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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A critique aims to consider the art’s merits, but it also wants to consider its place in the wider scope of form. In the case of music, a proper critical review should discuss the meaning of the music, and its relevance to either an artist’s oeuvre or general society.

There are occasions, though, when critical thinking is pointless because, well, nobody cares — and it’s irrelevant. Michael Bay movies (Transformers), Dan Brown novels (The Da Vinci Code), or Pokémon video games come to mind.

But today I’m adding Lisa LeBlanc’s name to that list.

Why You Wanna Leave, Runaway Queen? is an insanely fun album that I can’t possibly critique. I don’t know how to describe the magic spell it puts on me, but its delightful mix of Americana, old-school rock ‘n’ roll, and garage rock attitude hits me right where it hurts.

The truth is right in the track names. “I Love You, I Don’t Love You, I Don’t Know” is delivered with all the panache you’d expect. “Could You Wait ’Til I’ve Had My Coffee?” is basically a constant barrage of delightful rock attitude. And yes, the country-style cover of “Ace of Spades” is perfect — and Lisa LeBlanc’s voice is amazing.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t talk a bit about her voice. LeBlanc is an excellent singer with the room-filling power of Metallica’s James Hetfield, and all the lazy attitude of Lou Reed in his prime. Her punk-y voice is a delightful antecedent to her music, which is often twangy and country-like — even if she doesn’t fully embrace the genre.

It’s hard to categorize LeBlanc’s style, actually. Most people consider her folk, but she’s the first to acknowledge her rock and metal roots. She’s dubbed her music “folk trash”, which I don’t think fits her — but it does get the point across.

Her quieter tracks (which are rarer), like “5748 km”, are more apt to fit that term. But those quiet tracks are rare. Songs like “Dead Man’s Flats” seem quiet, but are insistent on their astounding breakneck paces. Others, like “(Self-Proclaimed) Voodoo Women” start slow, but develop roaring rock personalities in their latter halves. (These tracks aren’t unlike the epic metal tracks that doubtlessly inspired them.)

The point of all this is that it’s hard to call Lisa LeBlanc folk rock. She’s dangerously close to post-punk, or garage rock — if she’s not there already. And as her band gets louder, so does her sound.

If anything, Why You Wanna Leave, Runaway Queen? demonstrates LeBlanc’s completed transition from “folk trash” to “rock ‘n’ roll diva.” It’s not going to light the world on fire for its social commentary, but it’s immune to these criticisms because LeBlanc’s music is just so much darned fun. It makes you want to air guitar, dance, bang your head around, and cheer.

If you’re looking for a record that does that — a record that knows how to have fun and reinterpret the attitudes of the past with new sounds — look no further than Why You Wanna Leave, Runaway Queen?. A rollicking, rocking success by any measure.

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The Easy Truth is the first time the two rappers have collaborated together. It’s an interesting mix that won’t be obvious until you listen to it, but putting these two together to rap over vintage, often piano-laced beats is a stroke of genius.

Brown’s beats are sensationally old-school. There’s no other way to put it: if you’re looking for old school rap, there’s no better record this year. There are obvious similarities between the beats Brown makes and the ones Kanye was making for Common fifteen years ago.

Tracks like “Jordans & a Gold Chain” even feature Nina Simone-style samples reminiscent of “Diamonds Are Forever”, but with a strong dash of morose sentiment. Apollo isn’t making a “happy” hip hop record. As often as we long for the golden days of hip hop, he’s preserving them with the knowledge that things haven’t improved.

If anything, the Brown and Skyzoo are interested in talking about how the music, the culture, and the realities of blackness in America is getting worse. That either sits well with you or makes you giggle. It mostly makes me giggle — nothing is static in life, and the record’s longing for the “golden days” of hip hop feels a little silly. But it doesn’t ruin the music: as much as it’s about hip hop, it’s also a discussion about the way the black community has frayed over the past decade and a half. Or perhaps how things have mostly stayed the same.

On the first track (“One in the Same”), Skyzoo raps about avoiding the back of a cop car growing up. It sounds like a challenge. Sadly, things haven’t changed. And at that moment, that’s the point: things haven’t changed for black people, particularly our black youth.

On the flip side, Skyzoo brings incredibly flow and poetry to the game on The Easy Truth. There’s a clear emphasis in the mix — and in the styling — on his vocal performance, and it doesn’t disappoint. Maybe it’s the melancholic beats, but Skyzoo’s performance is elevated throughout to become something truly special.

And that’s the saddest part of The Easy Truth: it’s a tremendous record, made by two brilliant minds who play well together. But it doesn’t feel of this time. It feels very much of a time, but that time was over a decade ago.

If I’m being honest, I love that sound. I love the ’90s hip hop sound. But I don’t love it in the nostalgic sense. I just love how inventive it is within its own constraints. The Easy Truth feels inventive, even if it is an echo — and that’s what matters the most.

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That’s the most stunning part of Tycho: the largely synth-heavy work is exquisitely detailed and layered, but it expresses visuals the same way the soundtrack for Stranger Things does.

Because it’s synth-heavy, many people call Tycho background noise. I don’t think the music has ever been purely background noise. It’s layered sounds and intricate mixing — as well as Hansen’s attention to detail — demand closer listening. That’s truer than ever on Epoch.

Epoch is a harsher record than Dive or Awake, but not in a negative fashion. The album is more percussive. “Horizon” has a stronger backbeat than any of the previous work, and the synth elements take on a more drum-like intensity.

None of that is to say that the music is darker or more sinister than it used to be. Tracks like “Receiver” are familiar and pleasant — and there are many songs like it throughout the record. But Epoch does feel more percussive overall.

Scott Hansen’s work continues to stand out and succeed because of its optimism. Unlike so many of his contemporaries, Hansen’s vision of the world is uplifting and positive. His music feels like a positive force in the world. While it occupies the same mental space as Trent Reznor’s instrumental work, it occupies an entirely different emotional space.

Because Epoch carries this same tradition, there isn’t a noticeable slump in quality. Listening to Dive, Awake, and Epoch as a whole feels like a single vision. It’s three albums, but they’re all sharing the same vision for our society. They all have the same values.

As an addition to Tycho’s repertoire, Epoch is a can’t-miss for fans and newcomers alike. Whether Hansen considers this an ending to a trilogy or a single step in an ongoing journey is unclear, but it’s obvious that he hasn’t run out of things to say — even while remaining completely wordless.

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That opening chorus is the thesis statement that explains why Dan Mangan’s debut, Nice, Nice, Very Nice still works seven years later. It’s a shame we don’t hear a lot of music like this anymore. It’s a shame people don’t make a lot of this anymore.

It’s hard to find a Canadian who isn’t into Dan Mangan. Last year, he had another breakout record with Blacksmith called Club Meds. But Nice, Nice, Very Nice is the one that started it all.

I found myself re-listening to it this week when Apple Music claimed the album was “new”. That was giggle-worthy, but I revisited the record anyway. And it’s worth another listen. It’s a great reminder of how far Dan Mangan has come, but also how great of a songwriter Mangan is.

The record has aged surprisingly well, although I think the fun tracks that garnered recognition in 2009 (like “Robots” are less interesting than the more personal tracks. I love “Road Regrets” (the afore-mentioned opening track) and “You Silly Git” or “Tina’s Glorious Comeback” (among others) because of their personal lyrics.

But none of the tracks are weak. It’s just an impeccable album from start to finish. Circumstances are totally different, but it reminds me in spirit of Bon Iver’s For Emma, Forever Ago: an inauspicious debut that nobody could have predicted would go this far.

Nobody’s going to give me an award for writing about how great Nice, Nice, Very Nice is in 2016. But it’s worth revisiting. And if you’ve never heard of it before, it’s not too late to listen to it the first time. Dan Mangan’s debut full-length record remains the beautiful album you remember it as.

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