The 250 Greatest Albums of the 21st Century So Far

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.