Human is such a different album that Rag’N’Bone Man almost needs a new name. (His earlier work, particularly Disfigured, suited it much better).

But all that withstanding, this new style suits Rory Graham so much better that it’s hard to complain. From the opening (titular) track, Graham totally dominates Human. In fact, his old style was so dominating musically that I had no idea Graham was this good of a singer!

Nearly every track is worth writing about. The afore-mentioned title track is a stunning opener that capitalizes on everything that Human is about: swaggering bass lines, blues influence, and a huge pop sheen overtop of everything. “Bitter End” is a track that simmers thanks to an incredible performance from Graham. “Be the Man” is incredibly pop-heavy, but Graham’s baritone voice carries it through the entire song.

There are some songs that are particularly strong. “Love You Any Less” is a song that will no doubt capture the radio the same way Sam Smith does. It’s an incredible, raw performance from Graham overtop of a remarkably bare backing track that lets his voice breathe.

“Die Easy” is an a cappella performance that simply captivates. There’s nobody with a voice like Graham’s on the market.

Even his older tracks, like “Wolves”, are given a bit of a sheen make-over here that put an extra focus on Graham’s voice. But “Wolves” doesn’t sit as well with this new, cotton candy style that Graham’s performing as now.

And the occasional track features a hip hop performance, which is something that Graham was doing in 2014 too (with a Vince Staples nod then). But these days, it doesn’t sit as well.

When the old Rag’n’Bone Man collides with the new one, there’s a slight disconnect.

But despite that, the debut record from one of the most intimidating voices in neo-blues is an astounding effort, and one that I’ve been listening to again and again over the past week. It’s easy to get into, and it sticks in your head. Rag’n’Bone Man is one of the most promising new performers of the past five years.

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“Church on Sunday”, the album’s first track, offers a sound that feels more like the rest of the record. Grace’s Amy Winehouse-inspired vocal moments shine here, revealing the new singer’s prowess, natural ability, and ambition. It’s also a catchy track.

Grace Sewell’s first record is impressive — and not the least because she’s only nineteen years old. In a lot of ways, it’s a reminder of Adelle’s earliest records (made when she was also nineteen): the inspirations are clear, but so is Grace’s future as an individual. “Hell of a Girl” is familiar, but its bridge dares to become something else. “Hope You Understand” is mixes soul, pop, and R&B influences with aplomb, but Grace’s voice is singular here.

Similarly, I’ve heard music like “Coffee” before — the coffeehouse song from so many aspiring musicians. But Grace’s effortless performance and ability to subtly build vocal elements throughout the track speaks wonders about a future where she’s less constrained by the music she’s grown up with and becomes an identity to herself. These tracks all hint at it.

But most importantly, Grace’s debut is effortless. Like Adelle and Winehouse, Grace makes it sound so easy — as if it’s easy for her. Tracks that rely almost entirely on vocal tricks — like “New Orleans” — sound as if Grace could sing them in her sleep.

As a result, FMA becomes magical. It’s an album most vocal performers dream of — a debut that captures the magic of youth and raw inspiration and influence as it’s all mixing in a bottle. Without a doubt, FMA is the beginning of something special.

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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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Malibu is smooth R&B all the way down, but it also defies categorization thanks to its hip hop guests and jazz affectations. The Waters is a fantastic example of this leaning: Paak doesn’t sing his way through, but instead raps through verses and has BJ the Chicago Kid guest. Unlike most rappers, Paak’s voice constantly feels like he’s singing, but this is most certainly rap — even if it’s accompanied by a backing choir singing the verse with him.

Songs like Put Me Thru feel like more traditional R&B, as does album opener The Bird, which is nearly Isaac Hayes-like. But immediately following it is a track featuring Schoolboy Q, which features Paak crooning and bringing the soul and Schoolboy Q bringing chorus-laden rap verses. (While we’re on the topic of Am I Wrong, I wouldn’t say every experiment on Malibu is wildly successful.)

In that sense, I can understand the comparison that Pitchfork makes with Malibu and Kendrick’s work, but in reality, Paak feels much more like BJ the Chicago Kid in his willingness to try new things and experiment. (Malibu and Butterfly do make very complementary records, though.)

Some tracks on Malibu are more successful than others, and reveal what Dre may have been mentoring Paak on with production and songwriting. Without You is wonderful, and Rhapsody’s vocal work pairs well with the laid-back R&B on hand here.

This constant blending and mixture that Paak is so expertly talented at makes Malibu feel like a multifaceted and multi-layered mystery. Anderson Paak is avoiding categorization, and aware enough of roots that he can embrace the familiar while combining a multitude of influences and experiences into something that feels like the future of multiple genres.

With the release of Malibu, it’s clear that Dre doesn’t necessarily feel he’s found a great emcee. It’s more like he’s found an equally talented songwriter and producer who can carry on his work when he retires. Paak is more than willing to carry that torch, and if Malibu is a chance for him to celebrate that accomplishment, it’s also a statement that he’s here to stay — and we ought to be grateful for that.

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BJ grew up singing in church choirs, and his past piousness comes into stark conflict with his sexual temptations. On Church, he sings about being conflicted between a desire to drink, do drugs, and have sex with a woman on a Saturday night despite having to go to church in the morning. On In My Mind, BJ is aware of God, but he never postures as a Christian.

And this vibe continues throughout the album: as BJ croons over hip hop-influenced beats and advances the R&B genre along the way, he also sticks his toes into lyrical waters that musicians like Marvin Gaye have already waded through. Of course, popular single The New Cupid (featuring a great cameo from Kendrick Lamar and a fantastic spoken word sample at the end) is a perfect example: love is hard, lust is easier, but love is worth it.

And that’s exactly the point: BJ the Chicago Kid wants you to know he’s not just in it for sex. On Woman’s World and Jeremiah/The World Needs More Love (my personal favourite cut from the album), BJ the Chicago Kid belts his heart about some capital-L love. For BJ, sex isn’t the point, because without love we’re missing out. In our modern hook up culture, BJ is challenging us to rethink our lifestyles and think differently.

On Jeremiah/The World Needs More Love, he explains that “love burns real deep”, and adds, “Just in case you were wondering what Jeremiah I’m speaking of: not the singer, but the prophet from the Bible. Called to be a prophet at a young age, it calls fear in his heart to speak what the Lord gave him to say. But God told him, you’re not a boy, you’re a prophet. So pretty much fear not, you know what I mean? So whatever he had to say from that day, the feeling he had then, I have right now.”

There is a sense that BJ has something important to say, both personally and musically. He knows it, and when you’re done listening to In My Mind, you know it too. In My Mind is a tremendous statement that asserts that BJ is here, and he’s here to stay. It’s also a promise, though, that BJ has more to share with us — and it feels like his most important message has yet to be sung.

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