The 250 Greatest Albums of the 21st Century So Far

“Where has all sensation gone?” the New Pornos asked on Mass Romantic. This powerhouse band from Vancouver — led by the top-shelf team-up of Zumpano’s Carl Newman, Destroyer’s Dan Bejar, and alt-country firecracker Neko Case — set the indie-rock world reeling with the sensation-mad buzz of their debut. Piling on hot-angled guitar tumult, roundhouse drum pump, and hooks upon hooks upon hooks, they made tunes with recondite titles like “The Slow Descent Into Alcoholism,” “Centre for Holy Wars,” and “Letter From an Occupant” feel like manna for the power-pop heavens. It was the start of a wonderful run of consistently killer albums for one the century’s most reliable left-of-center hit machines. —J.D.

Harlem rapper Cam’ron stood out with a slickly conversational flow that sounded like a smirk and his unforgettable visual style. More importantly, he distilled his persona into a memorable album, Come Home With Me, that served as an entry point for the Dipset movement that briefly fascinated the rap industry and Pabst-drinking hipsters alike. Its biggest hits, “Oh Boy” and “Hey Ma,” both collaborations with Dipset protégé Juelz Santana, dominated radio for months. Then there were glimpses into Cam’ron’s worldview, like in the title track, where he reminisces about a grimy youth lived in buildings lined with asbestos, and how his mother threw away drugs he intended to deal on the streets. It became fodder for his early aughts glow-up. —M.R.

A French Indie-pop band singing a hot little ditty about the frenzied response inspired by 19th century composer Franz Liszt? How could such a thing not be a huge hit? But “Lisztomania” was just one of many highlights on the fourth album from Phoenix, including the sleek dance rocker “1901,” a song that soundtracked so many high-end advertisements it probably ended up selling more cars than Henry Ford. The whole record is a rarified Paris riot, full of New Wave guitar churn, spit-polished grooves, and sleek melodies. Like their contemporary countrymen Daft Punk, the mirror-shade sophisticates of Phoenix went for the pop jugular without sacrificing a bit of the continental style. —J.D. 

Popcaan’s Where We Come From is a major watermark for dancehall, and it is his most cohesive and fully realized LP to date. Reaching Number Two on Billboard’s Top Reggae Albums chart, Popcaan’s debut — whose lead single, “Everything Nice,” garnered over 5 million YouTube views — is a mashup of politically charged hymns and seductive, dance-floor-filling riddims. The title track brims with uplifting mojo, with a chorus (“Never forget the dump land/or where me come from”) that’s all about staying true while flinging off adversity. And “Cool It” — all sparky synths and sexy percussion — is breezy and intoxicating. Where We Come From is coming from a spectacular place. —W.D.

Taylor Swift has been many things in her nearly 20-year career. But in 2010, she was a petty Sagittarius with a point to prove: Yes, she did write her own songs, and she was so confident in her ability, she made an album entirely devoid of co-writers. The result was the peak of her Nashville era. Swift’s nano-detailed songs devastated harder than anything on 2008’s Fearless. Killer lines like “You made a rebel of a careless man’s careful daughter” helped her crumble the castle of her early-career fairy-tale stories and usher in a mature side of her songwriting as she embedded pop and rock elements into her confessional country poetry. —M.G.

Has any band written as many great rock & roll songs this century as the Hold Steady? These Minneapolis-via-Brooklyn dudes blew up in the early 2000s as the truest, funniest punk bar band since the Replacements. Separation Sunday is their wiseass version of an old-school 1970s rock opera, about lost kids running scared in America, haunted by sex, drugs, and Catholic angst. It’s got a Springsteen-style cast of characters, full of teen punks, Jesus freaks, party girls, and hood rats. Over Tad Kubler’s Killebrew-size guitar riffs, Craig Finn rants his brilliantly twisted tales of sin (“Tramps like us and we like tramps”) and salvation (“She crashed into the Easter Mass/With her hair done up in broken glass”) in the Midwestern badlands. —R.S.

With his 2018 album, Astroworld, Travis Scott successfully made the transition from rap superstar to rap megastar. The album introduced Scott’s grand ambitions at world building, creating a sonic landscape capable of embracing the rap world’s biggest stars. Consider standout single “Sicko Mode,” which managed to reconfigure what rap songs sounded like going forward. The track’s signature beat switch, as well as a verse from red-hot Drake coming off one of his most prolific years, made it an instant and undeniable classic — the blueprint for a number of rap hits that would go on to follow the same formula. In that regard, Scott remains peerless. As he says on “Sicko Mode,” he’s truly the glue that keeps the sound of modern rap together. —J.I. 

On Leslie Feist’s sophomore album, the musician combines her own stellar songwriting craft alongside eclectic covers. Showcasing the depth and breadth of her voice, she switches moods and gears effortlessly, from heartbreak to flirtation, introspective to upbeat, while exploring folk, jazz, and French pop. Standouts include the intimate, vulnerable, delicate, raw “Let It Die” and the whimsical “Mushaboom.” Meanwhile, she does refreshing covers, like her lilting take on Ron Sexsmith’s “Secret Heart,” and “Inside and Out,” her flirty, funky version of the Bee Gees’ “Love You Inside Out.” Let It Die remains influential to new pop stars two decades later, with Chappell Roan saying it’s “my favorite comfort album” and Carly Rae Jepsen naming it her favorite of the past quarter-century. —A.L.

For headbangers disgusted by Nineties nu metal and Creed, Jane Doe represents the same thing Black Flag’s Damaged stood for decades earlier: total anarchy. Converge’s music is pure chaos. There are no verses or choruses, and hell, there’s not even a hummable guitar riff. It’s simply 45 minutes of frightening, rattling, exhilarating aural assaults. The musicians clearly know what comprises a reckless song (see “Concubine”), but the beauty of it all is the way it sounds like they’re convulsing in the same way at the same time. “Distance and Meaning” feels more akin to free jazz than anything hardcore punk or metal had to offer in the previous quarter-century, while “Homewrecker” is a jaw-dropping hissy fit. This is the soundtrack of rebellion. —K.G.

There were already touches of genius in Karol G’s megahits “Tusa” and “Bichota.” But it was with this dazzling fourth studio album — a post-breakup epic — that the Colombian singer emerged as an artist in full control of her creative arsenal. From the bucolic self-acceptance of “Provenza” to the bombastic outro of EDM delight in “Cairo,” the songs focus on overcoming loss while providing healing in real time. There’s also the small miracle of her partnership with producer Ovy on the Drums, whose ornate sonic architecture is designed by instinct, like Zen brushstrokes. Mañana Será Bonito confirmed Karol’s place of honor as one of Latin music most original and self-assured creators. —E.L.

When it arrived in the spring of 2013, “Archie, Marry Me” raised several questions. Who is Alvvays, and how do we pronounce it? Who is this Archie we’re marrying, and why is this song so damn good? All would be revealed a year later, when this unknown Canadian band dropped its self-titled debut, among the very best indie-pop records of the 2010s. Molly Rankin and Co. made it all look so easy, creating nine devastatingly great gems that pulsated with lighthearted lyrics and whimsical melodies. They’ve released two more excellent albums in the decade since, but this stunning arrival remains the one to return to over and over — whether it’s to sob to “Party Police” or pay “Archie” a visit. (It’s pronounced “always,” by the way.) —A.M.

Sean Paul’s Dutty Rock is the pinnacle of a time dancehall supercharged pop — in no small part an era of his making. His fingerprints still linger all over the globe, from his blockbuster collaborations with Beyoncé and Sia to the way many Afrobeats bangers emulate dancehall — Nigerian singer Fave’s sound and ethos is openly indebted to him. From Sean Paul’s sweaty bashment anthems to lovers rock to smoker anthems and more, Dutty Rock hits such as “Like Glue,” “I’m Still in Love With You,” “Punkie,” “Get Busy,” and “Gimme the Light” have stood the test of time and transcended social groups. —M.C.

The Canadian punk duo’s best album is chest-baring, unashamed, and electrifying. Brian King’s guitar, split through multiple amps, creates a hurricane of distortion that feels both enormous and intimate. On “The House That Heaven Built,” an insistent guitar line explodes into an avalanche of “Oh, oh, ohs.” “Evil’s Sway” showcases their dynamics, with David Prowse’s taut drums locking in with King’s switchblade guitar changes, while “Younger Us” bottles the feeling of being immortal and stupid and 19 in under four minutes. The whole thing was recorded live and analog, with minimal overdubs, all the amp buzz and feedback peaks left in — production choices that feel less like aesthetic decisions and more like moral ones. —Sarah Grant

Surprise! The guitarist-composer in the xx wasn’t just taking DJ gigs around London at the peak of his band’s early prominence as a lark. Indeed, In Colour is decidedly not a group record, despite a handful of appearances by vocal partner Romy Madley Croft. But while the group’s lustrously gray-scale post-punk is in full evidence here (cf. “Hold Tight”), Jamie’s solo bow fulfills its name with his lushest and prettiest arrangements. The broadest-sweeping is “Loud Places,” a ballad with a dream-sequence Idris Muhammad sample for a hook. That foggy quality applies even when Jamie takes aim for the club floor, as on “SeeSaw,” which uses Croft’s voice like neon Play-Doh. —M.M.

On 2018’s Dirty Computer, Janelle Monáe’s android guise learned to communicate her real-life needs and desires. At first, the polymath performer laments the “Crazy, Classic, Life” of excess she’d once dreamed of, but becomes acutely aware of her predicament, dishing out some fiery bars in “Django Jane” — ”Mansplainin’, I fold ‘em like origami/What’s a wave, baby? This a tsunami.” There’s a gradual shift from a feeling of dysfunction to a sense of empowerment, and Monáe begins positioning herself as a Prince-style sex freak in “Make Me Feel” and celebrating the power of femininity in “Pynk.” By the album’s end, she’s fully claimed who she is and what she likes, leaving her free to dream of building a better world. —J.F.

Before her death in 2021 at the age of 34, Sophie was at the absolute oozing edge of electronic music, pioneering a style of alien textures, hyper-real sounds, ASMR slurps, enveloping digital noise, and cartoonish squirts — all of which somehow translated into what ended up becoming the future of pop music. You can hear her pioneering sound design as an influence on no shortage of collaborators and adorers (Madonna, Charli XCX, Kim Petras, Camila Cabello, Caroline Polachek). Oil of Every Pearl’s Un-Insides, the only album released during her lifetime, stands as her greatest achievement, a mix of the suffocatingly beautiful, the incredibly strange, and the entrancingly synthetic. —C.W.

Both 2002’s Murray Street and 2006’s Rather Ripped were the sound of a band still finding ways to express and shape its musical assault after two decades. But Sonic Nurse was the most consistent and well-made of the 2000s Sonics bunch. The alternate tunings and rapturous splatter are still here, but so is the eerie hush of the Kim Gordon-sung “I Love You Golden Blue” and sweetly snarling guitar moments like “New Hampshire,” inspired by, of all things, Martin Scorsese’s blues doc. Plus, in “Kim Gordon and the Arthur Doyle Hand Cream,” who else would have even tried to inhabit Mariah Cary’s post-Glitter meltdown? —David Browne

After a series of promising mixtapes, Rapsody’s 2017 Roc Nation debut was a textured and expansive introduction to the North Carolina rapper, complete with co-signs and collabs from luminaries like Kendrick Lamar, Black Thought, and Busta Rhymes. With a title that nodded to her grandmother, the record found Rapsody transcending the underground backpack labels she’d felt limited by throughout her first few years. “It’s all hip-hop,” as she puts it on “Nobody.” “You can’t divide what ain’t different.” From its opening nod to Aretha Franklin’s “Young, Gifted and Black” to the haunting Otis Johnson sample that closes the record, Laila’s Wisdom proved that Rapsody wasn’t just a promising traditionally-minded up-and-comer, but a generationally talented rapper. —J. Bernstein

After nearly two decades of death, addiction, and tumult, the Red Hot Chili Peppers had hit their smoothest period yet by the early 2000s, but this double album was still a bold move for an alt-rock group that was finding its footing in the pop world. The risk was worth the reward. RHCP returned to their funk-rock roots throughout much of the project but also showed off some of their deepest, most mature songwriting yet. Ultimately, Stadium Arcadium worked because it was catchy as hell: Singles like “Dani California,” “Snow (Hey Oh),” and “Tell Me Baby” are pristinely produced stadium-rock classics and were mega-hits upon release, helping give the band its first Number One album. —B.S.

Boygenius are more than just a supergroup — they’re simply a great band, with three of the most brilliant singer-songwriters in the game. Phoebe Bridgers, Lucy Dacus, and Julien Baker are all indie-rock poets with their own distinct styles, not to mention their own hardcore audiences. But something special happens when they come together. They dabbled with their six-song boygenius EP in 2018, but The Record is their full-blown album, blending their voices into something new, in the caustic wit of Baker’s “$20,” Bridgers’ “Cool About It,” or Dacus’ epic karaoke tearjerker “We’re in Love.” The on-and-off project soon went back into a hiatus, but The Record proves that these three hit heights together that can’t be reached any other way. —R.S.

The Atlanta rapper Killer Mike comes on with a voice louder than a bomb — and rage that can’t be stopped. His sixth album, R.A.P. Music, never stops exploding, as he goes hard against racist cops and political oppression. El-P’s production hits just as hard — no wonder they kept their collaboration going in the radical duo Run the Jewels. Killer Mike makes “Reagan” a detailed history lesson with no mercy, while “Untitled” honors the strong Black women in his life. But his deepest love is for hip-hop itself, as he declares, “This is jazz, this is funk, this is soul, this is gospel/This is sanctified sex, this is playa pentecostal.” —R.S.

For the first time since Graceland, Paul Simon opted to write new material that started with his guitar instead of a rhythmic pattern. The upshot was his most charming and lyrical record in years. So Beautiful or So What wove in many of the musical elements familiar to Simon’s solo work: African guitar here and there, hints of doo-wop or glistening world beat, even some fingerpicked suggestions of his “Sound of Silence” days. But whether he was singing about a vet working in a car wash, a dead guy returning to the world for another look, or more spiritually-minded ruminations, Simon’s unruffled phrasing and the tracks themselves had the wry, uncluttered playfulness of his finest work. —D.B.

Before this album, he was still best known as the former drummer for Fleet Foxes; afterward, he was the most rakishly charming singer-songwriter of the 2010s. Josh Tillman’s second album as Father John Misty is his raw masterpiece, a concept album about his life with new bride Emma Tillman, a photographer (he wrote the sweeping tearjerker “Holy Shit” on their wedding day). But with the high comes several lows, and Tillman grapples with his fair share of them — from the stress of social media and the lack of human connection (“True Affection”) to white privilege and the imminent demise of our country (“Bored in the USA”). It’s all powered by that secret Misty formula: sarcasm, wit, and one hell of a gorgeous melody. —A.M.

Echoing the rapid evolution of U.K. garage into grime over London’s pirate radio airwaves, a year after the Streets’ UKG-flecked debut came this sparse, jagged monster by a younger (only 19 when it was released) and more forceful MC who’d also gotten his start on the pirates. Dizzee Rascal’s hyperactive flow and clanking, screeching beats — rumored for a time (since debunked) that it was produced using a Sony PlayStation — announced that British hip-hop had come of age, with Boy in Da Corner winning that year’s Mercury Music Prize. —M.M.

Shakira had won over Latin America with her disarming, diaristic 1998 opus, Dónde Están los Ladrones?, but she had her heart set on conquering the rest of planet Earth. All while recording, she’d been teaching herself English (she frequently practiced with a thesaurus and a Leonard Cohen book), hoping to get fluent enough to write songs. Not only did she succeed, she crafted bombshell hits that made Laundry Service a seismic crossover moment in pop culture history. From the moment she exploded onto the mainstream scene with the first single “Whenever, Wherever” — backed by Andean flute, no shortage of wit, and her own style of belly dancing — it was clear she was a superstar and a permanent global icon. —Julyssa Lopez

Sample-based artist Girl Talk (given name Gregg Gillis) came up with a seamless pastiche of decades and genres that sweated up club venues while circumventing copyright restrictions. This 42-minute continuous work never lets up, making for a relentlessly joyful party record packed with intriguing juxtapositions — like gliding Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer” into Notorious B.I.G.’s “Juicy” into Beyoncé’s “Check on It,” or melding Missy Elliott’s “Get Ur Freak On” with Neutral Milk Hotel’s “Holland, 1945” and Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit.” The inclusiveness of this amalgamation of some 150 samples — there’s something for pop-radio fans, hip-hop heads, indie kids, and classic rock lovers alike — adds to the fun. —A.L.

The third and final album by R&B enigma Aaliyah is a hypnotic mix of gossamer funk and sounds from all over the pop diaspora. It’s also a sad reminder of the bright future that was cut off mere weeks after its release in the summer of 2001. Aaliyah’s voice, which was feather-light yet able to convey heavy meanings, glides over the serpentine beats of “We Need a Resolution” while driving home the romantic torment within; the Missy Elliott-penned ballad “I Care 4 U” evokes longing with its classically modern production and Aaliyah’s yearning performance. Aaliyah is a final statement with only one fault: It feels like it should have been the introduction of a new chapter. —M.J.

Sound becomes a living organism on Four Tet’s glitch-hop high-water mark, Rounds. Samples of dulcimer sparkle over cymbals, seemingly never repeating a loop on “Spirit Fingers”; plucky Asian stringed instruments and chimes work around breakbeats on “She Moves She” before the drums (the most reliable instrument for any other artist) sputters out at the end; and a saxophone wilts and squeals on “Unspoken.” Other than propulsive rhythms, though, nothing about the album’s 10 tracks feels formalized. It’s electronic dance music with a pulse and a heart murmur. The way Four Tet mastermind Kieran Hebden sequences the sounds to evoke joy, melancholy, and wonderment makes Rounds feel alive. —K.G.

D’Angelo’s Voodoo and Erykah Badu’s Mama’s Gun get more reverential mentions these days, and they deserve every one — but Common’s 2000 album, Like Water for Chocolate, is the low-key classic of the Soulquarian moment. You can hear all the creative ferment of that influential circle, which included the aforementioned geniuses along with Questlove, J Dilla, keyboardist James Poyser, bassist Pino Palladino, and others, in this album’s rich tapestry of old-school hip-hop, soul, and Fela-style Afrobeat. Stepping up his game accordingly, Common did some of his sharpest and most eloquent rapping ever on “Time Travelin’” and “Cold Blooded,” and he wrote a timeless love song with “The Light.” —S.V.L.

“I think that someone is trying to kill me,” Mastodon tell us on Leviathan opener “Blood and Thunder.” It’s an album that begins with hysteria (or “Aqua Dementia,” as they put it) and somehow manages to maintain its sea legs. The band’s second LP — a loose concept record based on Moby-Dick — keeps a steady course with chunky riffs (“Iron Tusk”), moody gothicism (“Megalodon”), and long-haul heaving heaviness (the 13-plus-minute “Hearts Alive”). Their meat-and-potatoes approach to heavy metal was a breath of fresh air at a time when the genre was having an identity crisis, torn between nu metal, metalcore, and prog metal. Mastodon merely surveyed the competition and metaphorically growled, “You’re gonna need a bigger riff.” —K.G.

2003 was a weird year to release an album that fit right in with the best of the arena-ready classic-rock canon, but Louisville, Kentucky’s My Morning Jacket went ahead and did it. Too muscular to be indie rockers, too tuneful to be a jam band, the hirsute group, led by frontman Jim James’ stoned-and-lonesome vocals and buoyed by monster drummer Patrick Hallahan, hit a psychedelic peak on this live-in-the studio collection of anthems, matched only by their follow-up, 2005’s Z. There are enough ripping guitar solos and gloriously headbanging instrumental crescendos on “One Big Holiday” alone to make up for the rest of the century’s lack of them. —Brian Hiatt

Paris born of Spanish descent and global to his core, Manu Chao was a committed lefty activist and an ebullient digital-era global busker, singing his “Merry Blues” in seven languages as he mixed reggae, rock, folk, jazz, Latin music, and hip-hop, as well as samples of random street noise, passing conversations and radio exclamations. Packing 17 songs into 45 minutes, his second album is a buoyantly chaotic love letter to borderless musical and social possibility, a search for good people, good weed, and righteous politics in a world on the brink. —J.D. 

While some artists can only last 15 minutes in the spotlight, Tierra Whack was able to solidify herself as a contemporary hip-hop powerhouse in the same time frame. While some may have considered the Philly-bred MC’s pint-sized 2018 album to be a gamble, its conciseness offers a captivating glimpse into her universe. Throughout the LP (which was cheekily designed for those who seem to favor bite-size snippets of music over lengthy commitments), Whack succinctly showcased her ability to traverse vocal styles, effortlessly shifting from rap (“Bugs Life”) to singing (“Pet Cemetery”) and even accents (“Fuck Off”). Yet beneath Whack World’s rainbow exterior lies a true pot of gold, where introspection, vulnerability, and authenticity shine the brightest. —J’na Jefferson 

Give Up started when Death Cab For Cutie’s Ben Gibbard and producer Jimmy Tamborello of Dntel took up a cross-country collaboration, sending music to each other through burned CDs in the mail. So much transferred over in those exchanges: Loneliness and the ache of growing away from someone, captured in the lyrics and glittering synths that made it into “The District Sleeps Alone Tonight;” the existential fears of a burning planet and a history of violence outlined in “Sleeping In.” The first single “Such Great Heights” ended up being an unexpected hit. And though so much of it feels tied to nostalgia and a longing to find your place in your mid-twenties, the music still stands up more than two decades later.–J.L.

Much about Danny Brown’s second studio album, 2011’s XXX, seems commonplace these days but was a revelation for its time. Brown’s high-octane delivery over maximalist, electronic-inspired production presaged even Yeezus in its genre-bending sensibility. The album marked a moment at the start of the 2010s when musical boundaries began to fall, and influences from across the cultural spectrum began to blend and intermingle. All of this, of course, comes naturally to Brown, whose career took off after XXX in part because of his ability to find a pocket in just about any sound. —J.I.

Brandy Clark started writing about the downcast men and women who populate her debut album as a bit of a joke, beginning with “Get High,”  the tale of a dissatisfied middle-aged mother who relieves stress with weed. The result was 2013’s 12 Stories, a dozen perfectly crafted country tunes about bad decisions, pain pills, hungover husbands, messy divorces, and revenge-murder fantasies. In the decade since, anyone trying to write country tunes that poke beneath small-town dirt-road fantasy — from Elvie Shane to Ashley McBryde to yes, Kacey Musgraves, whose breakthrough “Follow Your Arrow” Clark cowrote — has been following in the wake of the wit and wisdom of this record. —J. Bernstein

On “Get Ur Freak On,” Missy Elliott tells us she’s “not no average chick.” It’s a declaration and an understatement. Her fourth album with Timbaland is a sonic funhouse by hip-hop’s best world builders. Here, the laws of physics don’t apply: 808s pause midair, glitch-hop beats melt into Japanese flute samples, Missy’s voice shape-shifts from growl to purr to alien transmission. On the sultry “One Minute Man,” she turns a bedroom taunt into a feminist empowerment. Tim’s beats sound beamed in from Saturn’s red light district — they only make sense once Missy starts flowing. By the time the elephant sounds drop in “4 My People,” you’re either on the mothership or you’re not. —S.G.

Along with Amy Winehouse, who died the year before this album was released, Alabama Shakes were taken to heart by music fans in search of something authentic, whatever that meant in the new century. Hints of Winehouse’s retro-soul even pop up on the Shakes’ debut. But while Brittany Howard and her bandmates were rooted in blues, soul, and guitar-driven swamp rock, there was nothing ersatz about Howard’s mighty pipes on tracks like “Hold On” and “Hang Loose.” The Shakes only made it through one more album before splitting up, but for Howard, Boys & Girls was the gateway into more rewarding and adventurous musical quests to come. —D.B.

After spending the the Nineties experimenting with irony and electronics, U2 decided to kick off the 2000s by stripping down to the basics. They were motivated by the commercial disappointment of their 1997 LP, Pop, but also a nagging sense that “songwriting had taken a back seat to experimentation,” in the words of guitarist the Edge. The result was All That You Can’t Leave Behind, a reunion with producers Daniel Lanois and Brian Eno that yielded the massive comeback hit “Beautiful Day.” Other standout tracks included “Walk On,” “In a Little While,” and “Stuck in a Moment You Can’t Get Out Of.” This was U2 for an entirely new generation of fans, and it sent them into the new millennium with incredible momentum and a renewed sense of purpose. —Andy Greene

“Let me tell ya’ll story,” Alabama native Patterson Hood sings on Southern Rock Opera. The tale he tells on the Truckers’ double-CD alt-country epic is about the twisted legacy of what he calls “the Southern thing,” weaving in the legend of Lynyrd Skynyrd, the history of segregationist Alabama Gov. George Wallace, and memories of his own upbringing in the deepest depths of the classic-rock era — with the band’s three guitars blazing away the whole way. The highlight is “Let There Be Rock,” an anthemic ass-kicker in which almost drowning in your friend’s toilet and not quite ever getting to see Skynyrd live becomes a heroic quest for redemption and glory. —J.D.

The Gary, Indiana, producer born Jerrilynn Patton was a rising star in the Midwest’s footwork scene by her mid-twenties, mentored by major figures in that fast-tempo subgenre like the late DJ Rashad. But she never felt comfortable being identified too closely with any one sound, and on this brilliant 2017 LP, she leaped far beyond any such limitations. Black Origami was an instant landmark in electronic music, with fractured beats colliding in unpredictable and thrilling ways. Speaking to Rolling Stone in 2018, she connected her approach to the advanced math classes she loved in high school: “That’s the way I create my music now. I have all the answers — now what is the question?” —S.V.L.

As heavy as Black Sabbath’s “War Pigs” but as quirky as a Carl Stalling cartoon score, System of a Down invented a jumping, bouncing, pogo-ing style of protest music steeped in ’90s alterna-metal but made for 21st century arenas. Decidedly unmacho compared to their chest-thumping nu-metal peers, they instead dealt in staccato squeaks, death disco, punk polkas, and circus thrash, Pied Piper-ing a generation into radical politics. Their high-water mark, Toxicity, infamously released one week before Sept. 11, 2001, spoke both frankly and obliquely about the American prison-industrial complex (“Prison Song”), police brutality (“Deer Dance”), climate change (“ATWA”), and the Armenian genocide (“X”), ultimately becoming not only a potent criticism but a prescient look at the decades to follow. —C.W.

A tour de force of ingenious songcraft, beheaded guitar heroics, and novelistic detail, the Australian singer-songwriter’s official debut LP created as vivid a picture of twentysomething drift as india-rock has ever produced. Barnett’s main theme was the emotional contradictions of life on capitalism’s tattered margins – be it as a day job dreamer (“Elevator Operator”), a musician (“Pedestrian at Best”), a consumer (“Dead Fox”) or a would-be homeowner (“Depreston”). She told her offhanded storytelling in songs that rocked cleverly and spaced out beautifully, proving she would be an artist to watch for decades to come.–J.D.

D’Angelo’s first album in 14 years pointedly alluded to the Black Lives Matter movement in its artwork, a crowd scene of raised Black hands and fists, and in cuts like “The Charade.” Ultimately, Black Messiah is less about a break with a violent American past than a renewal of spirited pride and protest. The Virginia musician and his backing band the Vanguard offer warm, crackly funk rock with shades of Sly and the Family Stone, Funkadelic, and Prince. The subtext behind it all is D’Angelo’s long and winding journey to finally crafting a sequel to his 2000 masterwork, Voodoo, a process delayed by personal setbacks, bouts with addiction, and legal dramas. “You can’t leave me,” he sings pointedly on Black Messiah’s opening track. “It ain’t that easy.” —M.R.

In mood and message, Jamaican artist Koffee’s Gifted bounds with the youthful spirit that made her vibrant hit “Toast” so joyous and earnest. Her reggae and dancehall is made vivacious with cadences from their musical cousin — hip-hop — and her righteous pen is fueled by her deep sense of purpose. Whether she’s name-checking social woes in Jamaica, coming on to an unnamed lover, or pulling up to a party, there’s always a sense of romance on Gifted — and what Koffee loves is life. —M.C.

“I’ve had some trauma/Did things I didn’t wanna/Was too afraid to tell ya/But now I think it’s time,” Billie Eilish murmurs on the leadoff track of her second album, which the teenage pop supernova recorded in the wake of her debut’s wild success and the pandemic’s relative stillness. Working once again with her studio-scientist brother Finneas, Eilish pushes her agile voice and artistry into uncharted territory, creating next-generation torch songs that envelop the singer in prickly textures and swaddling synths. Eilish’s first album established her as a vital new voice in pop; her second showed how she was only getting started with establishing herself as a singular entity. —M.J. 

The Mexican singer-songwriter’s passionate sixth album was sandwiched between stately tributes to Agustín Lara and the Latin American songbook. By contrast, Hasta la Raíz feels like a whirlpool of sunny vibes, with just a touch of rainy afternoons for good measure. A neo-folk anthem, the title track marches forward with undeterred optimism, while the innocence of “Nunca Es Suficiente” underscores Natalia Lafourcade’s love affair with jazzy chanson and the misty shuffle of decades past. She was 31 at the time, and the freshness of these songs provided a ray of hope. As the world was already beginning to fall apart, her voice — crystal clear, angelic, always in command — implied that music still possessed the power to soothe the soul. —E.L.

Begun at a low point, not long after they had been dropped by Atlantic Records, Fountains of Wayne’s third album found the band mixing its witty power pop with expertly drawn character sketches. The lyrics are Randy Newman-level sharp, only delivered with pristine hooks and empathy while surveying a cast of characters who are, generally speaking, not doing so hot: the fired pilot in “Mexican Wine,” the lovelorn admirer pining for the actress who left their hometown in “Hackensack,” the hard-drinking salesman in “Bright Future in Sales.” The album had a sad postscript during the pandemic, when Fountains of Wayne co-founder Adam Schlesinger died of Covid at 52. His death makes these songs even more poignant and a reminder of what fans lost when Schlesinger died. —C.H.

Both Young Thug and Rich Homie Quan have immense solo legacies, but the lightning they bottled on Tha Tour Part 1, their glorious two-man weave of feel-good melodic rap, speaks to what could have been. There’s “Lifestyle,” the smash that will have clubgoers singing to the top of their lungs for decades, but there are also standouts like “Givenchy” and “See You” that entrenched them as two flashy, shit-talking ATLiens who knew how skilled they were — and how much chemistry they had together. Despite Quan’s death preventing a reunion, we can all play Tha Tour Part 1 and cherish the memory of better days. —A.Gee 

For Stephen Malkmus’ fifth solo album, the ex-Pavement frontman came up with his best mix of Cali-gold guitar magic (the strut-to-solo zigzags of “Forever 28”) and wry humor (the fake-political anthem “The Senator”). What’s new are the flashes of earnest midlife wisdom in songs like “Share the Red.” The contribution of Janet Weiss, one of the best drummers of the past quarter century making her last appearance on a Malkmus record, and Beck’s light production help up the overall quality while keeping Malkmus’ fun whimsy intact. —A.L.