With Drunk, Thundercat gets a little more real even as his music gets a bit more cerebral. True to the album’s name, the music is self-deprecating, anxious, spaced out, and hilarious — often during the same song.

“A Fan’s Mail” sees Thundercat dreaming about turning into a cat (and literally meowing about it). “Uh Uh” has some unreal bass lines that feel like the product of Nintendo and cosmic drugs. “Walk On By”, which features Kendrick Lamar, sounds like it belongs on To Pimp a Butterfly. But “Show You the Way”, the preceding track, is a soft rock track that features both Michael McDonald and Kenny Loggins.

Despite their myriad of differences, these songs are united by their common love of jazz and jazzy experimentation. Make no mistake, even when he’s experimenting with synths and pop beats on album standout “Friend Zone”, Thundercat is channeling his favourite jazz icons.

All of this makes Thundercat’s latest record as hard to classify as always. But one thing is certain: Drunk is certainly more upbeat than Thundercat’s last record, The Beyond / Where Giants Roam. While They Beyond dealt with death and transcendence, and what happens in “the beyond” after our lives are over, Drunk seems to embrace our morbidity in life and celebrate it (with a healthy dose of partying and drinking). Hence the title.

In a lot of ways, Drunk feels like a reaction to 2016. The songs aren’t all politically charged, but there are many that deal with being black. Thundercat’s take on this is racially charged, of course, but also lyrically ironic (which isn’t surprising). But on the flip side of that, Thundercat’s leaving his wallet at the club and getting drunk and friend zoned as he tries to sort out the mess that is life.

It all feels like a poor way or dealing with stress — which maybe we can all relate to, at least a little bit.

In it all of its idiosyncrasies, Drunk feels like Thundercat being his most relatable — even if it is drowning in experimentation. It’s a can’t-miss record that celebrates life and runs away from it, often in the same breath.

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But to ignore Knxwledge, whose name is a big part of the NxWorries title, would be a major mistake. His production serves as the vehicle that .Paak hasn’t had yet in the hip hop world.

In short, Knxwledge is the reason that .Paak is about to explode from being an R&B saviour to a hip hop king.

It’s not that .Paak can rap (although he demonstrates some tenacity in that regard). It’s more that the beats on display here owe more to hip hop than most of the production on .Paak’s last record did.

This makes for a beautiful record. For .Paak, it’s jubilant. His voice is impressive throughout, but he’s clearly having a ton of fun. Tracks like “Livvin” and “Get Better/Do U Luv” have qualities to them that wouldn’t have existed on Malibu, the .Paak record that came out in February. .Paak knows he’s rising in the ranks.

Knxwledge has found a natural complement to his rhythms and beats. His beats haven’t flowed this well or felt this natural in a long time. The vocals lend them some charm, even when they feel too old-school or offbeat for their own good (pardon the pun).

There have been a few people who have compared the partnership to Dilla and Madlib. To me, it’s more directly related to the partnership between Madlib and MF Doom that resulted in Madvillainy. (Coincidentally, or perhaps not, Yes Lawd! was released on the same label as Madvillainy was.) These are two seemingly disparate voices who are able to come together and create something better as a whole than they are apart.

With all that being said, the question I’m left with isn’t whether or not Yes Lawd! is a great album. It’s an impeccably made, joyful record. It’s the record you make when you know you’ve finally “made it.”

No, the question I have is this: is Yes Lawd! the best Anderson .Paak record of the year? Malibu, I think, edges it out only a little bit. But the fact that it’s such a close contest is a remarkable testament to both Knxwledge and .Paak.

Clearly, .Paak has arrived. With Yes Lawd!, he continues to surprise. Knxwledge’s role in the record is the cherry on top of the cake.

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For Solange, this groovy combination of R&B, pop, funk, and hip hop nearly outgrows her sister Beyoncé’s shadow. There are songs on here that will go down as some of the year’s best: “Cranes in the Sky”, “Mad” (which might be the best track Lil Wayne’s ever been on), and “Don’t Touch My Hair” — the album’s standout by far.

These songs are about being black, to be sure. After all, this is 2016. After To Pimp A Butterfly, it feels like every record from a figure in the black community is a statement about black realities. But more importantly, A Seat at the Table is about being a woman.

Because its tracks are mixed with spoken word interludes from important men and women in Solange’s life, A Seat at the Table feels authentic. This is a coming of age record that’s about being a woman, but it’s also about being Solange. While the record isn’t as incendiary as Lemonade, the songwriting here is intimate and the production is warm enough that it feels like Solange is sharing this with you in hopes you’ll empathize with her.

That’s what makes so many of these songs — even less noted tracks like “Where Do We Go” — work so well. I’m a white guy from Canada; I don’t know anything about the world Solange sings about. I can never claim to have recognized it. But A Seat at the Table makes me feel like I’ve experienced it, and I empathize with the plight of black womanhood in America in 2016.

“I’m weary of the ways of the world,” Solange sings on “Weary”. “Be weary of the ways of the world.” On my second play through of A Seat at the Table, I find myself nodding along. I empathize, but I’m also convicted in this. As a white man, I am part of the problem. Can I be part of the solution?

A Seat at the Table is a powerful record. I believe, and hope, it can create dialogue like this in our communities. So yes, this is Solange’s best record. She’s finally come into her own. The music is beautiful and her style is just right. She’s not trying to imitate anybody else (or if she is, she’s hiding it well). It’s a great record.

But it doesn’t matter that this is her best record. None of that matters. Solange wants our attention, and she’s got something to say. It’s time to listen.

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I always felt that Zaba was the first record in its post-rock style to challenge Alt-J’s dominance in this ill-defined genre. On How to be a Human Being, Glass Animals surpass Alt-J to become, in my mind, one of the most inventive post-rock, alt-electronic groups out there.

How to Be a Human Being begs the question: How does one classify music like this? The pop structures, rock energy, and electronic sounds create a bizarre — but appealing — mix that seems eminently malleable and mineable for a new generation of musicians. How to Be a Human Being is a record of constant imagination.

Even people who don’t like Glass Animals couldn’t accuse them of being unoriginal. Every track on the record sounds different — compare “Pork Soda” to “Take a Slice”, for example. The band rarely, if ever, repeats themselves.

How to Be a Human Being has hints of everything from Justin Timberlake (“Season 2 Episode 3”) to blues rock (“Poplar St.”). It’s one of the most diverse records of the year. It’s a record that’s a result of touring, and all the new life experience that entails.

But at the same time as the band is rapidly — and aggressively — expanding their sound, they’re also doing something unexpected. How to Be a Human Being strips back the production slightly, dressing down the tracks compared to Zaba.

It’s a subtle effect, but it works nonetheless: despite Glass Animals’ continued experimentation, it never feels like they’re anything less than approachable.

To be clear: the production doesn’t sound bad, not even remotely. It’s still a well-made, well-executed record. But the production allows Glass Animals to make experimental, unusual music without ever sacrificing its listen-ability.

All that being said, it’s hard to discuss How to Be a Human Being right now. It’s the musical equivalent of The Empire Strikes Back: a sequel whose language is so different from what came before that it will take time to judge and understand it properly. I imagine we won’t fully understand the magnitude of this record until we can judge it within the full spectrum of Glass Animals’ complete discography.

That’s a good thing. The Empire Strikes Back was panned when it was released, but now many regard it as one of the best films ever made. Clearly, How to Be a Human Being is a tremendous record. It has the all the feelings of a masterpiece. But I don’t know if it’s a masterpiece yet. It’s too early to call it. (If it’s not a masterpiece, then it’s certainly evidence that Glass Animals is capable of making one.)

For the time being, How to Be a Human Being is an impeccable record. It demands your attention, and your repeated listening. And I can’t wait to talk about it a decade from now.

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But it’s more than the sensational songwriting and her velvety voice that makes NAO’s debut stand out from the rest of the pack. Her approach to R&B is so different from that of her contemporaries that it’s hard to ignore.

Hailing from the UK, where most of her peers are aiming for the sound du jour of minimalistic R&B, NAO’s style is densely layered and sonically maximal. She doesn’t bother with stripping back; instead, it feels like she throws every one of her ideas at the record and only removes them if they don’t stick.

That’s evident even in her vocal stylings: as a trained jazz singer, NAO brings a vocal sensibility to the genre that feels more like the complex pop attitude of Janet Jackson crossed with the deep soul of Aretha Franklin. She brings jazz’s off-beat melodies and accents, but hits those beats with her voice instead of a saxophone. It’s incredibly effective.

It raises multiple questions, but the most important of them is about labelling the record. Is it fair to call For All We Know R&B when it’s so deeply rooted in jazz and soul as well? I’d argue that it is — as often as the rules of the genre are broken, they’re also embraced.

What’s most powerful, I think, is the way that NAO removes the autobiographical element of so many current R&B records, and replaces them with massive female-driven moments of power. Clearly taking inspiration from women like Beyoncé, there are moments throughout the record when For All We Know feels more like a call to feminism and self-respect than it does anything else.

If NAO’s debut has any problems, though, it’s the sheer length of the record. It’s not that the songs are bad; it’s that many of the fine songs (like “Adore You”) are outpaced by the magic of tracks like “Fool to Love”, “Girlfriend” and “In the Morning” (a personal favourite of mine). It’s a long record that could have been improved by NAO making some choices on the editing floor (although what she could have cut, I don’t know).

With all that being said, NAO’s debut record is interesting because it has the dramatic length and pacing — as well as story-telling capability — of 90s hip-hop. But it’s also got the technique of jazz, the trappings of R&B, and the impossible-to-ignore sympathies of great soul. All guided by NAO’s sensational voice.

It’s hard not to recommend NAO as one of the year’s standout records in any genre. Unlike her peers in R&B, NAO isn’t going for minimalism. She’s gunning for stardom, and with massive talent and equally massive hooks, it’s going to be hard for her to miss.

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The lyrics here are romantic and smooth, echoing the best of what soul and R&B has to offer. Almost every song feels like something that would work well on a classy date night. It feels all too rare that a good album with an air of romance comes out, and this is one of them.

The duo that makes this work is neo-soul singer Eric Roberson and rapper Phonte. It’s a surprisingly potent mix: while the backing tracks are decidedly R&B, Roberson is able to elevate his parts to feel like soul. Phonte’s raps make the album feel like classic hip hop, but he’s never abrasive. His vocals are as smooth as Roberson’s.

It’s astonishing how well these two voices work together. You needn’t look further than the first track, “It’s so Easy.” The second verse sees the duo swapping vocal parts, with Roberson rhythmically singing his part and Phonte joining in halfway through. When they swap, you might not even notice it because it’s so smooth.

It’s not a trick that gets old. “My Kinda Lady” has a similar feel, with the swap handled well. It’s a poor word because it’s so vague, but “classy” is the only word I have to describe music like this. It’s clear that Roberson and Phonte have a rapport here, and that the two have left their egos at the door.

Some tracks, like “My Kinda Lady” and “It’s so Easy” feel led by Roberson, but others swap the roles. I love “Lie to Me,” which feels like a Phonte-led track despite Roberson’s heavy presence. On others, they share the lead: “Grow This Love” features Phonte carrying the chorus’s backbone while Roberson sings the lead. It makes the duo sound bigger than they are.

Roberson’s vocals largely dominate the record, which is an important note because it speaks to what Tigallero is supposed to be: a modern neo-soul record with elements of hip hop. Fans of Phonte might find him under-utilized, but it feels like the record has exactly enough of him.

For me, Tigallero is a breath of fresh air: it’s got the soul of a vintage R&B record, but the modern approach of two masters at the top of their game. It’s fresh, despite some of the trappings of yesteryear, and the vocal performances are fantastic. More than once, Tigallero reminded me of a classier Justin Timberlake at his prime (and I mean that in the most complimentary way possible).

Compared to some of this year’s other standout releases, Tigallero’s release is rather quiet. But the songwriting is quality, and the performances are excellent. Phonte & Roberson call Tigallero a “project,” which implies — at least to me — that this could be a one-off record.

I hope that’s not the case, because this is the sort of collaboration that I’d like to see continue. Both artists leave their egos at the door and focus on putting out great, fresh music. It’s the rare musical partnership that works because the artists complement each other — it’s not a competition. And I’ve lot to hear more from them.

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“Living in that 80s song,” he half-raps, half-sings, in what sounds like a drug-induced state. His music captures nostalgia for a period his target demographic was never alive in, mixing R&B with hip hop in a way not dissimilar from Drake — but with a lot more soul.

That soul emphasis is what separates Berhana from all the Drake soundalikes who are veering away from auto-tune and towards R&B’s smooth rhythms and flows. It’s like Berhana spent a lot of time absorbing Drake and Chance the Rapper’s understanding of the world, and channeled that style intro a fresh take on his favourite genre: soul.

Berhana sounds like he’s been educated in soul music his whole life. “You used to love me; I used to love you,” he crones on “Janet.” It’s a stand-out track — because it’s both steeped in soul’s mythology and drenched in an 80s vibe that’s incredibly believable. The woman Berhana idolizes could very well be Janet Jackson or Janet Hubert — we don’t know, and we don’t need to know, because there’s an emotional connection to the referenced time period that’s authentic either way. (To be frank, he uses Fresh Prince clips throughout, so I’m pretty sure it’s an ode to Janet Hubert, but the point is that it doesn’t matter because he’s harnessing nostalgia to make us feel something.)

In short, Berhana’s stylings and ethos are familiar, but more effective, than many of his peers.

But then there’s that production: it’s incredible. Something about Berhana’s debut feels magical, from the opening moment to the album’s closing. “Brooklyn Drugs” opens with what I think might be a gunshot, which catches me off guard every time, but when the music finally comes, the synth sounds perfect and the kick is meticulous.

The slick production and fresh mix of emotionalism and nostalgia make Berhana’s EP far more effective than it has any right to be. The six tracks don’t overstay their welcome — and while I wonder how well-paced his eventual full-length record might be, Berhana’s debut EP stands out from the rest of the pack. It’s a fine first release from an artist I’m looking forward to hearing more from in the future.

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Hearing the admission was unsettling for those of us who kept up with the show (or the criminal case), but hearing it on a pop record feels all the more disturbing.

That’s not to say that Shura’s music is disturbing. Most of it feels like it straddles the line between modern pop and throwback electronica-influenced work. Take “Nothing’s Real,” which is the first “real” track on the record after the introduction. With a bass line that feels like it’s walking, the chorus feels influenced by the 1980s — Jackson in particular. But the chorus, and Shura’s vocal approach, is thoroughly locked into the 21st century. The bass line is overwhelmed by synth, and Shura’s vocal work builds into an emphatic, almost shouted final line.

Her vocal performance betrays the fact, though, that this album would have fit right in amongst the women making music in the ’80s. Even tracks like Touch fit right in to that decade. The album imbibes vibes from that era without ever sounding anything less than modern and twenty-first century, which is a feat in and of itself, but perhaps more impressive is Shura.

For a debut album, Shura sounds remarkably self-assured — even if she doesn’t trust herself or her emotions anymore, as the title of the record (and the content of the songs) suggests. For her, the record is her way of announcing liberation from her emotions during a particularly difficult time in the hospital. She’s a free woman, one bound to struggle with the difficulties of liberation — as she openly does throughout the record — but one who’s striving to become fully self-aware. “2Shy” is the embodiment of the entire record, the moment where it comes together thematically.

Within that framework, Nothing’s Real is the definition of what a good debut should be: Shura is sure of what she is, but grappling with the details. As her skills become more honed, I look forward to even more records in the future.

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Every track stands out, and it’s hard to pick favourites. It feels wrong to pick favourites when the album references some of the events that have shaken America over the past year. Hands Up is a clear reference to Trayvon Martin’s killing. Throughout the record, Dev Hynes (the man behind Blood Orange) shares his thoughts on blackness, the hood, and whether or not black people should wear hoods when they walk the streets.

It’s a powerful record. “Are you okay?” Hynes asks on the afore-mentioned Hands Up. The answer seems obvious. At the end of Thank You, a brief vocal moment says: “Let me tell you what it’s all about. A skin not considered equal. A meteor has more right than my people.” It hits hard.

At other times, it’s clear that Hynes is writing music for affected black women. The intro track captures a powerful vocal performance from a black woman trying to understand how to respect herself, how to understand who she is. These moments pop up on occasion throughout the record, and it’s clear that Hynes frequently for women.

I was thinking about it and wondering why he did that, and found myself wondering if approaching blackness from a woman’s perspective allows him to embrace the vulnerability his music requires. Whatever the reason, it’s a powerful approach that works and elevates his music to another level of sophistication and intelligence.

The music is great, too: But You and Desirée are two of my favourite tracks, even though they feel like they take inspiration from totally different parts of music’s sphere. Juice 1–4 has a tone that feels almost tropical in nature. Best to You’s vocal acrobatics is a phenomenal exercise in pop styling. Augustine is a great first single.

But despite juggling all these musical influences, every track comes out the other end feeling decidedly like a Blood Orange sound. Freetown Sound is music you make when you’re confident in yourself as an artist, aware of your place and your style, and willing to give your record a meaning and texture.

I don’t know where Freetown Sound lands among the year’s best records yet, but I have a feeling it might be near the top when the year is said and done. It’s certainly one of the year’s most important, especially given the tragic and horrific events of the past week.

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Take Not My Real Life, for example: mixing jazz and electronics with an Alt-J-inspired guitar riff yields a brilliant opening riff and movement that kicks off the song into a high-energy territory, despite the fact that almost all of the band’s competitors have veered off into lazy lethargy at this point.

It’s also a great comparison back to Radiohead: this is clearly a rock track, imbued with all sorts of other genres and surprising in influences that take the song in unusual directions.

If the rest of the alt-electronic, contemporary R&B genre is becoming a glorified echo chamber, Polyenso is a fresh take on it. The vocal work throughout is stupendous, but unlike their competitors, Polyenso never get stuck in a rut and focus on the vocals exclusively. They always serve the songs.

It’s this sort of exploration that litters the album. /// (A Pool Worth Diving In) has all the hallmarks of the prototypical contemporary R&B song, but it’s secondary influences — like jazz and trip hop — elevate the song to a new level that’s beyond what one might typically associate with the genre.

I’ll circle it back to Radiohead one last time, because /// (A Pool Worth Diving In) captures exactly what made Kid A so great in its bridge: Polyenso uses vocals as another instrument, hitting each note quickly with the force of staccato, repeating them until the singer is nearly breathless. It’s a beautiful moment that, at least for me, serves as the high point of the song.

As a sophomore album, Pure in the Plastic is anything but a slump. It’s clearly the band’s superior record; they’ve come into their own. But it’s also significant for the genre. It’s rare that it feels like there’s space for another band in a well-established, typical genre, but Polyenso has earned themselves a seat at the table. I hope everybody else takes notice. From my understanding, the lead single is I.W.W.I.T.I.W.

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