A liberated journey into a digital world closer than we think; an experimental redefinition of country music set as much in space as on earth; an exciting new age of Spanish flamenco gliding over synths and soaring into the stratosphere—music in 2018 saw it all. You might have missed some of these perspectives, and you may be surprised to see some already on your playlists. Here are 18 of the best albums from the past year.

El Mal Querer / ROSALÍA

Rosalía burst onto the scene with her smash hit “MALAMENTE,” invading Spanish airwaves with a sound unlike anything heard before. The Catalonia, Spain native grew up mesmerized by traditional and modernized flamenco—the music, dance and aesthetic art form birthed in southern Spain. Some natives may recognize callbacks to flamenco throughout El Mal Querer, from song structures (and deconstructions, interestingly) to the ever-present and ever-changing handclaps.

Perhaps the reason Rosalía is so successful and praised for her masterstroke interpretations is because of her deep knowledge and respect for flamenco’s origins. She not only references and rearranges flamenco in her music, but her videos too. The traditional flamenco dance is carried with a red dress; she dons blinding red outfits in the video for “Malamente.” She ushers bullfighting imagery into the modern era, likening the bull to modern motorcycles as she zooms through striking sets and gazes face to face with a matador in maybe the most beautiful music video shot of the last decade. (1:33) She knows what she’s doing, she knows it’s progressive, and she keeps pushing the envelope forward with each new visual transformation and audio inspection.

El Mal Querer (The Bad Love in english) exists in chapters, mirroring the ancient text of Flamenca, a 13th-century romance narrative surrounding a woman accused of infidelity who is trapped by her husband and ends up escaping in dramatic fashion with another man.

The album has no weak moments—the insistent strums and punching bass of “DI MI NOMBRE: Cap. 8: Éxstasis” and “Cry Me A River” sampling-turned-operatics of “BAGDAD: Cap. 7: Liturgia” prove so in crystal clarity, regardless of any language or genre boundary. It’s an eleven-chapter study on not just a single relationship, but where music genres have been and where they can excitingly go.

Dirty Computer / Janelle Monáe

Janelle Monáe came out swinging with Dirty Computer. No longer Android Jane, but Django Jane—a fierce, funky, creative and queer black woman seeing a conceptual realm mixing thrillingly with a personal one.

Her trademark looks may be defined by black-and-white, but the songs on Computer are bursting with color. Mind-blowing electric guitar riffs on “Make Me Feel” offer glittering hints of purple; the breezy production of the title track unfolds itself like a futuristic sunset, golden hues glinting off polished metal; the most outwardly-colorful, appropriately named “Pynk,” sees another tried-and-true dream collaboration with Grimes list off powerful, poetic meanings of the color like reading from a symbolic and symphonic phone book. The song’s video illustrates just where Monáe can go visually, and stylistically, from here—she’s at her best when she sheds the Archandroid armor for free-flowing celebrations of her undefinable individuality.

Dirty Computer is accompanied by an “emotion picture,” a visually stunning illustration of each song paired with a post-apocalyptic narrative as much about self-love as coupled love. It’s set in a world where individuality is a sin, and being different leads to death. Those left on the outskirts of civilization are considered “dirty computers,” a marginalized group of humans being hunted down by robots ready to wipe their memories and “clean them.” It’s arguably equidistant from sci-fi novels to history books, an imaginative and integral take on the themes presented in the album.

Monáe just earned an Album of the Year Grammy nod for Dirty Computer, and rightfully so. “This album is so much bigger than me. It’s about a community of dirty computers, of marginalized voices,” she tearfully says upon receiving the news. “Being a young, black, queer woman in America, there was something I had to say and a group of people I wanted to celebrate,” she added. “I’m happy to be representing them. I hope they feel seen, I hope they feel heard. I hope they feel loved. And I hope they feel celebrated.”

When talent like Monáe's is coupled with the poetics and production of such meaningful work as Dirty Computer, there’s no denying the power it has to inspire both reflection and celebration—maybe even both at once.

Golden Hour / Kacey Musgraves

Kacey Musgraves has never been traditional country. In fact, it’s probably easier to argue over what traditional country is than actually fit inside it. Musgraves herself has even commented on Nashville’s obsession with a competitive “I’m more traditional country than you” attitude. Thankfully, she built on the solid (and disruptive) bedrock of her 2013 debut, Same Trailer Different Park, crafting a forward-thinking album that echoes country songwriting while simultaneously bending its DNA and riding it into the future.

“Born in a hurry, always late / Haven't been early since '88

Texas is hot, I can be cold / Grandma cried when I pierced my nose”

One thing Musgraves has always had in common with Nashville is a particular precision with lyrics. Before Golden Hour, Musgraves was known for lyrics at once playful and biting, plentiful in wordplay and detailed description. Although the lyrics on her latest effort are often grounded, production tends to drift into the galactic realm. Title-giveaway “Space Cowboy,” fresh off a Grammy nod, is at once forlorn and steadfast as Musgraves’ crystal voice echoes majestically into what sounds like deep space. “You can have your space cowboy / I ain’t gonna fence you in,” she croons alongside string plucks before repeating lyrics through a vocoder that sounds as if the signature country twang is being abducted by aliens.

Although her brand of music has been genre-shamed before, Golden Hour stands on its own as a solid, clear step forward into uncharted territory. It’s her most cohesive work yet, while simultaneously holding the title of most adventurous. Instead of playing within the pastures of expected country music, Musgraves focused on reinventing genre tropes and ushering in new experimental sounds. She even managed to compliment country croons with disco beats—all with remarkable cohesion. Her personal life is illustrated with newfound liberation, focusing as much on everyday beauty as big-picture gratefulness and introspection. It’s almost as if Musgraves is experiencing everything anew with childlike wonder, but asking questions with the wisdom and foresight of a grandmother.

There’s no one like Musgraves, in or apart from country music. Golden Hour is a masterstroke in genre-bending experimentation, illuminating the respectful and intrepid progression of an artist as well as a genre as a whole. It’s Kacey Musgraves’ golden hour, and she just might have daringly ushered us into an undefined golden age.

Saved / Now, Now

Now, Now returns from a six-year break to offer an incredibly textured, ethereal and personal album of r&b-infused alt pop. Sunny guitars open up “SGL,” the lead track and summertime easy-listening standout. The sonics only shift from there, from lovelorn drumkit distortions (“Saved”) to meditative aquatic dissolutions (“Holy Water”). Although the [now] duo decidedly veers into new sound territories, they keep the heart of their punk-infused past. Smooth glider “Yours” is incredibly polished and cavernous, Cacie Dalager’s breathy vocals lifting above the song’s cardiovascular guitar strums towards the rhythmic glinting of the chorus.

“SGL” was first released last summer, as a first offering post-trio. Now, Now lost a guitarist, Jess Abbot, since their 2012 release—the duo, made of Cacie Dalager (vocals, guitar, keyboard) and Bradley Hale (drums, backing vocals), began to shift from emo indie-rock to confident indie-pop. “SGL” (abbreviated from Shotgun Lover), gave Dalager’s vocals new strength when paired with playful beats and a more acoustic guitar. The duo seem freer than ever, the experimentations clearly paying off as the album unfolds itself.

Vocals aren’t just sung, but played with—from the hooks in “MJ” to the atmospheric instrumentations in “Holy Water.” The latter is a dynamic offering, pairing contrasting lyrics like

You touch me like an angel
But you kiss me like a sinner
Got me dying for a miracle
Baby step into the holy water

with dreamy progression in production. Slow-ticking drum beats dance around the mystified vocal, slowly opening up from the darker distortions in the beginning to a sacred semblance of light at the song’s finish. Clear album strongpoint, “Yours,” follows with more upbeat energy. The pre-chorus manages to be just as intriguing as the wind-whipping choral flourishes, the track buzzing with a constant energy perfect for easy grooving.

Airtight synth-ladden “Knowme” examines the hopelessness of unrequited love. “Cause baby you don't even know me / Baby you will never know me / And it's sad that I still care at all,” she sings in almost a capella before rhythmic vocal distortions begin to jolt the otherwise simple sonics.

There are absolutely no skips on Saved, a rare feat for any artist, much less ones boldly veering into new territory. Now, Now may be going into new directions, but they’re undeniably reaching full form.

Isolation / Kali Uchis

Almost like a dream you’ve had before, but experienced with a new kaleidoscopic vision. It sounds like memories you’ve heard before, but many of them—pieced together with precision and floating along a river. Kali Uchis’ ambitious Isolation is a unique amalgamation of sounds—dream pop, R&B, alternative rock, funk—held together by her powerful voice, bursting with swagger and a somehow fierce vulnerability. She glides over spatial xylophones and rhythmic bass on album opener, “Body Language - Intro.” She floats in airy production on reggae-reminiscent highlight, “Tyrant (feat. Jorja Smith),” smoothly spitting lyrics with playful remove. She is everything in the dream at once, familiar sounds remade with new vision.

It’s a seriously focused effort that has the power to propel Uchis into the upper echelons of pop’s most important—and most heard—voices.

Palo Santo / Years & Years

It was three years between Years & Years’ debut, Communion, and their sophomore effort, Palo Santo. For the trio to begin with the stomping, authoritative “Sanctify,” was only indicative of the body of work to come—perfectly produced, as much sexually liberated as tenderly introspective, consistently lifting Olly Alexander’s signature voice to new heights.

Palo Santo’s visual elements, from music video to short film, are set in the futuristic citadel of Palo Santo, a beautiful shimmer of magnificent architecture filled with future peoples obsessed with humans and humanity itself. They are androids, hunting the now-rare human race down in search for new means of entertainment. The concept may be dystopian, but the subject of the album has everything to do with the human condition of here and now.

One of the most interesting aspects of what Palo Santo has to say is its relationship study of sex, shame, and sanctification. Alexander paints a relationship that is beautiful but damaging, cycling between Olly realizing his lover is at war with himself and giving in to the rapturous connection between them. Religious symbolism is employed to illustrate the duality of connection and worship to shame and sacrifice.

“In the night, you come to me / 'Cause I'm the one who knows who you are // Give me your confession, saying / Lately, life's been tearing you apart,” he sings on “Sanctify.” The song takes a closer look at a relationship strained by societal conditions, specifically when those expectations are forced onto someone so suffocatingly that it affects the relationship as much as the self. “You'll find redemption when all this is through / Father, forgive me for finding the truth / Love takes its toll on me, I'm just like you / Maybe it's heavenly / Maybe it's heavenly,” Olly pleads on the bridge. Is he right to lead his lover somewhere beyond experimentation, or is he walking him into fire? It’s a bold start to an album, a nucleus of all it strains to dissect and transform.

“If You’re Over Me” is another highlight (of many), the playful opening bops underscoring the darker lyrics of a relationship near its end. The production explodes throughout as a queer interpretation of 90s pop, particularly on track “All For You.” Whereas upbeat chart-ready hits like hidden gem “Howl” and Communinon’s “King” (their biggest smash to date) exhibit the trio’s strengths as pop masterminds, slower deep cuts are particularly affecting. Piano slow-burn “Palo Santo” highlights Alexander’s arresting vulnerability. The album finishes on an 80s-firestorm club banger, the dramatically echoed “Up In Flames” providing a glimpse at just how versatile Years & Years can be while still remaining singular in vision.

By The Way, I Forgive You / Brandi Carlile

When By The Way, I Forgive You opens with a voice as worn and powerful as Carlile’s, you stop and listen. When it continues to build on the musicianship and vocals of opener “Every Time I Hear That Song”, you wonder where else she can go. By the time major-Grammy-nominee powerhouse “The Joke” crests its peak, it’s very clear that Carlile is once-in-a-generation stuff, and her work here has a lot to say (and be said beautifully).

“You get discouraged, don't you, girl?
It's your brother's world for a while longer”

By The Way is a textured Americana album at heart, from production to style and delivery. “Hold Out Your Hand” strums a million miles an hour alongside Carlile’s roof-raising voice, the chorus building up like an F5 twister before exploding in a string of quarter-note thumps once the wailing chorus finally arrives. The album is full of standouts, even stronger as its whole—it’s an album examining the power of forgiveness and experience of hard-earned perspective.

The tender and lyrically-impeccable “The Mother” sees Carlile singing of and to her daughter directly—it’s loving, challenging, and detailed all at once. “The first things that she took from me were selfishness and sleep / She broke a thousand heirlooms I was never meant to keep,” she croons as her voice transforms from a twister into a warm embrace.

Brandi Carlile has that special superpower of being able to sing to you, directly to you—and access that place only the most celebrated vocalists can get to. By The Way, I Forgive You is her strongest and most personal work yet. With lyrics as affecting as her versatile, hurricane-hugging voice, Brandi Carlile will take you anywhere, and make you believe it.

so sad so sexy / Lykke Li

so sad so sexy opens in haunting acapella, gently twisting into a distorted vocal run that burns slowly, gaining beats and backing before “hard rain” opens up. It’s a lot like looking out of a taxi window at night, rain pattering the glass and blurring the hazy glow of traffic lights. It’s lonely and cathartic all at once. And almost reflective without remorse. “If you like the feeling of a hard rain falling / I have a seafull, I can give you an ocean,” she haunts over trap beats that eventually dissolve into a steady beacon.

Her chants of “swimming pool, swimming pool,” on production highlight “deep end” are transfixing, battering the beat like waves on a concrete dock. It’s not unlike the relationship being woefully described—breaking apart, revelations unraveling, water rushing through the cracks she lovingly, achingly describes. The production is cool and hollow, floating alongside the lyrics in dynamic fluidity. The muffled drumming in “better alone” are like a heartbeat on the verge of giving out, the digital water drops of “sex money feelings die” continuing the exploration into the intertwined aesthetics of an aquatic heartbeat. It’s a interesting project that effectively creates an aura linking the lyrics and concepts to production and mixing.

Honey / Robyn

If you dropped a million water droplets through prismatic glass, and were able to capture the sound of the light passing through it, you might just come across the opening run in Robyn’s long-awaited comeback track and album opener “Missing U.” It works as a rightful successor to earlier works like “Dancing On My Own,” but also opens a familiar feeling of in-between. It’s dance floor, but it’s heartbreak—remembering through tears, but running forward as fast as you can. It’s an incredible track in remembrance of something that has passed, but carries with it a cathartic quality that enables you to move beyond it as you move through it:

This part of you
This clock that stopped
This residue
It's all I've got

Much has been said, discussed and written about “The Robyn Effect”—her innate and singular ability to turn human heartache into thumping therapy. Although the opener may fit that description like a lost shoe found on the dance floor, the rest of Honey is a bit of a departure. Robyn’s knack for airtight pop is intact and stronger than ever, but she trades outward bangers for a softer, more self-reflective set of easy listening electro-therapy tracks that glide and bump along the 9-track set. “Baby Forgive Me” is emotional, confessional and swift as winter air wisping across frozen ice. Incredible highlight, “Honey,” sees an intersection between pre and post-Honey Robyn, a soft-but-still-thumping reflection with some of the album’s strongest and most visceral lyrics. “At the heart of some kind of flower / Stuck in glitter, strands of saliva / Won't you get me right where the hurt is?,” she sings over smooth synths and glossy percussion. You can practically taste the honey at the bottom of the ocean she’s describing, the abstraction of each description unlocking more and more the power behind Robyn’s magic.

Primal Heart – Kimbra

Kimbra has always found the hidden crevices and glittering strengths in percussion, and she continues the trend on Primal Heart to psychedelic success. Her voice teeters between the tender quiet and vibrato shriek, each song sounding more like an arrangement than a production. It’s an adventure through 80s-fun-future-pop, a world painted in entirely moving parts. Colors slip through the spaces, a swift and shapeshifting current pushing the album through each track’s new world.

The sonic-tribal beat of “Top of the World” is intimidating and eerie, Kimbra transforming into some kind of rebel queen marching on enemy territory. The next track, “Everybody Knows,” is a smoother drop into calmer waters. You almost discover Kimbra’s voice, slowly revealing itself through the fog. It’s a strange but alarming pace that is barely held together and ushered along by the production of each song. It’s almost like an unpredictable journey through Kimbra’s Oz, the textures providing unity in diversity. Funkadelic “Recovery” breaks way for the beat-driven “Human,” further highlighting the diverse nature of Kimbra’s explorations.

Throughout each new discovery, Kimbra’s voice remains constant—investigative, malleable, curious and confident. Quiet standout “Version of Me,” reveals just exactly how unique her light vocals can be, revealing their power as the piano progresses. It’s like Alice exploring wonderland; quiet, mysterious, alluring. The remix builds the vocal to a crescendo, offering a more sinister synth run just as exciting as the original. It only further illustrates the strength of each song regardless of rework—Kimbra is at her best uninhibited, and a look inside of her Primal Heart is a technicolor travel into everything sound can be.

Whack World / Tierra Whack

Fifteen minutes of genius. Tierra Whack’s Whack World is a collection of fifteen 1-minute songs, each with a minimal yet effective production. The visuals paired with each track elevates the project into the stratosphere, seeing Whack singing about her dead dog in a pet cemetary and cutting red balloons in sometimes comical, sometimes biting lyricism. It’s the announcement of a voice coming into its own—masterful wordplay and an incredible eye for impactful visuals. There’s no album like it this year.

Sway / Tove Styrke

Minimal electropop artists tend to blend together. Not this one. The 26-year-old Swede’s latest effort, Sway, focuses on familiar muses with newfound clarity—new love (“Sway”), new status (“On the Low”), and new magnetics (“Mistakes”). It sounds like perfected pop on first listen, but each new run-through reveals more and more of the subleties in production and wordplay.

You make it really hard to leave, I

know I'm gonna wanna get out of my Levi's

Styrke matches meter with wordplay, letting stressed syllables do just as much work as alliterated lyrics or hidden production. In “Mistakes,” one of the opening lyrics has her “buzzin’ like a street light,” the simile accompanied with a slight buzzing sound. The following lyric moves away from literal buzz comparisons, but sneaks in a stress on the end rhyme of “behind,” with emphasis on the personified “bee.” It’s sly and fun, sounding harmonious on first listen before slowly revealing its other sides.

Other highlights, like summer favorite “Say My Name,” or inspired cover of tourmate Lorde’s “liability (demo),” prove she has an eye for inventive sound and striking visuals. The trajectory of Styrke’s career seems to be getting higher and higher with each new incentive effort. You won’t want to miss any of them.

Chris / Christine and the Queens

It’s clear within the first 30 seconds of” Comme si” that this is a different kind of pop record. The alluring personality of Christine and the Queens, known personally as Héloïse Letissier, exudes in every song, between every jumpy bass beat and electric synth. The French influence is immediately noticeable, from song names to the album’s other side in French. Breakout hit “Girlfriend” is an eclectic funk-R&B outing highlighting the playfulness in Chris’ sonics and vocal strength.

It’s a breakout album filled with interesting explorations of sound and beat construction. Already big across the pond, it seems only a matter of time before Christine and the Queens could make a big impact statewide. Until then, we’ll enjoy this pop masterwork.

Camila / Camila Cabello

Who expected Cabello’s debut to be this strong? Propelled by the undeniable momentum of worldwide megahit “Havana,” Camila’s self-titled debut had hype and heat behind it out of the gate. It’s a tropical take on modern pop, Cabello’s voice bending around beats in “She Loves Control” and soaring above synths in “Never Be The Same.” The production is inspired and inventive, especially for such a pressured debut—standout “Into It” has Cabello singing breathy highs before dropping down with the beat into a fuzzy, humid beat run. It’s magnetic.

Love Is Dead – CHVRCHES

The sugary vocals of Chvrches’ Lauren Mayberry doesn’t seem like an immediate fit for the hard-hitting electropop of Chvrches’ discography—but it’s that exact contrast that makes the trio so alluring. Her voice is incredibly versatile, especially when synthesized and deconstructed alongside inventive beats and monumental choruses.

Darting synth runs and insistent hand claps open “Get Out,” an electric crescendo of high-energy production and rollercoaster vocals from Mayberry. The gentle banger (does that make sense?) “Miracle” is immaculately constructed pop, forlorn and ecstatic with the drama of a fireworks display and natural grandeur of a mountain range. Slower offerings like “My Enemy” are a welcome change of pace; the skittering drums set the hook up with a dreamy precision. Love Is Dead is Chvrches at their best, with newfound vocal strength and ever-polished synth sense.

A Brief Inquiry Into Online Relationships / The 1975

I have to admit, it took more than two full listens before I started to appreciate The 1975’s latest effort.

Several friends and reviews alike warned of the fact, but once you start to glimpse the adventurousness and progression of the album. Somehow, The 1975 manages to find cohesion in the experimentation. Musings on digital relationships—both in mind and body—permeate the tracklist, with frontman Healy addressing his heroin addiction with newfound clarity and consciousness. “And you'll make a lot of money, and it's funny / 'Cause you'll move somewhere sunny and get addicted to drugs,” he nonchalantly muses on “Give Yourself A Try.” It’s a guitar-blaring stream-of-consciousness confessional with lyrical nuggets unlike other pop contemporaries.

I found a grey hair in one of my zoots
Like context in a modern debate, I just took it out
The only apparatus required for happiness is your pain and fucking going outside

You learn a couple things when you get to my age
Like friends don't lie and it all tastes the same in the dark
When your vinyl and your coffee collection is a sign of the times
You're getting spiritually enlightened at 29

There’s a bit of everything on A Brief Inquiry—sunny strums and choral breaks (“It’s Not Living [If It’s Not With You]”), acoustic funk-beats (“Sincerity Is Scary”), meditative mirror-maze production (“Inside Your Mind”), and android-narrated life stories about the internet (“The Man Who Married A Robot / Love Theme”). The exploratory nature of the album is only strengthened by the lyrics, veering back and forth somewhere between casual contemplation and sly rally cries. The subject matter is essential to everyone, and The 1975 make it more than worth a single listen.

Oil of Every Pearl's Un-Insides / SOPHIE

The opening moments of Oil of Every Pearl’s Un-Insides are subtle, delicately meditating on crying and its societal implications. It slowly builds synth powers amid a piano and gradually thunderous digitizations. Second track, “Ponyboy,” jumps into the serene pool created by “It’s Okay to Cry,” and into the chaotic depths of instrumentation lying just beneath the surface. This is the SOPHIE that came to prominence. This is the SOPHIE known to experiment their way into the future of pop music.

The smooth-voiced singer in “Faceshopping” creates the dynamic between the harsh, industrialized instrumentation. It’s spacious before turning claustrophobic, veneering off digital cliffs and spiralling into a tsunami of metal and vortex-level distortions. The album has an incredible array of instrumental and vocal experimentation, but this is the bread and butter of underground SOPHIE.

The energetic “Immaterial” is a glittering tower of industrial pop power. Clean beats and high-pitched vocals duel in fast tempo, painting a futuristic nightlife turned everyday where anybody can do anything they want. It imagines life beyond the body, but still manages to find its way into the heart.

Chapter 1 – girl in red

A voice immediately crackling with emotion like a late-night campfire; demanding as much as begging for heartfelt desire over guitars and sun-soaked sadness. girl in red’s music has a raw quality to it, like picking sunflowers alone in a field or diving headfirst into a cold ocean. “I don’t wanna be your friend, I wanna be your bitch,” she wails on opener “i wanna be your girlfriend” as guitars rev up in rebellious power. The lyrics only get more all-consuming, the visceral emotion palpable in every stroke and crack.

“summer depression” is an interesting cut, beginning with patched-together recordings before opening to beautifully light guitar against a backdrop of depressed lyrics. It doesn’t come across as pretentious, but raw and self-aware; the lyrics matter-of-fact as they maintain clarity while questioning.

“4am” delves into overthinking and insomnia, again playing expertly off the contrast between instrumentation and vocalization. Closer “girls” is a needed antidote to the more somber outings—although there are tinges of sadness, the song builds into a chorus of acceptance and appreciation for love in its purest forms. It’s a strong, short-but-sweet collection of minimal indie rock experiments. Already an incredibly exciting artist, don’t be surprised to see girl in red gaining momentum in the next few years, riding the waves of each powerful guitar strum.

Hope you enjoyed this year-end review.

Stay tuned for the yearly countdown of the best songs of the year!

2018 Year in Review: 18 Best Albums