And it’s pretty clearly a project, not a record, something Kendrick has just experimented with. It’s jazzier than TPAB, and more free-form with its ideas too. It’s also riskier, often more flawed, clearly unsure even of its own edits. Untitled 7 feels like four songs instead of one. Untitled 3 and untitled 8, already performed on late-night TV, differ from their televised versions in significant ways, but also lose much of their urgency and immediacy on record.

That’s not to say the album is a mixed bag: when Kendrick is on fire, he’s on fire. Untitled 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 8 are all stunning, and they have enough depth that I suspect we’ll be talking about them for the rest to come. Kendrick struggles with his faith in God and in America, but also continues to struggle to rectify his experiences in Africa with the “first-world” problems of North America.

Untitled 3 also sees him exploring the expectations of people around him, particularly noting that the “white man” wants more success before it will reward him, going so far as to argue that they’d rather have him compromise and make more money for them than keep his artistic integrity.

Lyrically, Kendrick is still at the top of the game. Musically too, the album is less concerned with the thematic rigidity that accompanies a 60-minute-plus tour-de-force like To Pimp a Butterfly and takes more time to explore. Some moments are pure jazz, and some feel like old-school Kendrick. Jazz solos and twiddling positively abound here, and if ever there was a record where we could compare Kendrick to old-school Roots, this is probably it.

It’s hard to say if the album is a bunch of leftover tracks from TPAB, as Lamar suggests on Twitter. They sound more recent, and reference many of TPAB’s accolades, so it’s not likely that they’re B-sides. They also don’t sound unfinished. Like the rest of Kendrick’s tracks, these beg repeated listening. They carry depth. They’re not throw-aways, and they’re thematically complete and socially relevant. The album’s marketing is deceiving.

As a result, untitled unmastered. raises a lot more questions than it answers. It’s clear that untitled isn’t meant to follow up Butterfly, and that a full follow-up will come later, but then how do we evaluate untitled? If it’s not an album, and it’s not a mixtape, what is it?

untitled feels like Kendrick is playing with the act of releasing an album as an experiment, acknowledging that it’s coming out with warts and all. It’s a reflection of our social media times, maybe, but it’s also a reflection of the way music recording and distribution is changing.

There’s a moment on untitled 7 where Kendrick says the track is “15 minutes long” before picking up an acoustic guitar and nodding. As he strums a few chords, he spends a little bit of time noodling and making jokes, much to the joy of the others in the room. But if it wasn’t clear before, it’s made absolutely clear here: this record isn’t meant to be taken too seriously. It’s dark and it’s often thought-provoking, but this isn’t a full statement. It’s a thought, a brief letter, a social media update from Kendrick letting us know he’s still around and he’s got more to say.

It’s telling, then, that even when Kendrick isn’t trying to be at the top of his game, that he’s still at the top of his class and one of the best rappers out there. I suspect we’ll still be talking about untitled unmastered. at the end of the year, and like To Pimp a Butterfly, this project’s shape will shift and change with the times.

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Ritchie wants you to know that he’s the real deal. The actor, known better for playing Grey Worm in Game of Thrones, comes out of the gate strong, clearly with something to prove. Werld Is Mine grabs you and doesn’t let you go, and every track from that moment on feels like gravy.

It’d be easy to write about every song and simply say that they’re great, good, or wonderfully ambitious despite their failures. Jumping from bass-ridden back beats to orchestral symphonies backing him up, Ritchie is comfortable singing, rapping, or doing both at the same time.

More impressive is how open the album is: Ritchie is candid about everything from depression to problems with his therapist (Never Better), and struggles with his young adulthood on record for all of us to hear. In I Can Change, an early standout, he sings about his insecurities during the chorus and raps about his misdemeanours of youth during the verse, all overtop of a smooth R&B beat. (Young & Stupid explore similar problems). And it’s rare that two songs sound alike (compare Cowards to the others referenced as another example).

Raleigh Ritchie is clearly overflowing with ideas.

The biggest success of You’re a Man Now, Boy is how Ritchie manages to make all of these ideas as a cohesive whole — even when they don’t always work as well. Despite the occasional odd moment or misplaced beat, the album always remains approachable.

The album’s second-biggest success is that Raleigh Ritchie never feels like Jacob Andersen, successful television actor. It feels like a friend, going through some of the same struggles you are, sharing them with you. You’re a Man Now, Boy feels like a voyeuristic peek at Ritchie’s diary.

Raleigh Ritchie’s debut is a hook-laden, genre-bending trip down urban streets with a friend. It’s relatable. It’s catchy. It’s the rare debut that feels like it’s coming from an artist you’ve known for years.

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But of course, that’d be underselling it.

While a lot of their style doesn’t necessarily sound as original now, that’s because they were ahead of the curve in 2013. Their two-part harmonies (which get particularly inventive in Nomads) feel country-influenced, with an air of originality that their peers lack. And songs like Fleshy Bones feel more like Dirty Projectors b-sides than they do Said the Whale.

The first time I heard HIGHS, they reminded me of We Are the City’s debut record, Violent. I did some digging and found out that the two bands toured together for years and are good friends, which makes perfect sense — because of course they are. Their styles are similar: there’s a clear disinterest in status quo and doing what other bands are doing in the genre, and a willingness to experiment a little.

What makes HIGHS interesting is the level of complexity they bring to their music. Unlike many of their contemporaries, they’re not writing pop-punk songs disguised as alternative indie. They’re writing songs with intricate structures, changing tempos, wildly varying energies, and vocal structures that are all divine.

It’s a totally different approach to indie pop: you can’t turn on this record and leave it on in the background and remain undisturbed. The record is a challenging, rewarding listen that feels absolutely vital.

I, for one, cannot wait for HIGHS’ official debut.

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In that context, Bullion’s debut record isn’t too different: He experiments with loops and structures and variations in each track. What makes him different from those older artists is that he’s focusing on making 1980s-style experimental pop.

Where his predecessors (and many of his peers) are focused on either synthetic, but warm, pop music, like Sylvan Esso, or working on instrumental electronic music that feels more like experiments or projects than cohesive statements (like Tycho), Bullion is a breath of fresh air. He’s not afraid to sing on tracks, and while nobody would compare him to MJ, he’s actually not a bad singer. Songs like Self Capering or Get To The Heart Of It are quite listenable, and the vocal production is buttery smooth to the point where it’s nearly soothing.

He’s also not interested in sounding completely textural. Sylvan Esso and Made of Oak are leading a charge in organic-sounding electronic music, and Bullion isn’t afraid to sound like a different era. Instead of masking them as synth-pop, the electronic sounds in Loop the Loop are obvious.

Part of that feels thematic: as 1980s pop records sound like stripped down, basic affairs compared to the monolithic productions we have today, Bullion feels purposefully stripped back to the basics. It lets Loop the Loop thrive based on songwriting prowess alone.

Bullion’s debut isn’t always perfect — a couple oddly paced moments and poorly written verses mar an otherwise well-paced record — but Loop the Loop shines as a great example of somebody trying to find their sense of individuality in a polluted genre. And since Nathan Jenkins’ style is hard to peg down into a single trend, Loop the Loops is a huge amount of fun.

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So Boucher put Grimes on hold for a little while to come up with new material. When the material did flow, it really flowed: there were over 100 songs written for Art Angels, most of which I don’t think we’ll ever hear — and Boucher has made it clear that these tracks are all part of Grimes records we wouldn’t be interested in anyway.

The result of all this writing, re-writing, and experimentation is Art Angels: a celebration of pop set against Grimes’ hallmark sunny sounds and weirdness. The opening three tracks are worth listening to as examples: an instrumental opener that’s simply bizarre leads into the radio-friendly California before the whole thing explodes into the decidedly not-for-radio Scream.

Those three tracks serve as a wonderful synopsis of the record: pop tracks like Belly of the Beat sit against oddities like Kill V. Maim (which might be the record’s best track), often dwelling in some sort of strange tension that makes the entire record feel oddly balanced in its leanings.

Despite these seemingly opposing directions — one experimental, and one radio-friendly — Grimes is able to hold it all together with uncompromising focus and unbridled imagination. Ultimately, the album feels like it’s two steps ahead of everybody else: pop music that’s laser-focused on experimenting with form and style, often to the point of flying off the tracks, all while remaining accessible.

It’s a miracle that these songs are accessible at all, though. Grimes isn’t writing love songs: on Kill V. Maim, she sings “I’m only a man; I do what I can,” words that feel completely defiant to the male-driven institution that is pop music. Throughout the record, Grimes practically screams for her freedom as an artist, experimenting with post-electronic noises and genre-pushing ideas that are more like middle fingers than love letters.

The consequence of all this is that it feels like Boucher is entirely avoiding anything personal with Grimes. There’s a sense of detachment throughout the record: it’s massively ambitious, but it’s also clearly a performance. Boucher isn’t involved on as personal of a level. While the vision is entirely hers, the world feels like a meticulously crafted production of her Grimes alter ego.

It begs the question: can pop music, in its truest form, be more personal? Or does it require detachment? Is Grimes answering the question, or has Boucher merely discovered that Grimes is at the unique intersection of performance and experimentation that allows her to drag a genre forward at the expense of herself?

Regardless of the answer, Art Angels is one of 2015’s strongest records, and a glimpse into the future of pop in an age where anything is possible.

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Their second record, the ridiculously-titled I like it when you sleep, for you are so beautiful yet so unaware of it carries in much the same vein. With a total disregard for expectations, this won’t convert any new fans, but it does see the band successfully honing their sound and exploring new things. Love Me hits you with an urgency the band didn’t have on their self-titled debut, but still sounds distinctly like The 1975.

Much of that exploration isn’t as successful as the band would like it to be. Four long ambient tracks don’t help the album’s already-long running time (if you thought the title was long, wait until you listen to the record). But the record feels positively alive because the songs are so much fun, despite their sometimes-unwelcome ambition.

That ambition is all over the record, though. The band stretches themselves the way Radiohead might, but they’re dressed in unconventional pop music instead of rock. It’s messy and sometimes confused — not unlike their debut.

This is a band seemingly undeterred by their own ridiculousness, though: they embrace it. On tracks like The Ballad of Me and My Brain, Loving Someone, or If I Believe You, the band plays with multiple sounds and lyrics that would sound ridiculous if you read them on paper. Healy gives them an air of dreamy confidence that gives the band legitimacy and credence.

Also notable about The 1975 is their total lack of guitar tracks: there are few bands in rock and roll who actively avoid the electric guitar. While it often makes The 1975 feel like a boy band, we’re all going to look back differently on them as a 2010s-style version of The Cure, throwing out emotional radio-ready tunes in a style of rock that preys on everything popular in an attempt to avoid becoming singularly identifiable. In that sense, the band avoids the macho posturing that often comes with rock music and embraces a sense of optimism and vision that separates them from the rest of their peers. In other words: The 1975 doesn’t pander to their audience.

For better or for worse, The 1975 are here to stay. I like it when you sleep is unconventional, daring, absurd, and ridiculous, but you’ll want to love it despite all that.

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But an incredible amount of artists did have something new to say. Some of them challenged us. Some of them broke our hearts. Some of them made us feel good. The best of them are gathered here for your perusal. Cheers to 2015, and here’s to the year to come.

Leon Bridges

Coming Home

Coming Home is a record that should have existed in the 1960s. Leon Bridges is performing music that intersects perfectly with soul and R&B and gospel music. Who knew that this nostalgic sound could be so formidable in 2015?

What Bridges lacks in originality — even Bridges would say he owes Sam Cooke a beer — it makes up for with songwriting and smooth style. Leon Bridges’ debut is a comeback record for 1960s R&B/soul, but it’s also a hugely compelling charmer that makes Bridges feel like one of the most exciting soul performers of his generation — despite his retro leanings.

Read our review | Listen: Amazon / Apple Music / iTunes / Spotify

Girlpool

Before the World Was Big

Girlpool’s charming folk-influenced pop music feels startlingly original while remaining clearly influenced by greats like Velvet Underground. At just twenty-five minutes, Before the World Was Big feels like a giant tease, as if the band is still warming up to something bigger.

But they never break free of their simple guitar riffs and dual harmonies. In spite of that, the record holds some sort of mysterious raw power and energy to it: when Cleo Tucker and Harmony Tividad sing together, it doesn’t matter whether they’re intentionally ironically stripping away both folk and punk at the same time. The two of them have the emotional weight of an eighteen-wheeler. The rest of it is just candy.

Read our review | Listen: Amazon / Apple Music / iTunes / Spotify

HOLYCHILD

The Shape of Brat Pop to Come

HOLYCHILD came out of nowhere and claimed to invent a new genre of pop music. While that’s not necessarily the case, the band sounds amazing and has a ton of momentum going for them. This duo is politically aware and socially conscious, with lyrics that read more like scathing indictments of the genre than they do pop songs.

Almost every track on Brat Pop is insanely catchy, and the biting tone — one that is both sarcastic and glaringly truthful — doesn’t spare anybody in its path. HOLYCHILD’s debut was glossed over by mainstream publications last year, but it’s a record you shouldn’t miss.

Read our review | Listen: Amazon / Apple Music / iTunes / Spotify

Petite Noir

La Vie Est Belle / Life Is Beautiful

South African Yannick Ilunga doesn’t care about your conception of pop music. His experimental electronic pop dares to be completely different and sounds entirely new. While he’s not necessarily have writing tracks you can dance to, his 80s-influenced, genre-mashing take on the genre feels like something straight out of the future and completely ahead of its time.

La Vie Est Belle (Life Is Beautiful) feels like a near-perfect record that dares to dream. It’s music that doesn’t believe in the boundaries of genre, and in the process of defying convention while remaining deeply rooted in what’s come before, Petite Noir’s debut earns respect and commands attention.

Read our review | Listen: Amazon / Apple Music / iTunes / Spotify

Kamasi Washington

The Epic

The Epic is authentic jazz. For a brief moment in time, Kamasi Washington was “that guy who played on Kendrick’s new record”. Immediately after The Epic dropped, he became the jazz aficionado who appeared out of nowhere, dropping what may be one of the genre’s masterpieces as a debut.

The Epic is remarkably unhinged. Just shy of three hours long, Washington somehow keeps his jazz music accessible despite his monolithic-sized ideas. It’s the product of a virtuoso clearly obsessed with defying expectations of critics and the culture surrounding jazz, and it’s hard to say that any other record in the genre has commanded as much attention in the past year.

Read our review | Listen: Amazon / Apple Music / iTunes / Spotify

Raury

All We Need

All We Need establishes nineteen-year-old Raury Tullis as a voice to be reckoned with in modern hip hop music. With influences that range from Kid Cudi and Kanye West to Marvin Gaye, Father John Misty, and Bon Iver, he’s also got an incredibly compelling and eclectic sound that separates him from many of his peers.

This sound feels nearly perfectly-honed on All We Need, an immense debut that surprises — particularly because of his age. The genre-jumping album is comfortable with melancholy, comfortable with doling out wisdom, and dealing with doling out the unexpected. He’s the opposite of cynical, and that makes his record one of hip hop’s best in a very strong year.

Read our review | Listen: Amazon / Apple Music / iTunes / Spotify

Alabama Shakes

Sound & Color

Sound & Color feels more varied than its predecessor, with Alabama Shakes spreading their wings on their sophomore effort and beginning to welcome their inner weird. While their first album was incredibly strong, Sound & Color reveals that the band has much more to say. Sound & Color is, as the title alludes, as much about texture as it is about the album’s pure unhinged sonic qualities.

Most importantly, though, Alabama Shakes avoids the sophomore slump with their expanded palette and collection of new sounds. With some of the most beautiful songs put on record in 2015, and a smattering of fantastic singles, Sound & Color makes a strong statement that Alabama Shakes is at the top of their game.

Listen: Amazon / Apple Music / iTunes / Spotify

Sleater-Kinney

No Cities to Love

Sleater-Kinney’s first record in ten years is one of 2015’s best. The rock band’s comeback is more a statement that urges and commands our attention, nearly staccato with intensely brief three-minute tracks that sound more punk than they do rock ’n roll.

It’s easy to forget that the women in Sleater-Kinney are some of rock’s elder states-women when it sounds like the band still has so much to say. As political as ever, No Cities to Love carries a sense of urgency in its riffs that would make Dave Grohl jealous. While the trio was nothing to scoff at before, their new album is undoubtedly their best work: an absolute celebration of a band aging well and perhaps finally at their best.

Read our review | Listen: Amazon / Apple Music / iTunes / Spotify

Grimes

Art Angels

Claire Boucher said she wrote hundreds of songs for Art Angels, but ended up scrapping most of them. What’s left behind are fourteen perfectly-polished alt-pop tracks that are somehow radio-friendly without ever pandering to her audience. As Grimes, Boucher grabs the pop wheel and — instead of re-inventing things that are never broken — just takes the whole convertible off-roading.

Art Angels is fearless and incredibly ambitious as a result, broad and friendly while remaining singularly weird and individual. Refusing to be white-washed into everybody else’s definition of pop songwriting, Claire Boucher instead made a visionary and uncompromising pop record that the genres’ fans and detractors can listen to with pride.

Read our review | Listen: Amazon / Apple Music / iTunes / Spotify

Sufjan Stevens

Carrie & Lowell

Sufjan Stevens isn’t know for his predictability. He’s leaped from one genre to the next, even making multiple Christmas albums, but Carrie & Lowell feels like a return to his original form as a lo-fi singer/songwriter. As Sufjan charts the life and death of his mother, as well as reflect on his own complicated feelings about her, it strikes not with grand musical statements, but with a series of small, gut-wrenching emotional moments.

Carrie & Lowell is perhaps the epitome of Sufjan Stevens’ sound, stripped back to its most basic and essential. As a result, in a career with seemingly one golden album after another, it could be the best record he’s ever made.

Listen: Amazon / Apple Music / iTunes / Spotify

Father John Misty

I Love You, Honeybear

Josh Tillman’s sophomore effort as Father John Misty, he continues to demonstrate his outstanding songwriting ability. Better than his solo debut by any reviewer’s metric, I Love You, Honeybear feels challenging and rewarding without losing any of its approachability. Lush and complex soundscapes are perfectly produced, revealing the mastery Tillman has over his genre at this point in his career.

There’s a lot to take apart with the album, but it’s Tillman’s lyrical approach that truly sets it apart. Most of the album explores the relationship he has with his wife, and he’s at turns loving and cynical about their time together and their future. The fascination of I Love You, Honeybear is trying to decode the way Tillman sings about his wife and their life together into something understandable and comfortable — because the staggering openness that Tillman presents as Father John Misty feels nearly voyeuristic.

Read our review | Listen: Amazon / Apple Music / iTunes / Spotify

Kendrick Lamar

To Pimp a Butterfly

It wasn’t surprising that Kendrick’s latest record was good; it was largely expected to be an excellent record from one of hip hop’s brightest stars. But the level of intelligence and thought surrounding the album, the provocative way that Lamar literally takes it to the White House, took us all by surprise.

To Pimp a Butterfly is an album that shines because of Lamar’s singular skill as a lyricist and a storyteller. Music aside — and the backing music on TPAB is worth deeper discussion in and of itself — the record shines because Kendrick shines behind the mic. More than the best record of the year, it feels like an important moment in pop culture.

Read our review | Listen: Amazon / Apple Music / iTunes / Spotify

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This Unruly Mess I’ve Made lives up to its name. It’s a total mess of an album, completely inconsistent from beginning to end, uneven from one track to the next, and with Macklemore completely unsure of what he has to say. Its most standout tracks are flawed, with choruses and verses that feel forced together. Macklemore himself struggles for half the album to stay on beat. If great art feels effortless, This Unruly Mess I’ve Made feels like hard work.

But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t talk about it.

On This Unruly Mess I’ve Made, Macklemore is working through heady stuff. He’s a famous white man performing in a genre marginalized by white media because its most acclaimed performers are black. He’s struggling as a man who didn’t want the fame if it meant he couldn’t be true to himself. And (as usual) he’s working through what it means to be a voice for people with addiction issues when he’s still tempted himself.

Thanks to a seemingly constant barrage of accolades for being a “conscious” rapper and a self-aware recovering addict, Macklemore has bravely taken on the chance to be a voice for everybody who doesn’t have one, whether that means he’s talking about drugs or the Black Lives Matter movement. He’s working through all this in real time, on a record for all of us to hear and dissect. It’s a good time to discuss his position, wrap our minds around his message.

And to be clear, there’s nothing wrong with what he’s trying to say. We need to talk about marginalization. But more importantly, we need to listen to the marginalized. And this is what Macklemore robs us of.

There’s a scene in the film Dope where the main character, a black male in his senior year of high school, is asked if he listens to Macklemore. His reaction comes quickly and doesn’t mince words: “I would never listen to Macklemore.”

The movie plays it for jokes, which means that there is a truth we all find funny in that moment. Of course a young black male wouldn’t listen to Macklemore, because he doesn’t really speak for them, as much as he’d like to.

Macklemore is in an awkward position: until his Grammy win against Kendrick Lamar for Best Rap Album, he seemed like an obvious game-changer in modern hip hop. His album, Heist, was largely fantastic — thanks to Macklemore’s fiery performance and tackling of any issue. It all worked.

Until it didn’t.

After his Grammy win, there was a palpable sense that the scene was turning against him. Macklemore seemed to realize it too, sending Kendrick Lamar an apology text saying he “robbed” Lamar of his Grammy. His newly elevated position instantly incriminated his record, which worked as a proud work from an independent and little-known artist. Tracks like Jimmy Iovine or Make the Money don’t work as well when you’re suddenly a rich white man asking questions about your own validity in your genre.

What’s left for Macklemore to say? Who’s left for him to represent? More importantly, what is his responsibility as a popular artist?

Nobody seems to be able to explain why the tide turned against Macklemore, though, apart from saying it had to do with the way we often reject popular culture in an attempt to find and identify something new. I think it goes much deeper than that.

Macklemore is trapped in a semiotic cycle that it’s doubtful he can escape from: as a signifier, he represents white culture attempting to understand “blackness” from a distance. He’s a mirror of the common white person, which makes us uncomfortable: he doesn’t know what to do about his neighbours, and instead of listening to them, he talks about being involved with them on a protest level in tracks like the muddled White Privilege II. As a white man in hip hop, he’s confused being in it with being of it.

I can’t explain with any degree of accuracy why my black friends aren’t interested in Macklemore. Arguably, it’s because he’s not representing them. He doesn’t represent that culture, or their values, or their struggles, even though he openly wonders if he should. That he even asks the question is disconcerting.

As a conscious rapper, he doesn’t represent the poor anymore either. With his money and resources, he’s not fighting against anything other than his own privilege. He doesn’t have to struggle. Tracks like Thrift Shop are absurd when the verses are rapped by a millionaire.

In an intro to This Unruly Mess on Medium, Macklemore says: “I was too comfortable. Being comfortable is what kills artists… I didn’t know what I wanted to say. Didn’t know how the ink would stick to the page.” Macklemore is wrestling with the same questions we are: what’s left for him to say? Who’s left for him to represent? More importantly, what is his responsibility as a popular artist? He has a huge platform, and it makes sense that he uses it to try to get people to talk and think.

The best tracks on Macklemore’s records aren’t the major singles like Downtown (which makes the rapper sound like an uncool poseur), or White Privilege II, which simply sounds like a misguided attempt to understand what his peers are going through. Contrarily, the best tracks are his personal odes like Kevin, St. Ides, or Need to Know. With nothing left in society that he can be authentic about, his most earnest tracks are the ones where Macklemore struggles with his own issues.

That still leaves us with the rest of the record, though. Perhaps it’s telling that many of these tracks don’t have us discussing the social issues at hand. Last year. To Pimp a Butterfly had us all thinking about Ferguson and the Black Lives Matter movement. This year, Macklemore has us all talking about himself and his place in all of it.

It’s the ultimate misuse of his own platform. It’s hard to blame Macklemore for it, but the laws of semiotics dictate that when he has nothing left to represent, the only thing he can point to is himself. It makes him feel hypocritical at worst and confused at best, despite his sincerity as a lyricist and his authenticity as a rapper. But the real problem here isn’t Macklemore: it’s that we’re all too busy talking about him and missing the real discussions he’s trying — but failing — to have with us.

This Unruly Mess I’ve Made is out now, and you can purchase it from iTunes or Amazon and stream it on Apple Music or Spotify.

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