstrom. Call them slowcore if you must, but this is also pretty\u00a0hardcore. \u2013Marc Hogan<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> Low, \u201cDancing and Fire\u201d<\/p>\n

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\"Earl<\/span><\/div>\n
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Columbia \/ Tan Cressida<\/p>\n

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7.<\/div>\n

Earl Sweatshirt: Some Rap Songs<\/em><\/h2>\n

Earl Sweatshirt has a lot weighing on his mind, and Some Rap Songs<\/em> finds him wading through his thoughts.\u00a0In this self-exploration, the 24-year-old hip-hop veteran created the most\u00a0introspective record of his career to date, surveying the widening chasm between his spitfire youth and the family legacy he aspires to honor. This is roots music that repurposes sounds of the past (dusty vintage rap, African jazz, black American soul) in compact loops, influenced by a community of musicians that includes MIKE and Standing on the Corner, and inspired by his parents\u2014especially his late father, the celebrated poet and political activist Keorapetse Kgositsile.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Though primarily written and recorded before\u00a0his father\u2019s death in January, Some Rap Songs<\/em> is a profound and often pointed rumination on connection, and in turn a searing personal statement. Few rappers possess Earl\u2019s natural lyrical acumen, but even fewer possess the penetrating, perceptive gaze he has developed over time. Most rare are those who would use such insightfulness to work through their own issues. On \u201cPeanut\u201d\u2014half eulogy, half psyche autopsy\u2014he unscrambles the complex emotional brew that comes with mourning a distant parent\u00a0whom you barely knew. On \u201cNowhere2Go,\u201d he\u00a0burrows through depression and seeks fulfillment. As Earl considers his poetic birthright amid a tangled personal history, things start to come into focus, and he begins a healing process. \u2013Sheldon Pearce<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> Earl Sweatshirt, \u201cThe Mint\u201d [ft. Navy Blue]<\/p>\n

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\"Rosal\u00eda<\/span><\/div>\n
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Sony<\/p>\n

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6.<\/div>\n

Rosal\u00eda: El Mal Querer<\/em><\/h2>\n

The moment that Rosal\u00eda\u2019s \u201cMalamente (Cap.1: Augurio)\u201d hit YouTube in May, it was clear that the young Spanish singer had struck upon something startlingly new. Where her largely acoustic 2017 album Los \u00c1ngeles<\/em> had rendered flamenco tradition with skeletal brushstrokes, \u201cMalamente\u201d blew it up into widescreen HD and juiced it with THX-caliber bass.\u00a0Co-produced by Pablo Diaz-Reixa, aka El Guincho,\u00a0El Mal Querer<\/em> makes thrillingly good on that single\u2019s promise and the subsequent one, \u201cPienso en Tu Mir\u00e1 (Cap.3: Celos),\u201d flipping lightning-fast guitar runs and flickering castanets into hypnotic electronic fusions\u00a0with unfamiliar scales that only add to their otherworldly qualities. To say the record plays up the tension between tradition and rupture would be an understatement: In \u201cDe Aqu\u00ed No Sales (Cap.4: Disputa),\u201d revving motorcycle engines are deployed as percussive accents over haunting a cappella fragments based on centuries-old folkloric melodies. At the center of it all is Rosal\u00eda\u2019s showstopper of a voice. Whether breathy or belting, she\u2019s as commanding a presence as Spanish-language pop has encountered in ages\u2014less an ambassador for flamenco than the inventor of her own fascinating hybrid. \u2013Philip Sherburne<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Listen:<\/strong> Rosal\u00eda, \u201cPienso en Tu Mir\u00e1 (Cap.3: Celos)\u201d<\/p>\n

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\"Snail<\/span><\/div>\n
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Matador<\/p>\n

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5.<\/div>\n

Snail Mail: Lush<\/em><\/h2>\n

There were few moments in music as clear-eyed, emotionally courageous, and resonant this year as Snail Mail\u2019s Lindsey Jordan calmly asking the love of her life, \u201cDon\u2019t you like me for me?\/Is there any better feeling than coming clean?\u201d As the guitars swirled around Jordan like comet trails, her gaze felt like it was fixed directly on you. The song\u2019s name was the song\u2019s feeling: \u201cPristine.\u201d Listening to it felt like staring into the bottom of a riverbed and being able to count every pebble.<\/p>\n

Incredibly, the album enfolding \u201cPristine\u201d contains at least four or five other moments as sharp, poignant, and honest. Anyone with a lifelong codependent relationship to indie rock will sense the echoes stirred by Jordan\u2019s sour-apple guitars, the muted arrangements, and rich, conversational vocals: Pavement, the Spinanes, Liz Phair, Sebadoh, Hope Sandoval. But those references are just murmurs beneath the surface: It\u2019s Jordan\u00a0who demands your attention. Time and again, she approaches the chorus of her slow-burn rock songs like the kicker to the heartrending speech you never quite managed to give to your unrequited adolescent love: \u201cAnd did things work out for you\/Or are you still not sure what that means?\u201d she asks on \u201cStick.\u201d \u201cI hope whoever it is holds their breath around you\/Because I know I did,\u201d she declares on \u201cHeat Wave.\u201d Over and over on Lush<\/em>, Jordan\u2019s heart pumps out like a reservoir, carrying us all aloft with it. \u2013Jayson Greene<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> Snail Mail, \u201cPristine\u201d<\/p>\n

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\"Robyn<\/span><\/div>\n
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Konichiwa<\/p>\n

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4.<\/div>\n

Robyn: Honey<\/em><\/h2>\n

Robyn\u2019s first album in eight long years reveals how she spent at least part of that time: drifting away from and then back to her longtime beau. Honoring the arc of\u00a0that heartbreak, the songs on Honey<\/em> are presented in the order in which they were written. The record\u2019s first half\u2014its strongest run of songs\u2014is heaviest in theme, yet Robyn\u2019s musical touch is deft. A deceptive slice of disco cheesecake, \u201cBecause It\u2019s in the Music\u201d cuts to the core of why heartbroken people need music to survive, and how those same sounds betray us with every nostalgic rewind. You can almost envision Robyn playing the same song on repeat all night before waking up to write \u201cBaby Forgive Me,\u201d a light-touch house\u00a0ode subtly built up by syncopated drums, reverent organ, and the faint cheers of a crowd.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Honey<\/em> then abruptly shifts in tone. In the record\u2019s big diva-house vocal moment, \u201cSend to Robin Immediately,\u201d she turns what might sound like an ultimatum into a rallying cry for staying true to oneself: \u201cIf you\u2019ve got something to say, say it right away.\u201d With these words, Robyn sets Honey<\/em> free from her own sorrow and regret. She reaps the benefits immediately on the glorious title track, in which nearly every musical line sounds like it is panting. The possibilities rise alongside the BPMs, percussion galloping like the racing hearts of lovers entwined in rediscovery. By the closing credits of \u201cEver Again,\u201d with a funk-lite band in tow, Robyn declares a ban on loneliness. Her happy ending is the faith that love can endure, and the\u00a0knowledge that\u00a0she will survive no matter what. \u2013Jillian Mapes<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> Robyn, \u201cSend to Robin Immediately\u201d<\/p>\n

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\"Image<\/span><\/div>\n
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Pampa<\/p>\n

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3.<\/div>\n

DJ Koze: Knock Knock<\/em><\/h2>\n

Many voices float through Knock Knock<\/em>, like spirits. One of them is the sampled croak of what sounds like a thousand-year-old man. He talks about his kinship with music\u2014how he sells it, listens to it, and plays it during most of his waking hours. In a metaphysical flourish, the old-timer boasts, \u201cLook at my teeth: You see music on it.\u201d The line is a joke, but he means it\u2014and it\u2019s easy to think of this mysterious guru as an avatar for DJ Koze himself. The German DJ, producer, and label owner has spent the last few decades cultivating a parallel musical universe, one based on a collector\u2019s knowledge and a sense of play, where the histories of dance music and hip-hop and psychedelia are all pulled together by the same gravitational force. In this utopia, Knock Knock<\/em>, a life\u2019s work, plays on a continuous loop, and no one tires of it.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Koze created much of the album in a remote Spanish village, a locale that he has described as \u201ctotally different from the desperate big city, where you try to make cool music.\u201d The isolation plays out in Knock Knock<\/em>\u2019s bespoke frequencies: Each synth wobble is crafted with a watchmaker\u2019s care, every snare hit manicured for maximum swing. And Koze has no truck with of-the-moment trends. The record\u2019s featured vocalists\u2014including Swedish folkie Jos\u00e9 Gonz\u00e1lez, Speech from the \u201990s rap group Arrested Development, and modern dancefloor diva R\u00f3is\u00edn Murphy\u2014are surprising and varied, the product of admiration rather than any type of algorithmic cross-referencing. So we get what could be a lost Van Morrison classic alongside an impossibly soulful Old Kanye-type beat alongside techno built for flying cars, everything holding everything else up. There are no barriers between genres, eras, origins\u2014only freedom. \u2013Ryan Dombal<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> DJ Koze, \u201cIllumination\u201c [ft. R\u00f3is\u00edn Murphy]<\/p>\n

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\"Kacey<\/span><\/div>\n
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MCA Nashville<\/p>\n

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2.<\/div>\n

Kacey Musgraves: Golden Hour<\/em><\/h2>\n

\u201cAre we here just once or a billion times?\u201d Kacey Musgraves asks on \u201cOh, What a World.\u201d She wishes she knew but knows it also doesn\u2019t matter: Who needs wholesale reincarnation when new love offers daily rebirths? Especially the kind that give renewed inquiry to questions that were once the preserve of stoners. Musgraves\u2019 first two major albums concentrated on small-town existence, a lens that yielded slightly smaller returns by 2015\u2019s Pageant Material<\/em>. Golden Hour<\/em>\u2019s focus is existential: The newlywed\u00a0singer-songwriter is learning to savor time, and to let it pass.<\/p>\n

Her inviting outlook is wrought through the record: softly strummed acoustic guitars that blur into sepia haze; boundless pedal steel as conduit for eternity, communing so effortlessly with touches of space-age funk that you wonder why nobody ever did it before. The latter provides one of Golden Hour<\/em>\u2019s most touching moments:\u00a0On \u201cOh, What a World,\u201d a robotic voice marvels at\u00a0its surroundings and worries about how little time\u00a0it has left\u2014immortal, unfeeling machinery having a Pinocchio moment. Golden Hour<\/em> is filled with these awed revelations, undercut with enough anxiety\u2014and, more than once, snappy in-the-pocket disco\u2014to keep Musgraves from floating off into a fever dream. Her wit isn\u2019t diminished, but she\u2019s less interested in scathing portraits or barbed payoffs than she once was. \u201cAnd I think we\u2019ve seen enough, seen enough\/To know that you ain\u2019t ever gonna come down,\u201d she\u00a0muses on one such dancefloor burner, \u201cHigh Horse.\u201d As ever, Musgraves\u00a0sings\u00a0about drinking, smoking, and acid, but her most prized high on this gorgeous album is rising above it all to see life in a different light. \u2013Laura Snapes<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Listen:<\/strong> Kacey Musgraves, \u201cOh, What a World\u201d<\/p>\n

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\"Mitski<\/span><\/div>\n
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Dead Oceans<\/p>\n

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1.<\/div>\n

Mitski: Be the Cowboy<\/em><\/h2>\n

At high noon, in the Wild West of our collective imagination, America began to romanticize the wrong kind of power. The cowboy strolled in\u2014spraying bullets down Main Street, burning saloons to cinders\u2014and his reckless bravado became something to be admired, not scorned. But in a year\u00a0likewise full of ugly, macho confrontations shot from the hip, Mitski Miyawaki reclaimed the gunslinger\u2019s confidence for herself. Channeling brash new characters on her fifth album, she embraced the opposite of her experiences, and the gambit paid off: This is Mitski\u2019s most triumphant record to date, a refining of her many strengths, splashed across the largest canvas her arms can carry.<\/p>\n

Mitski\u2019s familiar charms\u2014scrappy guitars, cutting observations, nervy synths\u2014return as conduits for deeper intimacies and grand declarations. Be the Cowboy<\/em> finds her ready for the arena, with nimble, airtight songs full of broad pop choruses and big, irrepressible emotions presented as candidly as dry-cleaning receipts. Even in her 10-gallon hat, she fixes her gaze on universal torments: loneliness, devotion, wistfulness, defiance. With \u201cNobody,\u201d her disco-piano romp of a single, Mitski turns the song\u2019s title into the biggest sing-along of her career, those three syllables locking in all the lint of isolation: the despair, the self-loathing, the cruel and ever-dwindling hope for pardon. In \u201cA Pearl,\u201d she wails and pounds the crumbling walls of a toxic relationship, papering over the pain with power-ballad feedback, her lithe vocals carrying a wisp of forsaken echo.<\/p>\n

Mitski sets her credo on\u00a0\u201cGeyser,\u201d\u00a0Cowboy<\/em>\u2019s stunning opener. She weaponizes passionate, tenacious intensity\u2014something women can be shamed for, particularly in non-Western cultures\u2014and celebrates herself for it. In a Broadway belt, she cries of her desire, \u201cFeel it bubbling from below\/Hear it call, hear it call,\u201d as wind-whipped guitars crest below. In the past, Mitski has never shown an interest in playing a role, whether that of the submissive Asian-American stereotype or the rebuker of such fetishism. Adopting hotshot narrators on Cowboy<\/em> becomes even more significant in this context; in doing so, she\u2019s said, she found the\u00a0inverse of her apologetic experiences as a Japanese-American woman, and the empowerment ripples outward. Her character work is also a rebellion against the \u201cconfessional\u201d pejorative foisted onto so many female singer-songwriters, the idea that women must be helplessly spilling these disclosures instead of savvily employing them. All of this makes her defiance even more liberating to hear. It\u2019s good to have Mitski firing back for all of us; it\u2019s even better to hear this true original growing into her limitless future. \u2013Stacey Anderson<\/p>\n

Listen:<\/strong> Mitski, \u201cGeyser\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/article>\n

Source URL: https:\/\/pitchfork.com\/features\/lists-and-guides\/the-50-best-albums-of-2018\/<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Lists & Guides The 50 Best Albums of 2018 From Snail Mail to CupcakKe, Earl Sweatshirt to Jon Hopkins, these are the very best albums of the year By Pitchfork December 11, 2018 Mitski photo by Savanna Ruedy, Earl Sweatshirt photo by Steven Taylor, Snail Mail photo by Sisilia Piring, Playboi Carti photo by Robert […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[2],"tags":[54],"class_list":["post-1254350","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-politics","tag-pitchfork-com"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/analyse.optim.biz\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1254350","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/analyse.optim.biz\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/analyse.optim.biz\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/analyse.optim.biz\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/analyse.optim.biz\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1254350"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/analyse.optim.biz\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1254350\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/analyse.optim.biz\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1254350"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/analyse.optim.biz\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=1254350"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/analyse.optim.biz\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=1254350"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}