Despite that, and perhaps because of my comically low expectations, Air for Free surprised me. It’s a true follow-up to their 2009 record Forget and Not Slow Down, which was a post-breakup album of the first order. If Forget was a record about letting go, Air for Free is a record about growing up. I haven’t stopped playing it all week.

Stylistically, Air for Free is similar to Forget — poppy tunes that have little to do with the band’s punk origins abound. But the songwriting is as good as it’s ever been, and there are hints of that ska formula left over that remain a ton of fun. “Elephant Parade” has some of the horns ska was known for during its chorus.

Songs like “Mrs. Hippopotamuses’” have that classic Relient K vibe to them too — along with the sense of humour and melodrama that the band is so well known for. “Cat” carries on that tradition as well. And on “Mountaintop,” the band feels like they’ve found their creative mojo again, with the whole band in perfect skip-step form.

As usual, though, the meatiest tracks on Air for Free are the ones where singer Matt Thiessen becomes more introspective. “Man” sounds like the theme song on the record, in which he ruminates on his past mistakes and poor life choices and sings in the chorus that “it’s time to be man.” It carries both nostalgia and the pangs of facing adulthood.

On “God” and “Prodigal,” which both sound U2-inspired, Thiessen admits to his belief in God and his struggles with his faith. They almost bookend each other on the record and, for fans, I suspect they’ll be among the album’s high points. When Thiessen sings, “I am the champion of wine; You’re the bread on my tongue. I am the last one in line — the prodigal son,” it feels like the culmination of everything the band has been struggling to say for over ten years.

If the album has any weak point, it’s that too much of it sounds canned in the studio. “Empty House,” which relies on autotune, is a black eye on the record; Thiessen can sing and it’s disappointing when his voice is relegated to the side for the sake of a poorly-used effect.

Yet those moments are few and far between. By and large, Relient K’s eighth album feels like an oddly self-aware and cogent album for a band that’s been around as long as they have. For the first time since the band was putting out joke-heavy Christmas records in 2007, it feels like Relient K is having fun again. And it’s been too long.

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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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