It’s only a few months into 2018, but there’ve already been a handful of albums worthy of strong praise. Here are the best of the many, many albums that have been released so far this year, according to our music critic Craig Jenkins.
Cardi B, Invasion of Privacy
It’s hard to believe that only two years have passed since Cardi B starred on Love and Hip-Hop: New York, where she jostled for camera time with the two-timing one-hit wonder Peter Gunz and a rogue’s gallery of little-known new artists renting out clubs to premiere bad rap singles we never heard again. Cardi’s career has gone so swimmingly since then that her banner Billboard chart run feels like a coronation or an anointing. Invasion of Privacy is proof that she wasn’t just funnier than the cast of her reality show. She was also a more versatile rapper. Cardi can hold court over trap beats, as on “Money Bag” and “Bickenhead”; bear her heart and sing a little, like she does in “Be Careful”; plot on a cheating man with her homegirls on records like “Thru Your Phone” and “I Do”; or take you through the tough spots in her rags to riches story, as “Get Up 10” does. She crushes everything she tries, and it’s quite possible that she wrote and recorded a lot of it while pregnant. The boys running the rap biz could never.
Janelle Monáe, Dirty Computer
Janelle Monáe is a gifted actor, singer, songwriter, producer, rapper, and dancer, and her new Dirty Computer project wants you to know she’s the total package. It’s an album and an “emotion picture,” a hearty body of songs about seeking a carefree life and promoting positive vibes and a short, smart sci-fi flick about a totalitarian government that goes to great pains to press citizens into mindless automatons. Because Janelle knows her music, Dirty Computer is a smart, versatile collection of funk, pop, rock, and soul vibes. Because she stans her legends, there’s well-placed guest spots from Stevie Wonder, Brian Wilson, and Pharrell Williams throughout the project. Monáe sings about wishing for a “crazy, classic life” on the album cut of the same name, but from the looks of things, she’s already well on her way.
J. Cole, KOD
KOD is the most J. Cole idea possible: It’s a concept album about addiction, and the trauma that causes people to use and the trauma caused by people who use. The Cole who once wrote diss tracks about other rappers’ personal faults and cultural responsibilities might not seem like the most sensitive vessel for a word about drug, sex, money, and internet addiction, but KOD works hard to be tender and patient with its subjects. Dozens of rappers have written songs about Instagram, but few have come out with anything half as compassionate as “Photograph,” a character study of a guy imagining a relationship with a beautiful girl he’s too nervous to message on the app. Thousands have written songs about cheating on a significant other, but “Kevin’s Heart” is the rare contender that approaches the subject matter from a place of shame and remorse. These are serious songs, but they slap in headphones; they’re heavy messages, but Cole serves them with a merciful mind, an impressive flow, and an expressive delivery.
Kacey Musgraves, Golden Hour
Texan singer-songwriter Kacey Musgraves’s new album Golden Hour is testament to the resilience and flexibility of country. In just 13 songs, Kacey swings from heady Topanga Canyon country-rock through MOR-infused Americana, disco and hip-hop beats, and rainy-day folk. It works because Musgraves’s band is versatile, her voice is a revelation, and her writing packs worlds of feeling into just a few words. She coyly tells an ex who fears commitment that “you can have your space, cowboy,” and later advises a jerk to ride his high horse out of her life. Kacey’s equal parts folksy, funny, and profoundly relatable, as she’s been for years, and with Golden Hour, she proves just how easy it is to make country music that convenes with other genres without coming off as some kind of calculated crossover gesture.
Kali Uchis, Isolation
The uninitiated might recognize 24-year-old singer Kali Uchis from stints as a guest vocalist on records by the Tyler, the Creator, Gorillaz, Goldlink, and Snoop Dogg. She’s not your traditional soul singer; her wan, airy voice is more reminiscent of ’60s European yé-yé or classic tropicalia than the limber runs of modern R&B. It’s expressive without being showy, and that makes her debut studio album Isolation a treat. The record shows off her range as she slides through the warped roller disco of “Just a Stranger,” effects a breathy longing on “Flight 22,” matches wares with the U.K. singer Jorja Smith on “Tyrant,” and bounces lines off funk great Bootsy Collins and the jazz new jacks BADBADNOTGOOD on the single “After the Storm.” Fans of old soul will find a playground of throwback grooves, and anyone weathering a breakup or catching butterflies from a new crush will relate to at least a few of Isolation’s keen perspectives on matters of the heart.
Sleep, The Sciences
Dopesmoker, the last album by the doom metal trio Sleep, quite literally destroyed the band. Guitarist Matt Pike, singer-bassist Al Cisneros, and drummer Chris Hakius split when their label refused to push the album, a sludgy hour-long ode to the healing calm of a pot high. The rest of the story is legend: Edited versions of the work made it out to fans, whose adulation led to well-received reunion shows and tours when Pike’s band High on Fire and Cisneros’s band Om went on break. This year’s The Sciences was a perfect 4/20 surprise: it opens with three minutes of feedback and a bong rip, then proceeds to burn through five impossibly heavy guitar workouts, including the Dopesmoker leftovers “Sonic Titan” and “Antarcticans Thawed,” the Black Sabbath tribute “Giza Butler,” and the requisite pot anthem “Marijuanaut’s Theme.” The Sciences honors Sleep’s past while pointing to new directions on the closer “The Botanist,” which coolly peels back the band’s trademark coat of dense fuzz to reveal a hidden sweetness. That the band is still capable of surprises nearly 30 years into the partnership is promising; let’s hope the next project doesn’t take another ten years to develop.
The Voidz, Virtue
Strokes leader Julian Casablancas’s best album in a decade opens with a twinkling, crystalline reduction of a classic Strokes riff. “Leave It in My Dreams” sets out a taut, sunny electric guitar lick at the top of the album but quickly retracts it in favor of chilly synths out of the Fleetwood Mac Mirage playbook, as if to remind longtime listeners who might’ve come to the project for a glimmer of the old dirty, downtown Is This It? glory that they shouldn’t expect very much of that at all. Virtue, the second album from Casablancas’s Voidz, scales back some of the harsher sounds of the sextet’s debut, Tyranny, settling on an unpredictable but effective mix of hard rock, trip-hop, chillwave, and punk rock. Part raucous pirate radio mix and part political reckoning from a singer who is better known for his bedroom missives, Virtue rejuvenates Julian by taking a hammer to our long-standing sense of what he’s capable of, and building something weird and new.
The Weeknd, My Dear Melancholy,
The Weeknd’s introductory mixtape series of House of Balloons, Thursday, and Echoes of Silence was excellent music to stumble home from late-night parties to. It delighted in no feeling so purely as the sensation of looking wistfully back on a bygone drug and drink-fueled sexual encounter. Weeknd’s trip from anonymity to the top of the charts had begun to carry him away from the stoned, noirish glee of the early material, but this spring’s mini-album My Dear Melancholy presents a return to the old recklessness. Through a pall of hurt and a bed of elite production, singer Abel Tesfaye reclaims his crown as R&B’s lascivious crown prince. “Wasted Time” is a reminder that Drake achieved some of the gauzy sound of his famed Take Care album by ganking a handful of songs intended for Balloons; “I Was Never There” is a pain burger-deluxe, with all the fixins: dour vocal runs, g-funk keys, video-game sound effects, and a suffocating sense of a man whose will is about to break. Tread lightly if you’re sad; step lively if you’re not.