On Monday, I discussed some of the TV show music cues I liked from this year. Today I’m providing a list of my favorite albums. I’m not really one for hierarchies. There is a top three (kinda), but after that it’s unranked because what does it mean to be the seventh-best record of the year really? That said, it’s no accident that many of these entries interrogate citizenship in a year profoundly defined by malevolent structures and forces that unequally restrict and allocate who gets to be a citizen and under what conditions. It’s also quite deliberate that many of these albums were self-produced by women resisting the pressure to justify themselves. It’s not a comprehensive list, as undoubtedly soon I’ll unearth a treasure or someone will recommend something. Year-end lists are comforting narratives we craft about our own tastes to cope with the passage of time and I always like returning to the past and finding things I missed in order to challenge canon-making’s ossification. Your music may be part of that unceasing process of discovery, and I look forward to hearing it later.
Erykah Badu – But You Caint Use My Phone (Motown/Control Freaq)
Last month Badu released this mixtape, which she co-produced with Zach Witness. End of the year, and just in time. Badu always sounds warm even when what she’s saying is cold, and peerlessly scribbles in the margins of song form. That’s how she’s able to turn Drake’s “Hotline Bling” into a revision of her 1997 hit “Tyrone” and a character study of the woman on the other end of that booty call. But what resonates most is Caint’s aching heart. Badu pursues a thematic interest in mobile technology through the lens of nostalgia, as though she wants to return to a time when we didn’t constantly use our phones to broadcast out and look in. Smartphones give us the ability to connect, whether we’re touching base with old friends or documenting instances of social injustice that have always been there but social media can differently illuminate. But you can’t unsee Eric Garner getting the life wrung out of him. However, you can channel the anger that comes with that realization into art and community and try to keep who you have and grow with them. That’s probably why she’s a doula. And it may be why so many of her albums’ final songs—“Green Eyes,” “Out My Mind (Just in Time)”—are about Andre or him in relation to other partnerships that fell apart or shifted. And that’s also why their reworking of the Isley Brothers’ “Hello It’s Me,” which concludes Caint, is lovely and bittersweet like divorced parents sharing a slow dance at their kid’s wedding reception. This year Badu came on silly like a LOL cat meme, flirty like a dirty joke told in emojis, weary like a 2 a.m. Facebook lurk, and contrarian like a flip phone or documenting a hate crime in vertical mode. Says the artist in another song that’s hot and cold: “that’s so me.”
Sleater-Kinney – No Cities to Love (Sub Pop)
Rock has a lot of folk heroes. Often successful execution determines heroism, whether it’s getting strangers to chant a chorus with total sincerity or smashing a guitar with balletic force for a photographer. Heroes don’t miss, because men get to be heroes and we often make excuses when they do. We also make exceptions of women when they try, which is why Broad City’s Ilana Glazer offered a great corrective to the “all-girl band” questions that haunt this band by asking them in a recent interview “does rocking hard mean gender equality to you?” But in Hunger Makes Me a Modern Girl, Carrie Brownstein celebrates the virtue of near-misses, which goes hand in glove with the memoir’s other major contribution: fandom’s equalizing potential to the creative process (or: why so many of Sleater-Kinney’s songs are about making music).
Earlier this year, I saw Sleater-Kinney perform at Riverside Theatre. My adolescence did not make room for Sleater-Kinney because I couldn’t hear the electric guitar’s feminist potential or entertain sexist assumptions from boys at shows about my fandom. Our paths finally crossed with No Cities to Love, an “electric” record in every sense, but particularly in how Brownstein, Corin Tucker, and Janet Weiss wield their instruments, voices, and words to convey the spark and heat of idealism sharpening into wisdom. One of riot grrrl’s biggest contributions to contemporary feminism was how it prioritized young women’s equal participation in music’s production and reception. “Girls to the front” wasn’t a slogan. Stopping a set to teach fans how to play your song wasn’t a gimmick. It rearranged space to put young women in the middle. Even though I had a birds-eye view of the set, they sounded so close that it felt like I was on stage with them. But the girls in the front—campers from Milwaukee’s chapter of Girls Rock Camp—could make out their chord and drum patterns, sweat, and discarded pics, and take notes. That’s heroism.
Lizzo – Big GRRRL, Small World (Totally Gross National Product)
Kendrick Lamar – To Pimp a Butterfly (Top Dawg/Aftermath/Interscope)
At a recent speaking engagement, a UW-Madison student asked Ta-Nehesi Coates what he thought about Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp a Butterfly, prefacing his question with the explanation that it was one of the first hip-hop albums to deal with race. Coates countered this statement by name-checking Public Enemy before admitting that he hadn’t listened to Lamar’s record, which came out a few weeks before the event. In the back of the hall, this question seemed like a missed opportunity on three fronts. First, shoulda asked Coates about comic books dude. Second, why assume that one of race relations’ most vital critical thinkers has listened to your new favorite hip-hop record? Third, check the footnotes. Butterfly’s sound and collaborators situate Lamar’s flow within G-Funk’s grammar, one of his hometown’s major innovations and a sub-genre heavily indebted to 70s funk’s radical streak as a way to turn living in a police state into art. How do you process Rodney King? Your auntie’s record collection may have answers.
But young people often turn to their immediate context to figure out how to become adults. A necessary part of that process is realizing that some people get to go to college while others end up in prison or profiled or killed, confront the profound injustice at the root of this realization, and do something transformative with that knowledge. And it’s also why listening to records isn’t in itself a political act, but can be a resource for social change. Two records offered that kind of equipment for living this year. In April, Lamar released his third album. Eight months later, Minneapolis-based rapper Lizzo reached the same milestone at the tail end of the year after many year-end lists were drafted. Both are kaleidoscopic, ambitious efforts that impressively demonstrate the range and personality of the talent at their center. Both quote liberally from hip-hop’s past, as well as nod to its proximity to other genres (Lamar has jazz, Lizzo has dance). One rapper productively tests the commercial recording industry’s artistic limits, while the other demonstrates her entrepreneurial acumen by shirking interest from the majors to run her own label. Lamar struggles with hip-hop’s entrenched misogyny, while Lizzo applies an intersectional feminist critical lens to the genre and in doing so opens it up as a productive space for commentary and women’s artistic collaboration. Oh, and they’re both fun, immersive listening experiences. Lamar’s music evokes night-driving as a way to clear an unquiet mind and defy racial profiling. Lizzo’s music sees beyond #SquadGoals to observe how the giddy female energy of slumber parties and their rituals—dance routines, beauty and masturbation life hacks, gossip that chips at hegemony—resemble consciousness-raising sessions. Blast these albums in the dorms, kids. And learn their lessons. You are the future, and there’s work to do.
Empress Of – Me (XL Recordings)
Lorely Rodriguez makes music that sounds like a woman throwing a jewelry box against the wall, or my kind of pop. Me is Rodriguez’s follow-up to 2013’s Systems and her proper full-length debut. Its title may double as a form of clarification. Rodriguez produced this album and released it in a year when Jessica Hopper’s interview with Björk (a kindred spirit, if not a direct influence) spawned a Tumblr archive of images of female musicians, producers, and engineers to demonstrate that, indeed, women make music and authorship cannot be dead until it is equally applied to them. What follows is one of the most exquisitely textured and assured debut efforts of the year, propelled by Rodriguez’s clear, insistent voice. “What do you see in the mirror when you’re feeling restless? Do you see a man who isn’t there?” she asks on the breathtaking “Standard,” negotiating a distorted 4/4 beat pattern before catapulting over it. “Living for the sake of living, I can promise you no one cares,” she concludes on the other side of the chorus. That may be true, and pictures of women working behind mixing desks cannot change that for some people. But I care, and this music sounds like the future.
Grimes – Art Angels (4AD)
Oscar Isaac said in a recent Details profile that “[i]n order to be a leading actor everyone has to be an action star, to a certain extent.” Female pop stars have known this for generations (see also: LaBelle’s intergalactic girl gang drag, Kate Bush in the “Army Dreamers” video, Madonna’s biceps, Beyoncé standing fifty feet tall like Gene Simmons in front of the word “FEMINIST” at the VMAs). To follow up her 2012 breakthrough Visions, Claire Boucher emerged from playing video games in her basement and found the end of world. More accurately, she scrapped an album’s worth of songs that didn’t interest her and commandeered Pro Tools like Imperator Furiosa steering the War Rig and circled back to find that Art Angels’ apocalyptic Jock Jams sound was always there. Extending the Fury Road comparison to geopolitics, I haven’t settled my opinion on Boucher’s cultural omnivorousness. But the decision to work with Janelle Monáe and Aristophanes suggests coalition-building over colonization. And I would’ve left “REALiTi” alone, but sometimes we must destroy what’s beautiful to taste Valhalla all shiny and chrome.
Courtney Barnett – Sometimes I Sit and Think, and Sometimes I Just Sit (Mom + Pop)
Here’s something Courtney Barnett revealed about herself in a recent conversation with Kim Deal: Sometimes shy people have so much to say and they don’t talk often because they’re forever turning over phrases in their heads and searching for the right words so they say them all at once. And sometimes they just sit. Barnett shreds too. If these masterfully written songs sound pear-shaped, you may need to lay down because she’s approaching them sideways.
Joanna Newsom – Divers (Drag City)
“Sons of Bob Dylan” appears in the middle of novelty folk singer Wally Pleasant’s 1994 album, Houses of the Holy Moly. Its argument is simple: every singer-songwriter (Lou, Bruce, Neil, etc.) is derivative of Bob Dylan, who was himself billed as the next Woody Guthrie, and the recording industry is always willing to commodify their constructed authenticity. That they’re all dudes is no accident. Toward the end of The Punk Singer, Kathleen Hanna muses “I just think there’s this certain assumption that when a man tells the truth it’s the truth and when, as a woman, I go to tell the truth, I feel like I have to negotiate the way I’ll be perceived.” As someone who is often written off as twee because of her harp, brittle voice, and decorously feminine self-presentation, Joanna Newsom must feel this sentiment in her bones. That’s why it was so punk when she listed her wardrobe’s textures and fabrics to conclude her last album as a nod to the empty closet her lover would get back after their break-up. On this album, she ponders what it’s like to love someone so deeply that you’re willing to watch them die after a long life together through a collection of intricate, masterfully arranged compositions. There’s nothing less twee than spanning time and death do us part. Joanna Newsom is not the next Bob Dylan, or Joni Mitchell, or Karen Dalton, or Kate Bush. She’s growing into something else: herself.
Shamir – Ratchet (XL)
Mickey Mouse croons to a lover he wants or doesn’t, reads yuh’ to filth, then sashays away. Most parties aren’t as fun as this record, including the records about parties, thanks to Shamir’s magnetic self-possession and Nick Sylvester’s buoyant production. In an alternate reality, Shamir rescues Alessia Cara from the party she’s withstanding in “Here” (an excellent rejoinder to Can’t Feel My Face-core, by the way) and they fire up the smoke machine at his house.
Jenny Hval – Apocalypse, girl (Sacred Bones)
Album title of the year, no question. And Hval’s ear for composition implies a steady diet of late 90s R&B—particularly the airy presence of Aaliyah’s dexterous soprano—and liturgical music. Its sense of the divine corresponds with its theoretical ambitions, a pursuit that Stuart Hall memorably compared to “wrestling with the angels.” Crafting a concept album about how ambivalence organizes feminists’ daily lives offers listeners few immediate rewards. Feminism is often co-opted to tell comforting narratives about progress and autonomy that privilege the concerns of middle-class white women; essentialize and condescend to women committed to leveling gender inequality without exploiting imperialism; and comply with capitalism’s unequal distribution of resources at work, home, and in public. In the West, its historical narrative is often organized in metaphorical waves, which justifies generational factions, misapprehends political gains’ uniform distribution, and ignores undertow. Finally feminism can bend toward dogma and splinter into contradiction, which often means to apply it is to misapply it. This might be why so many of these songs—“Why This?” the end of “That Battle Is Over”—sound like they are resisting their own disintegration. But this album is so alive with words and ideas—including the radical potential of “soft dick rock” and self-care—that it’s a pleasure to wrestle with it again and again.
fka twigs – M3LL155X EP (Young Turks)
Earlier this year I scrapped a comparative analysis of Under the Skin and Ex Machina, which put Mica Levi’s eerie score from the former in conversation with the pulsing sounds Ben Salisbury and Geoff Barrow produced for the latter. It never materialized, as the comparison praised Jonathan Glazer’s film to hang Alex Garland’s three-hander and that’s lazy criticism. Also, such comparisons reduce the individual merits of Scarlett Johansson’s and Alicia Vikander’s uncanny valley performances as an extraterrestrial seductress and an Edenic robot. Both offer incisive, particular critiques about what it means to have beautiful female bodies and grapple with men forcing their will upon them. In the real world women distance themselves from their bodies all the time to cope with this trauma, looming or endured. These actresses metaphorize that experience and demonstrate the thrill of sentience scaffolding resistance as their characters wonder: “what is my body if I can’t enjoy it?”
What does this have to do with M3LL15X? For one, the long-form video is a nice pairing. In particular, “I’m Your Doll” will be used in gender and media studies classes to talk about consent and objectification for as long as graduate programs hire hipsters to teach college students about feminism. Ultimately, M3LL155X (pronounced “Melissa,” perhaps the name of one of Ex Machina’s discarded prototypes) investigates how sexiness curdles into body horror out of twigs’s boredom and disgust with the commodification of the female form. And it offers an alternative to the post-racial implications of Ex Machina’s ending by imagining a future where black female pop stars rebel alongside artificial intelligence. As an EP, it trades songs for Concepts. But it’s also one of 2015’s best science fiction movies about technology’s fraught relationship with sexuality.
Deradoorian – The Expanding Flower Planet (anticon.)
The best thing about part-singing is the moment when everyone breathes together and blends their voices to create a unified sound that vibrates like a beam of light you can hear. That’s way trippy, but Angel Deradoorian is clearly after this moment because she creates it time and again—most magically with her sister Arlene and Niki Randa–on this beautiful, unassuming record that breaks through the air like sun through windows after a rainstorm. It’s a sound she helped chase as a member of Dirty Projectors, who were basically choir nerds with psychedelic tendencies. But there’s a stabilizing force to part-singing on this record, which Deradoorian wrote largely as a manifestation of her doubt and loneliness as a Los Angeles transplant without a band. And a lesson too: good solo artists always find their way when they collaborate with other musicians.
Carly Rae Jepsen – E*MO*TION (Interscope/School Boy)
This album’s modest chart performance is baffling, but the music critics know about this one like they knew about Kylie Minogue in 2001. Pop music is ultimately about interpreting personal e*mo*tions with your voice that large audiences can immediately identify with and share. For female pop stars this often means “pretend that you like it.” This is why so many women (and Harmony Korine) have complicated feelings about Britney Spears. Such expectations also lay bare authenticity’s contradictory and unequal allocation between male and female artists (see also: Newsom, Joanna). What I like about this record—apart from how its airbrushed synths, resilient programmed drums, and neon-bright sax flourishes bullseye the pleasure center (kudos, production team)—is Jepsen’s embodied conviction as a singer. Listen to how she whispers “I’ll find your lips in the streetlight” on “Run Away With Me,” E*MO*TION’s launch pad. It’s a slyly sexy turn of phrase and an excellent line reading, because even if the song’s subject is undefined (you), Jepsen conjures a real person. As listeners we can only witness the ease of their intimacy within the ellipsis of a pop song, but we can also delight in finding our own specific people to fly with over the city, city. Which is where pop lives anyway.
It’s hard to write a tone poem to your favorite coffee mug, but you’re glad to hold it every morning. Here are some more great albums that found their way into this year’s dark corners and small moments, even though I couldn’t find clever words to describe their charms.
THEESatisfaction – EarthEE (Sub Pop)
Gavin Turek + TOKiMONSTA – You’re Invited (Young Art Records)
Noveller – Fantastic Planet (Fire Records)
Ibeyi – Ibeyi (XL)
Kelela – Hallucinogen EP (Warp/Cherry Coffee)
Björk – Vulnicura (One Little Indian)
Alabama Shakes – Sound & Color (ATO Records)
Overcoats – Overcoats EP (self-released)
The Selecter – Subculture (Vocaphone Music)
Erase Errata – Lost Weekend (Under the Sun)
Lana Del Rey – Honeymoon (Interscope)
Demi Lovato – Confident (Universal)
Frankie Cosmos – Fit Me In (Bayonet)
Holly Herndon – Platform (4AD/Rvng Intl.)
Julia Holter – Have You in My Wildness (Domino)
Bouquet – In a Dream EP (Ulrike/Folktale)
Knowledge gaps are a funny thing. As a media studies graduate student, I’m frequently confronted by what I haven’t seen. Some of these titles baffle my students and colleagues–The Goonies, The Hunger Games, all six installments of Star Wars, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Terminator 2. I caught up with Psy’s “Gangham Style” last summer. I saw Die Hard a few weeks ago. I watched the Beyoncé album two days before Christmas, which is a lifetime ago for Internet traffic. I’ve never seen a complete season of Seinfeld, despite its deathless existence in syndication.
Of course, I could make closing these gaps more of a priority. To some extent, I do. I’ll often take cues from my friends and carve out a little time for certain films, television shows, and music. For example, I’m currently watching cult Lisa Kudrow vehicle The Comeback in honor of my friend Erik because I miss him. Last winter, my partner and I started a holiday tradition of watching guild screener copies of “For Your Consideration” fare with his Chicago-based aunt and uncle who work in the entertainment industry. And I’m always keeping a list. But the above admission may suggest a couple of things about me. First, it might seem curious for someone who cannot keep up with such widely accepted touchstones of popular culture to keep a music blog and pursue graduate education in media studies. Second, more skeptical readers may intuit a curatorial function to my limited exposure.
But who doesn’t curate what they consume? When I was younger, I made a conscious effort to avoid a lot of blockbuster fare because I assumed things like Sid and Nancy were more important. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve thought a lot about the larger political implications behind my consumer decisions. I tend to be rather dogmatic in my choices. Seth MacFarlane doesn’t need me to support his various entertainment ventures, so I have no reason to watch Family Guy and witness the program’s awful treatment of Meg Griffin. As a result, I usually prioritize media and art created by women. Even if I take issue with what I’ve seen or heard, I recognize the relative difficulty of finding an audience for such work. And taking issue means thinking, either in writing or through conversation. I was lucky enough to catch a screening of UW-Madison alumna Jill Soloway’s excellent feature debut, Afternoon Delight and even luckier to ask her about the productively messy collision of the film’s feminist and class politics during the Q&A. Exposing myself to these things and engaging with the women who made them is always going to matter to me.
Yes, I tend toward “cool,” feminist/women-affirming, indie/left-of-mainstream things. This is why I tend to avoid doing a year-end write-up. My favorites probably wouldn’t surprise you. And while I love reading other people and publications’ lists–if for no other reason than to play catch-up–ranking systems often evade me. What does it mean to be the seventh-best album of the year? What does it mean to be “Album of the Year” in the first place? But during my first year at Madison, I befriended a feminist media scholar who, to my mind, came to her subject of study (comics) for the same reason I cared about the production of music culture: it enriched our feminism.
Last year, my favorite album cover was Santigold’s Master of My Make-Believe. In general, I think Santi White makes fun, innovative pop music. This album was no exception. But I was especially taken with White’s multiple, fragmented presence in the composition–in a bespoke suit as a man, in duplicate as glamorous attendants, in a Napoleon-ic pose as a work of art. I struggled to find words to interpret the cover’s larger meanings. Defeated and distracted by other obligations, I abandoned the draft. Similar feelings and responsibilities kept me quiet this year. After a point, you wonder if it’s too late to contribute one more post about Miley Cyrus’ VMA performance. You’re not sure where to fit a thousand words over your ambivalence about the presence of Deerhunter front man Bradford Cox’s queer, Marfans-formed body in Dallas Buyers Club. You let things go.
I’m sad about that, as I’m happiest when I give myself the opportunity to write independent of mine or others’ expectations. Recently, my thesis adviser shared a blog one of her students started. What struck me the most about it was its seeming immediacy. When I started this blog, many of my posts boiled down to 200 words of “hey, look at this thing!” I miss that. I believe in making soft resolutions at the dark, cold start of a new year. That’s how I started this blog. While I’m going to try not to put enormous pressure on myself to be a prolific, visible writer, I will attempt to share more.
One thing I’m always willing to share is album art. Much of what first drew me to music were evocative covers around which you could build your world. I imagine that this same sense of wonder, of seductive immersion, brought people to Star Wars too. Here now are a selection of some of my favorite album covers and a brief explanation of why I loved them.
Janelle Monáe, The Electric Lady
Cover Art: Sam Spratt
If I were to give out an award for album of the year, it might go to this electric lady. As with her previous outing, I would still like her to refine her focus a bit more. But I’m not going anywhere. If Beyoncé is our Queen of Pop, then Monáe is our two-tone funky Prince(ss). I love this cover for the same reason I love Master of My Make-Believe (the leader has a pompadour, but the Monáettes each have a distinct personality under their matching mod bobs) and also because I was so happy that Erykah Badu recast herself as the female, pink version of the Love Below in OutKast’s “Hey Ya!” video.
Cover Art: Jane Chardiet
Margaret Chardiet is mythologizing herself when she says that this tableau is a recreation of a moment when she found maggots eating a dead flower nestled inside an old love letter. But all mediation is mythology anyway. And this image nicely reflects Abandon‘s brutal beauty. I can’t wait to see her live.
Neko Case, The Worse Things Get, The Harder I Fight, The Harder I Fight, The More I Love You
Cover Art: Kathleen Judge
It’s easy to reduce this to Case’s “depression” album, and I certainly don’t want to do that (Case contains multitudes). Yet this image elegantly represents the perilous creatures you invent in your mind and the woozy clarity that comes with wrestling your own sadness and anger. Also, I marvel that her voice and writing get sharper and more formidable with each album. If I were a lit major, I’d more confidently assay a Flannery O’Connor comparison. But really, Case is on her own journey.
The Knife, Shaking the Habitual
Cover Art: Martin Falck
Beets are my favorite vegetable because they taste like the earth, look like vital organs, and stain cutting boards with a lurid, eye-searing pink. If it’s not hot pink, fuchsia, or magenta, go home. Pink needs to call attention to itself, make itself strange. Pink cannot be a complicit color. It must be rude and loud and slightly disorienting. Our queer brothers and sisters know this, and so do the Knife. Also, stick around for Liv Strömquist’s sleeve art. Actually, I’d be comfortable with claiming this as my favorite album, as I always had it on hand when I wrote.
Valerie June, Pushin’ Against a Stone
Cover Art: Dean Chalkley and Rob Crane
When you have the bearing of a queen and the voice of a superstar, you don’t need to face forward. We can meet your gaze. We can marvel at your profile and anticipate you drawing in your breath before you start in on another song.
Cover Art: Isaac Gale
Upon second glance, this picture appears to be a woman waiting for her hair dye to take hold. But the vivid, austere combination of pale skin, blue wall, and smeared red substance suggest, much like the album, a presence more menacing in its intimacy. Something tells me that the feminist theorist after whom the album is named would appreciate the image and its myriad interpretations.
Cover Art: Tom Manaton and Daniel Sannwald
One of my favorite late-night performances of the year was M.I.A.’s one-two punch of “YALA” and “Come Walk With Me” on The Colbert Report under blinking red and green lights to match her album art. My entire relationship to this album is through YouTube and, with the pixelation, that sounds about right. A nice companion piece to Shaking the Habitual.
The Julie Ruin, Run Fast
Cover Art: Allyson Mitchell
If I designed the cover art for Run Fast, I would try to capture my feelings from listening to this record, which disrupted any household chore with a one-woman dance-off. Then I found out that the image is part of a series called “Ladies Sasquatch” by artist Allyson Mitchell about “imagining utopias or queer/politicized worlds where gender is dreamed about outside of social construction.” I still discover new heroes and heroines each time I listen to “Hot Topic,” and now I can add Mitchell to the list. This is just one more example of how Kathleen Hanna transformed my citational politics.
The Blow, The Blow
Cover Art: Melissa Dyne
The triangle is the support structure to so much architecture. It’s the basic unit for stars, pyramids, and yield signs. It’s a shape that delights in difference, able to be scalene, isosceles, equilateral, right, obtuse, acute. Khalela and Melissa know this, and pitch their warped pop music somewhere between the mundane and the divine in tribute.
Dynasty, A Star in Life’s Clothing
Cover Art: Simone Cihlar and Darryl Richardson
If only this image were in motion, as there’s not a dull moment on this lively album. Like the best pop stars, Dynasty is a beauty who moves. She’s another artist I can’t wait to see live.
Sky Ferreira, Night Time, My Time
Cover Art: Gaspar Noé
Gender is definitely operative in taste curation, and often subordinates femininity. Such concerns apply to Ferreira, a young pop star who captures the imagination of male creative types like filmmaker Noé, producer Ariel Rechtshaid, DIIV front man Zachary Cole Smith, and fashion designers Marc Jacobs and Hedi Slimane. But there’s a depth, candor, and rage to her voice (qualities sharpened by survival) that informs this cover and makes the Shirley Manson comparisons more than a question of eyeliner.
Savages, Silence Yourself
Cover Art: Antoine Carlier and Richard Dumas
Because finally a group of women can update Joy Division and beat countless art school boys at their own game. And because “Husbands” and this cover seems to have something to do with Patti Smith’s Horses too.
Julia Holter, Loud City Song
Cover Art: Rob Carmichael
Apparently Gigi served as inspiration for Holter’s third album. I have trouble making out the references–perhaps Chevalier is eclipsing my recollections of Caron, perhaps I should read some Colette. But this photograph–of some building on a Los Angeles city street–reminds me of that feeling of waking up from a long car trip, rubbing your neck and losing grip on your last dream, to a place not quite recognizable as a destination.
Cover Art: Jonathan Turnaer
In many ways, this cover reminds me of the kaleidescopic Ring, save for a few key differences. First, the muted color palette. Second, a clearer sense of place. Finally, Cameron Mesirow’s decentered but guiding presence.
Cover Art: Garrett Born
First, BEST DENIM JACKET EVER. Second, I saw Lizzo open for Poliça earlier this year and she shut it down. Third, one of the songs on this album is called “Lizzie Borden.” Fourth, she’s part of a crew called GRRRL PRTY and I don’t need to explain to you why that’s awesome. Fifth, I appreciate her commitment to that hat even if it doesn’t offer proper shade. I don’t know where she’s at or where she’s planning to go in this picture, but I will follow her and the party that forms around her. Pump this album at full blast in your car. Dance like it’s your friend’s going-away bash and she’s not getting the deposit back. See Lizzo if she comes to your town. Get your life.