The Top 50 Tracks of 2015
Without further ado - and a year late - here are 50 songs which made us believe in the power of music this year. From Kendrick Lamar’s gift for storytelling, to Grimes’ bewitching, idiosyncratic pop songs, to Jamie xx’s elegant love songs for crowded clubs, 2015 was full of exciting sounds. Here are the best and the biggest.
“How Much A Dollar Cost (feat. Ronald Isley & James Fauntleroy)”
It makes sense that Kendrick Lamar's "How Much A Dollar Cost" would attract the attention of someone like President Barack Obama, who named it his favorite song of 2015 back in January - even when compared to the Compton rapper's many other politically powerful songs, this might be his most skillfully made. "How Much A Dollar Cost" checks all of conscious hip hop's boxes without falling victim to conscious hip hop's worst tropes, mostly thanks to Lamar's genius talent for painting a totally immersive scene with his lyrics. He's at the top of his game on this track - using a flow that unfolds like organic thought to narrate his encounter with a South African homeless man, establishing the key question "how much a dollar cost?" without overdoing it, and expertly navigating different perspectives, from his own entitled self to the homeless man's spiritual squalor. Through the story-like structure of these verses, Lamar slowly shows his hand, letting it overcome the listener without helping it along. As his security begins to falter - he's "frustrated, indecisive, and power trippin'" - we finally get the whole story, in the form of an intensely spiritual revelation that fundamentally changes Lamar's line of thinking. "How Much A Dollar Cost" never makes a definitive moral statement; instead, just like how the song's captivating instrumental plays with syncopation, Lamar prefers to work between the lines, putting in detailed work to ask a simple but cathartic question - to what extent do we sacrifice our humanity in search of a dollar?
“I Went To The Store One Day”
Father John Misty’s I Love You, Honeybear is J. Tillman’s battle between bitter cynicism and hopeless romanticism, and “I Went To The Store One Day” is when cynicism makes a few feeble attempts and then beautifully, poignantly, gives way. It’s Tillman’s tribute to his wife - “For love to find us of all people / I never thought it’d be so simple,” he sings over a steadily played acoustic guitar. As the song nears its end, Tillman throws out line after tongue-in-cheek line (”Insert here / a sentiment re: our golden years”), but the wondrous strings arrangement betrays his true feelings. And then the curtain is swept aside, beautifully and simply, in the final two lines. Not only is this song a perfect summation of J. Tillman’s Father John Misty character, it is a plainly beautiful song. They just don’t make love songs like this one anymore.
“Why Does It Shake?” is Protomartyr at the peak of their excellent abilities. This song epitomizes the feelings of terrifying unease that The Agent Intellect strived to create - lead singer Joe Casey's default setting is shallow optimism, singing, "I'll be the first to never die / Nice thought, and I'm never gonna lose it." Meanwhile, a plodding drumbeat sets the background for a shrilly clanging electric guitar that works in hand with the lyrics to build and build, before releasing in one shrieking burst of terror. "Never gonna lose it!" Casey screams over the mess. Part of the reason that "Why Does It Shake?" is so captivating is that it never seems out of control; it's contained chaos, a song about struggling to escape from routine life. Casey shouts the title less like a question and more like an indictment.
“Can’t Keep Checking My Phone”
Between the sunny psych-rock tunes of Multi-Love's first half and the subdued jams of its second, Unknown Mortal Orchestra’s "Can't Keep Checking My Phone" is a sort of oasis. By far the most bizarre song on a bizarre album, this track is so eclectic in its influences that it can be offputting at first. There are weights and counterweights - the drums are both disco and tropical, and the Nile Rodgers-esque guitar is met with rushes of soft synthesizers. All this activity - not to mention the song's throbbing bassline and weird, wandering composition - results in a wonderfully delirious song. Each element of "Can't Keep Checking My Phone" effortlessly bleeds into the next - it's that groovy beat that keeps things going. And on top of the groove, Nielson's lyrics are wonderfully fantastical, detailing a phone conversation with his South America-bound lover: "We drink chicha / in the jungle / that sounds great / I'm kinda busy, could you call back again?" Until then, he "can't keep checking [his] phone" - that unapologetic obsession is the same feeling you get when you listen to this song.
“Hourglass (feat. LION BABE)”
On Caracal, Disclosure sidestepped the burgeoning UK dance pop scene for something different - something more textured, nuanced, and overall expensive-sounding. "Hourglass" is perhaps the song most strongly indicative of this new direction, but that in no way means that it's an over-the-top track; just the opposite, actually. If "Help Me Lose My Mind" was meant as a glowing epilogue to Settle, "Hourglass" is entirely different - positioned right after two of the album's most upbeat singles, it's the secret beating heart of Caracal, the metronome that dictates the flow of the rest of the album. And what a centerpiece - in classic deep house fashion, Disclosure ever so delicately tweak the atmosphere of the song, so that it seems wonderfully alive, like a rose slowly blooming. LION BABE's Jillian Hervey's vocals are entrancing - "Eyes on / the hourglass," she sings in the chorus, watching time pass by while allowing a relationship to decompose. It's a well-known truth of dance music that the beat can help you forget all your troubles - on top of "Hourglass", Hervey seems to take a deep, relaxing breath and let it all happen. Meanwhile, the Lawrence brothers work their magic - "Hourglass" is a quietly magical song, a delight to the ears that also functions at a much more primal level.
Majical Cloudz aren’t the biggest believers in dynamics. The now-defunct duo of Devon Welsh and Matthew Otto’s music, while certainly powerful, seems to prefer gradual buildup to immediate momentum - songs like “Bugs Don’t Buzz” and “Silver Car Crash” are less of an epiphany and more of a growing realization. “Are You Alone?”, however, has a little bit more momentum than the rest - it comes from a fragile drum machine that ebbs and wanes, always keeping an uneasy rhythm in the background. Meanwhile, Otto’s synths and Welsh’s lyrics work hand in hand in creating an entrancing foreground - as an optimistic chord progression slowly eases itself into the front seat, Welsh confronts depression with unnerving positivism. “Are you alone? What do you say? I don’t know what I would not do to know,” he remarks in the chorus to an unknown person, a question that is both everything and nothing, an impossible thing to ask and a powerful expression of adoration. Majical Cloudz are at their best when they wring sweet optimism out of the bleakest subjects, and “Are You Alone?” is the perfect example of this - it’s a song that is as calming as it is moving.
Vampire Weekend bassist Baio’s debut album The Names found a surprisingly fruitful middle ground between two of his apparent musical loves: wintry indie pop and rousing house music. “Brainwash yyrr Face” is an exhilarating cut of the latter, a fantastic way to start off the album. Although it’s got quite a groove, all from a jittery synth line that is looped at the song’s beginning, the magic of this track comes from its progression. From the first minute onwards, you’re pulled in directions you don’t expect. From a snaky opening chord progression, we’re led to believe that this is a standard monolithic house track, complete with vocals; then, the track disperses for twenty seconds, into a far-out pool of samples and effects. Normality never really returns after those twenty seconds; the song is always building on its foundation, straining for the next level. It finally reaches it just before the three-minute mark, in a wholly unexpected rush of drums and brain-melting synths. “Brainwash yyrr Face” does exactly what its title threatens to - although it starts off as a fairly innocuous track, it finishes as an airborne masterpiece of dance music, and it keeps you guessing the entire time.
Chaz Bundick killed 2015 with two different Toro y Moi projects, both of which were so holistically strong that it is hard to single out specific songs as being better than the rest. But “bytheneck”, a simple 160-second beat positioned deep into the second half of Samantha, Bundick’s mixtape, does have that something special. Like most of Samantha, it’s adventurous and tasteful, mixing Bundick’s proven indie pop chops with a newfound experimental side - the song is endearingly grainy, and Bundick’s voice is drenched in AutoTune and echo. But there’s something extra somewhere in there. Maybe it’s the effects put on the song; they’re somehow cavernous and lo-fi at the same time, like you’re taking in a beautiful nighttime view through a crappy airplane window. Maybe it’s the vocals, which carry so much emotion through so little - just a robotic voice and a few scraps of lyrics (”Don’t you understand?”). Maybe it’s the exquisite, chiming piano loop that forms the backbone of the beat; it’s such a simple four-note loop, but there’s something about it that seems so endless, as if it’s welling up and shrinking all at the same time. Or maybe it’s all of these things, a meeting of the most robotic and organic sounds to make a song that’s alternately blunt and nuanced in all the right places.
Recorded during the Reflektor sessions and released around the premiere of documentary film The Reflektor Tapes, "Crucified Again" is a song that bleeds Haitian blood. There's something remarkably backwards about this song - its warmly hushed atmosphere brings you into the room with Win Butler and the rest of Arcade Fire. This song is about the suffering in Haiti after the 2010 earthquake that killed over 100,000 people, but it is also about the reaction to the destruction - "The preachers talk on television / Hand out the judgements of their religion," Butler sings, singling out the comments of those who labeled Haiti as cursed after the earthquake. Then, Butler offers a rebuttal: "But when I heard those women singin' / They made a sound I could believe in." Through so much destruction and horror, the people of Haiti remain strong - that is Butler's message, and he delivers it brilliantly. "Crucified Again" is a graceful critique of the United States' reaction to the earthquake in Haiti, but it's more than just that - it's a light embrace of the Haitian people. The music is tenderly optimistic, like the morning after a terrible tragedy. There is plenty of unrest in "Crucified Again", and it comes from both the earth itself and those among us. But Butler and his band offer a way out - not through simply appreciating Haitian culture, but through adopting a Haitian spirit of positivity and fostering charity and understanding.
Of all the music that the PC Music collective released in 2015, nothing was more electrifying than "Laplander", the closer to PC Music, Vol. 1 and the opening track of easyFun's Deep Trouble EP. "Laplander"'s kinetic beauty comes from a wonderfully multilayered group of melodies, all of which rush along at a sprightly 145 BPM. "Laplander" is so stuffed with earworms that it feels like a three-minute chorus. First, there's the madcap box of samples that opens the song, which is then joined by a whirlwind of farty synths and a the plastic vocals ("Don't say I didn't warn you in advance!"). By the time that easyFun, whose real name is Finn Keane, works in a throbbing bass and a four-on-the-floor beat, the song has transcended a certain part of PC Music for something even greater. Those who dislike the label for its manufactured, Internet-indebted aesthetic may view "Laplander" in a different light, and here's why: this song is so urgent, so full of verve and spirit and unpretentious, no-holds-barred immediacy that it's hard not to tap your foot to the beat and smile a little inside.
Yes, "Leave A Trace" is a punch to the gut of Lauren Mayberry's ex-lover, but it's a little more than that - it's the bittersweet sound of Mayberry yearning to escape from a mucky relationship, and it's a rare kiss-off track that focuses on the wronged rather than the wrongdoer. This might be CHVRCHES' most accessible song yet, and it is also an early highlight of their sophomore album Every Open Eye - the Glaswegian trio pairs a glistening, compact pop sound with Mayberry's excellent vocals. Although Iain Cook and Martin Doherty deserve plaudits for their work on the song, this is Mayberry's show - she adds a fierce edge to her idiosyncratic vocals on this track, and gives an overall incredible vocal performance. "Take care to bury all that you can / take care to leave a trace of a man," she spits in the chorus, but it almost seems like a bitter afterthought. Mayberry's mind is closer to herself - "I know I need to feel release!" she sings as the chorus breaks free from the song's restrained verses. "Leave A Trace" is the best - and most empowering - single that CHVRCHES have ever made.
In 2015, Justin Bieber had maximum musical exposure. Purpose and its singles drew attention from young fanatics, highbrow music aficionados, and casual adult listeners alike, and "Sorry", which released in late October, was the summery follow up to "What Do You Mean" that proved Bieber was here to stay. It's also one of the best songs on Purpose, with an effortlessly breezy sound that you will undoubtedly hear around many swimming pools this summer. Although you're tempted to read into the lyrics, where Bieber begs and pleads for forgiveness, they're clearly not the focus of this song, although they certainly lend a certain last-day-before-summer-break desperation to the song. "Sorry" is about the production and Bieber's interaction with it - this song is breezy riddims and synthesized brass and looped vocal samples courtesy of Skrillex and Bloodpop, and Bieber rides the waves effortlessly, singing the title over and over like an anthem. Even if the tropical house fad that "Sorry" buys into is short-lasted, this song will last much longer, as will Bieber. Pure summer fun doesn't diminish with time.
“90210″ is a testament to Travi$ Scott’s seemingly boundless ambition within his genre of music - on this track, Scott explores his common themes of hedonism, sex, and opulence, but he does it with greater panache than ever before. Scott is “in the 90210, looking for that alley,” as he roams one of America’s most famous neighborhoods with a supermodel-slash-porn star. But the specifics are lost on us, because what’s more important is the mood of what is being said. And, just like the rest of Rodeo, it’s darkly ambitious, a twisted attempt at giving Beverly Hills an inside-out anthem. The guitars in the song’s first half angrily swirl and churn; Kacy Hill’s light, angelic vocal contribution makes the track seem all the more ethereal. On “90210″, Travi$ Scott is a god of the Underworld lost on Earth - Beverly Hills, to be precise. By the time that the clouds open (with more gaudy electric guitars) to reveal a dreamy piano loop, which Scott rides effortlessly for the better part of two minutes, he’s cemented his status as one of the more creative minds in trap rap. No one else does it like this.
Beauty Behind The Madness
So this is how The Weeknd becomes a household name and an established pop star: with a song about addiction that, fittingly, is quite addictive itself. “Can’t Feel My Face” mixes modern production with a timeless, Jackson-esque rhythm that will make you get up and dance. Tesfaye, who previously made his name singing coldly sensual modern R&B songs á la “Belong To The World”, sounds utterly alive on top of the song’s groovy bassline, snapping delightfully in and out of the rhythm with clever syncopated lines - “alo-oh-oh-ooh!” Max Martin’s killer touch behind the scenes is just audible - you can hear it in the way the song’s initially bare chorus becomes repeated, warped, and elevated until it is an Event, something that millions of people know and will sing along to. Of all the songs that took 2015 by storm on the charts, “Can’t Feel My Face” was one of the most... addictive.
Carly Rae Jepsen’s E•MO•TION is a whirlwind of whimsical pop music front start to finish, except for "All That”, and it’s damn gorgeous, a perfect slow jam that gleans all of nostalgia’s benefits without any of its obvious drawbacks. Jepsen has such a powerful voice as a pop singer - her innocent persona is the source, and rather than resulting in vapidity or formulaic pop pandering, Jepsen channels a remarkable amount of emotion (no pun intended) into her work. All of this is plainly visible in “All That" - after the song’s verses, which end with Jepsen breathing, “Just let me in your arms,” she hops an octave, pleading “Show me if you want me, if I’m all that,” on top of Devonté Hynes’ electric guitar. "All That” could have been a masturbatory ‘80s novelty track with any other artist; Jepsen, meanwhile, taps into a kind of yearning that is hard to achieve and impossible to forget.
While MØ’s feature on the chart-topping “Lean On” was arguably more exciting, “Kamikaze” might just be the better song, and it’s all thanks to her fantastic chemistry with Diplo. Under his production, MØ becomes Scandinavia’s answer to M.I.A., a pop princess who does her best work when supported with invigorating international influences. Diplo’s touch on this song is obvious but still catchy, and it’s nuanced in the way it goes about bringing a global openness to the track - instead of ripping “exotic” instrumentation, he uses textured synths, syncopation, and an ecstatic chorus that makes you ask yourself once more, “What instrument is that?” A collaboration between an American and a Norwegian that sets its music video deep in Ukraine, “Kamikaze” wears its multinationality on its sleeve - and it couldn’t be more exciting.
I Don’t Like Shit, I Don’t Go Outside
Although Earl Sweatshirt’s new album I Don’t Like Shit, I Don’t Go Outside was certainly out there, it still aligned closely with Doris in many places. “Grief” is not one of them. This song is viciously aloof - you feel trapped between the late-night-foghorn beat and Earl’s razor-sharp vocals. Such a contrast is striking - the instrumentals on “Grief” are almost somnambulant, down to the lazily clicking drum sequences (especially that one that sounds like breathing in slow motion). But Earl is unfazed. “Nigga, I ain’t been outside in a minute, I been living what I wrote,” he reveals in a voice that goes against everything that the music stands for - it’s sharp, combative, and entirely lucid. Because of this imbalance, “Grief” is deeply and beautifully conflicted, between Earl’s lyrical focus and the hazy, undetermined musical world around him. When he succumbs to the void, moaning, “I’m fleeting thoughts on a leash / for the moment, high as fuck / I been alone in my shit / for the longest,” it’s hard not to connect with him. “Grief” is the best song off of Earl Sweatshirt’s most recent album - on it, he explores his darker feelings in a way that is blunt, abrasive, and 100% human.
In the video for “Gosh”, we slowly descend on an alien planet before realizing that it looks a hell of a lot like the one we already live on, and that’s what “Gosh” is in relation to the rest of Jamie xx’s In Colour - a cosmically charming intro where the destination is the journey. At the song’s end, the sampled pirate radio DJ extends an invitation “...wherever you can pick this up man. Many thanks for still keeping the vibe alive!” “Gosh” is a vibrant intro to an album that is very intent on keeping the vibe alive - not just offering a tribute or appropriating its sound for modern times, but capturing the feeling that intoxicated the last generation. You can hear it in the honking cars and weird screams - “Boo-uh!” - between the chants of “hold it down, hold it down”; you can hear it the way that slowly pulsating bass becomes either ashy black or vividly colorful depending on its surroundings. This song manages to be clinical and composed while still sounding utterly organic and lived-in. “Gosh” is a bewitching invitation to the party, a UK treasure that reaches so, so far beyond that.
CHVRCHES' Every Open Eye is a compact, glittering synthpop listen, which makes things even more jarring when it ends with a three-minute breath of fresh air. "Afterglow" is the quietest song the group has ever made, a soft and delicate chord expression that begins and ends with floating ambient sound. In between, Lauren Mayberry is the undisputed centerpiece, a powerful voice whose every change in tone seems to pull the music along with it. "A lifeline," she sings in the song's chorus as the synths swell, "to highs and lows." Not only does "Afterglow" function in a more abstract sense (meaning that it can make you cry without knowing what the song is about), it has a powerful lyrical theme of remembering love's legacy. Mayberry is broken after the end of a relationship, and she sets out to take in the good and the bad - it's all "laid out before me now / to leave a trace." Mayberry is lovely in "Afterglow", and as she seeks closure from a dying relationship, the music stays with her, lingering like memories tend to do.
“Institutionalized (feat. Bilal, Anna Wise & Snoop Dogg)”
As the introspective cut that follows "King Kunta"'s bravado on To Pimp A Butterfly, "Institutionalized" plays like our first glimpse at the inner workings of Kendrick Lamar's mind. It's a maze of live, jazz-influenced instrumentation, bizarre production effects, and wonky flows - "Institutionalized" never fails to be sonically entertaining, and it actually uses that musical intricacy to make political statements on top of that. This song is infused with political meaning. In its first section, Lamar describes the ghetto's subconscious hold on him, from the streets of Compton, to the White House; not only is the ghetto a result of generations of discrimination and deep social disparities between blacks and whites, it is a manifestation of Lamar's own feelings of temptation. After an Afrika Bambaataa tribute of an interlude, Lamar is back with a peculiar singsong flow, dispensing lines left and right about the importance of hard work and the challenges of making it when you're still very tied to your roots - "You can take your boy out the hood but you can't take the hood out the homie," as Snoop Dogg puts it. "Institutionalized" is a fascinating song - it's Lamar at his most obtuse and intellectual, and it's a brilliant musical and lyrical jungle that gives you one more thing to think about with every new listen.
“Complexion (A Zulu Love) [feat. Rapsody]”
Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp A Butterfly is an incredibly intricate album, full of diverse instrumentation and difficult concepts - "Complexion (A Zulu Love)” is no different. But what is truly special about this song is that although it’s just as political as “u” or “For Free? - Interlude” or “The Blacker The Berry”, it’s surprisingly light on its feet, riding a calmly looping guitar phrase and a smooth beat punctuated by vinyl scratches - “Two-step,” as Pete Rock says throughout the song. Lamar is on top of his game as usual - on this track, he’s a “good field nigga”, exploring the complicated world of colorism through American slavery, an institution which started the problem in the first place. For all that Lamar says, though, the real catharsis of the song comes when North Carolina’s Rapsody enters the song, riding in halfway through over glassy piano and knowing wolf-whistles. “Call your brothers magnificent, call all the sisters queens, we all on the same team, blues and pirus, no, colors ain’t a thing,” is the ending couplet, the finish on a verse that ties Lamar’s words together and puts a powerful touch of positivity on it at the end. “Complexion” is a such a powerfully natural song - it’s telling that one of the most well-delivered arguments on To Pimp A Butterfly is put with music so intuitively beautiful.
Panda Bear Meets The Grim Reaper
If Panda Bear’s Panda Bear Meets The Grim Reaper is a trip through a mysterious alien planet, then "Tropic Of Cancer" is its peculiar and expansive centerpiece, a song for tranquil, mystical mornings spent in the forest after a frenzied night. However, it's much more than that; while "Tropic Of Cancer"'s music seems to be the soundtrack to peaceful exploration of uncharted worlds, its lyrics explore the most uncharted world of all - that of death. Noah Lennox's father died of cancer during the recording of this album, and "Tropic Of Cancer" is a breathtaking tribute to his memory - the centerpiece of the song is a looped harp sampled from Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky's "Pas de Deux", a similarly graceful daydream of a song, and Lennox surrounds it with the lush sounds of a tropical forest deep in sleep. "When they said he's ill / Laughed it off as if it's no big deal," he sings over the angelic melody of the harp - the surreal quality of the music adds to the dazed, postmortem-like feel of the lyrics. But it's not only his father that Lennox considers - "Sick has to eat well too," he sings a few lines later. "Tropic Of Cancer" "is about sympathy for disease. Trying to forgive disease, seeing it as just another thing in the universe that’s trying to survive," Lennox says. He couldn't have made a better tribute. "Tropic Of Cancer" is one of the most interesting songs about death made this year; it toes a profoundly beautiful line between hopeless despondency and wondrous awe.
“JUST LIKE WE NEVER SAID GOODBYE”
Of the eight songs that make up PRODUCT, the last two tracks are the most essentially SOPHIE. One, "L.O.V.E.", is bitter and caustic, a vile experimental pop song which globs synths on top of synths; while it's fascinating in its own right, it pales in comparison to its counterpart and polar opposite, "JUST LIKE WE NEVER SAID GOODBYE". You might not hear a more feather-light song this year, much less last year - no acidic synths, no weird noises, no tongue-in-cheek lyrics this time around. Hell, there isn't even percussion, save for a single isolated snare in the second verse. What makes this song float is its crystalline future pop purity - without a torrent of pop production in the background, our anonymous female subject is more exposed and more intimate than ever before. And she delivers a powerfully straightforward performance - "We were young, and outta control / I hadn't seen you since I was about, mm, sixteen years old," she begins, adding to the song's themes of innocence and reminiscence. Meanwhile, the perfectly engineered stabs of synthesizer behind her give the song a sense of dynamism - although they're unsupported by any other solid instrumentation, they build fantastically towards the final chorus. This song might not have the bracing conceptual shine of "HARD" or "BIPP". But it is SOPHIE's best song, one where he checks almost all pretense at the door and crafts one of the best, purest, and lightest pop songs of 2015.
With the anthemic Dark Bird Is Home, Kristian Matsson’s The Tallest Man On Earth opened up his sound and shot for the moon. While his new, more lavish music drew plenty of criticism, there’s something wonderfully arresting about the album’s lead single “Sagres” - something that should make even the most rigid naysayer feel a little less critical. This song is the aural equivalent of Richard Linklater’s film Boyhood - although it’s certainly quite a bit shorter and less ambitious than that three-hour behemoth, the two works of art both have an impressive presence. “Sagres” is not a challenge to listen to - its five minutes are invariably controlled by a single, lilting chord progression. However, it turns out that the song is an emotional Trojan horse - while Matsson stays cryptic about exactly what it is he’s fighting, there’s a sense of bittersweet peril to the whole song. “Sagres” is about a very abstract but relatable feeling - it’s about teetering on the edge of a major turning point in your life, all the while knowing that you’ll never be the same once you leave. And this feeling couldn’t be expressed that much better.
The subversive lead single that introduced the world to Art Angels-era Grimes, “Flesh without Blood” was never going to be easy to process on first listen. However, over a year later, it’s clear that this song is the marker of a new era for Grimes - one that is surprisingly candid, clear-headed, and sincere under all that zaniness. This is like a Kelly Clarkson song that keeps getting better - the percussion is typically unpredictable, the electric guitar goes from tinny to viciously fierce in the chorus, and Boucher’s own voice is more compelling than ever. “If you don’t need me / Just let me go,” she sings before the chorus, drawing out the words. It’s emphatically expressed carelessness, the sound of a producer discovering her voice.
Alabama Shakes know exactly what they’re doing here. The Southern rock group’s second album took their sound out of their home state, melding it with classic rock and psychedelic funk and searing punk - quite a departure from their first album. The opening track begins with a somber yet layered vibraphone/drums duo, before introducing Brittany Howard’s excellent voice. Ever so slowly, a sliver of melancholy seeps into the song’s foundation like a water leak - a little off note at 1:45, an upright bass at 2:00, and then the pièce de résistance at 2:15, a string quartet which blooms and flourishes like flowers in April. It’s one of the most unexpected and tear-wrenchingly beautiful musical moments of the year, and it sends a clear message to anyone listening to Alabama Shakes for the first time - they’re capable of more than you think.
Even after listening 50 times, it still punches me in the face. Makes my blood boil and my feet tap the floor and my stomach suck inwards, reacting to invisible pressure. “Apocalypse” is that damn dramatic. Just listen to how innocently it starts, with a cute little guitar riff and calmly hissing hi hats. When the riff kicks in on the right side of the mix, you’re taken in by the momentum, and you notice the drums picking up pace. When it finally happens, it feels like it’s too soon - it feels like the dike that’s been containing the flood has suddenly slipped and then exploded, letting a thunderous river through. That guitar sound burrows into your bones, and it won’t leave anytime in the near future. Moon King’s “Apocalypse” is a nuclear explosion of delirious fury - the loudest song of 2015.
Nevermind 2012 - after hearing the lead singles of Art Angels, it was hard imagining Grimes making a song like “Butterfly” in 2015. But here we are - a goofy intro that sounds like a sitcom theme mixed with a surprisingly AutoTune-y electropop strut, all resulting in an arrestingly uncommon ode to individualism. After all of Art Angels’ mania - the ecstatic opening act, the dreamy middle section, and the darker, clubbier second half - “Butterfly” offers a soothing exit. It also perfectly puts the finishing touches on the new, stronger persona Grimes has created for itself: “If you’re looking for your dream girl / I’ll never be your dream girl.” Those were the words she left us with - no one knows what to expect next.
“No Shade in the Shadow of the Cross”
The loss of someone great never really results in one emotion. When someone close to you leaves, it triggers an onslaught of feelings, from despair to confusion to numbness. Coming near the end of Carrie & Lowell, “No Shade in the Shadow of the Cross” is the last one - Sufjan Stevens is reeling after going on a self-destructive romp after his mother’s death. “There’s blood on that blade / Fuck me, I’m falling apart,” he sings in a whispery voice, accompanied by a gentle guitar. This song is the morning after the storm, the moment where Stevens is at his lowest and most defeated; in a way, it’s also a new beginning.
I read these words one day on an electronic music forum:
‘I saw my heart break in two / With you. / I saw her again / With you.’
Unbelievable beauty and sadness. It’s really something to be in the electronic music scene for nearly 20 years and eventually an artist comes along that is hyped like world madness and designated our next savior. And you listen to the record and you hear every reference, every allusion, decades of rave and breakbeat and drugs and hope. You listen and you know he knows like you what it’s like to be in nightclubs and the only one on deserted blue-lit dance floors for half your life.
Every once and awhile, they get something right.
The post was deleted soon after, but I saved the words because there’s nothing more that needs to be said about this song. After “Gosh” and “Sleep Sound” get In Colour into an earthy, intimate groove, “SeeSaw” seems to pull you back into the sky - back into your own head. Romy’s lyrics - “I see pictures in my mind” - couldn’t be more perfect. In Colour is an album about how it feels to be on the dance floor, and “SeeSaw” is the moment where you experience the heartbreak of knowing, in the middle of this massive party, that the person you came with isn’t there for you.
You can pinpoint the exact moment in the middle of the title track of Grimes’ Art Angels when her newfound taste for eclectic pop music stops being newfound - it’s the moment where, after a hectic first verse in English, she suddenly switches to French. “Je comprends / je l’ai dit / c’est la vie” - it means “I understand, I said it, it’s life.” Art Angels is a cluttered album full of stories that somehow manages to feel cohesive, and it’s titular track is a microcosm of that. This song is absolutely stuffed with melodies and vocals and sounds, but a singular message gets through all the glorious muck - Grimes loves her city of Montréal. “Artangels” is a perfectly executed statement of love for a specific place; we all have our Montréal, and we’ve all felt the way that Claire Boucher feels in the chorus: “Running every red light / you were right / oh Montréal, don’t break my heart / I think I love you.”
“Where Are Ü Now (feat. Justin Bieber)”
Listening to Jack Ü’s debut album back in March, it was obvious what “Where Are Ü Now” was destined to be. The finale of a half-hour barrage of gloriously clunky, globally influenced post-dubstep beats, this track isn’t revolutionary: it’s a common trope nowadays for EDM albums to feature the “emotional closing track.” What’s truly daunting is how well it’s done here - from the initial sample, metallic synth buzzing quietly away behind it, to the intimate, careful buildup, to the moment where Bieber relinquishes control to a tropical, squeaky dolphin-ized version of his own voice.
This track might just be the best use of vocal manipulation in a trap song so far. It revived the career of Justin Bieber, and helped revive the career of Diplo, who since went on to craft “Lean On” and produce music for Beyoncé, M.I.A., and The Weeknd. It expertly mixed emotional songwriting with regular conventions of EDM, something that is insanely hard to do well (although Skrillex has done it before). “Where Are Ü Now” is one of the most influential songs of 2015 - it elevated the three musicians involved towards becoming chart-dominators across the next twelve months. But that’s not what makes it a good song - what makes it a good song is its flawless composition, its stunning production, and its unquestionable heart.
Josh Tillman wrote this song on his wedding day, and it shows. The penultimate track to I Love You, Honeybear works like a lot of his songs: on first listen, it sounds unbearably pretentious, but the song’s meaning slowly emerges with repeated listens. A simple piano/guitar ballad, “Holy Shit” is much more lyrical than it is music. Tillman lists the things humans can’t escape in the verses - basically, a bunch of ‘holy shit,’ from original sin and genetic fate to isolation and online friends. The sheer scope of the subjects addressed is exhausting; Tillman addresses this in the first chorus, singing, “Oh, and no one ever really knows you and life is brief / So I’ve heard, but what’s that gotta do with this black hole in me?” Two thirds through the song, the key changes, and a string quartet majestically comes together - then, Tillman turns his eye to love. “Maybe love is just an economy based on resource scarcity / But what I fail to see is what that’s got to do with you and me.” “Holy Shit” is an slyly delivered statement against intellectualism; maybe marriage is an empty social construct, maybe it’s just a genetic advantage, and maybe love is just a market where you settle for you afford. But it doesn’t matter - Tillman and his wife will keep existing, and so should we.
Kendrick Lamar is more than just an excellent lyricist - he’s an actor, someone who uses different voices and personas to express different aspects of his own personality. His talents in this area have never been as prominent as they are in “u”, one of the most heart-wrenching tracks on To Pimp A Butterfly. Across the song’s four minutes, Lamar goes through hell - “Lovin’ you is complicated,” he squeals at the song’s beginning, before launching into a searing self-criticism. “I fuckin’ hate you, I hope you embrace it.” When the song suddenly cracks - the mix fractures, spinning nauseatingly from ear to ear as a maid knocks at Lamar’s hotel room door - so does Lamar’s anger, becoming despondent sorrow as he adopts a pitiful sobbing voice that stops to sniffle and drink from a bottle. More than any other song this year, “u” made a statement by showing instead of telling.
Compared to other genres, there isn’t really that much room in house music for innovation. In the world of electronic music, where genres can have smaller boundaries than your average Brooklyn micro-apartment, what makes a “house” song isn’t necessarily an exciting new sound; instead, it’s a good groove and a creative ear for samples. “Kin”, a single off of London duo Azedia’s sophomore album Form, is hands down the best conventional house track of 2015, and it’s because of both of those criteria.
One thing that does set “Kin” apart from most other house songs is its many musical elements - although there are strong musical motifs throughout, this track tells a story with them instead of repeating them ad nauseam. The main theme is so simple - a warped sample of a woman saying “you” - but, like so many other classic house tracks, it speaks to the universality of the genre (house music tends to be about big things, like love and sex and community). The song’s first movement is irresistibly opulent - wormy off-key synth lines alternate with plush, jazzy keyboard hits, and a muscular bass kicks in as the track grows and grows. When the track drops out to reveal a simple piano line, one that slowly gains momentum before meshing beautifully with the first half of the song, Azedia find their true magic; it’s the hummed melody on top of that piano that seems to summarize what "Kin” - and house music as a movement - is all about.
If You’re Reading This It’s Too Late
After putting out maximalist masterpiece Nothing Was The Same in 2013, Drake’s next project took a surprising turn - while all the after-hours melancholy was still there, If You’re Reading This It’s Too Late displayed an aggression that was compelling, to say the least. “Know Yourself” is this aggression - this sense of vicious, unadorned musical focus - at its peak. The drums are so mean - deep and guttural, yet they still feel brittle, like they’ve been left out overnight in the Toronto permafrost. Boi-1da′s simple synth lines, one twinkling in the back and one writhing around in the front of the mix, give the growling bass some direction. And Drake is cold and clinical, dropping words right on the beat - “I want that Ferrari then I SWERVE.” When he lurches into a triplet flow, it feels as if he’s suddenly taken the reins from the production, and it’s just in time for him to hand them right back to another Boi-1da beat which just shreds, taking all of that pent-up mercilessness from the song’s first half and letting it go through machine-gun sprays of hi hats and chants of “RUNNIN-THRUTHE-6-WITH MY WOES!” No song this year was more ruthlessly, luxuriously cold - with “Know Yourself”, Drake gave harsh Toronto winters an anthem.
Have You In My Wilderness
“You know I love to run away from sun,” Julia Holter sings near the beginning of “Feel You”; if you’ve ever listened to any of her music, which is invariably lush, delicate, and full of reverb, you’ll know this. Like the rest of Have You In My Wilderness, “Feel You” expresses how wonderful certain textures can be - not only does Holter pepper her lyrics with things that stand out due to their evocative beauty (raincoats, perfumes, Mexico City), she rejoices in simply letting the words tumble out of her mouth. Listen to her first line and how she crisply enunciates everything to the point where it’s almost unintelligible. It’s a simple thing for a song to hold most dear, the joy of aesthetics, but “Feel You” does it on almost every layer - it’s a positively radiant song, to the point where you begin to enjoy your own surroundings all the more.
Sufjan Stevens’ Carrie & Lowell was uniquely brilliant in that it approached a cataclysmic loss in a variety of different ways and emotions, and “Fourth of July” was by far the most haunting of these explorations. This song has such a hushed atmosphere that it’s hard not to picture Stevens’ at his mother’s deathbed. Keyboards swirl amongst foggy reverb; Stevens’ lyrics portray a man at ground zero of a loss (”The hospital asked, should the body be cast before I say goodbye / my star in the sky”). “Fourth of July” will resonate through the years as one of Stevens’ great songs - a stirringly simple song about how it feels to watch someone you love pass away.
Beach House are a band obsessed with a certain ineffable feeling, and on Depression Cherry closer “Days of Candy”, they stretch this feeling to its astonishingly gorgeous limits. It’s hard to decide whether this track is thick or thin, maximalist, or minimalist - all that I know is that it is grandly evocative. Victoria Legrand’s heavenly voice is more vulnerable than it ever has been, roaming naked amongst the harmonies of a Mississippi choir. When things transform into a guitar ballad, it feels like a statement from the band, some cosmic connection of their own simple dream pop with a greater force. “I know it comes too soon / the universe is riding off with you,” Legrand breathes cryptically, sealing this track’s feel of mysterious wonder. “Days of Candy” works on two levels: as a plain old lovely song, and as a portal to another world.
A$AP Rocky’s “Excuse Me” is a wake-up call of the best variety. That sample - courtesy of Vulkan The Crusader, lifted from a Christmas song by The Platters - is the one of the best of the year; it’s psychedelic in itself, but positioned after the fantastical “L$D” on AT.LONG.LAST.A$AP, it feels like a lush summer morning. Rocky, meanwhile, pulls out one of his strongest flows yet, spitting continuously over a lazily floundering drum beat. The chorus lapses back into nighttime, with Rocky singing chant-like over a colorful instrumental, before you’re woken up once more. As the heart of the psychedelics-obsessed AT.LONG.LAST.A$AP, “Excuse Me” is outstanding - as a showcase of Rocky’s mesmerizing ability to flow on top of a track, it’s even more so. The result of a man on top of his game in every sense.
Jamie xx’s debut album steadfastly denies genre labels - instead, it’s almost as if In Colour wants to be categorized more emotionally than musically. Throughout the album, the London producer strives for a sound that’s airy and dreamy, but still primal in its rhythm; “The Rest Is Noise”, the penultimate track on the record, is surely the most direct, constant, and impactful exploration of this sound. Just listen to how delicately he builds the song to a crescendo, seemingly listening carefully to every sound - the first 90 seconds of “The Rest Is Noise” are a slow ascent into the night sky, before lightly touching down onto a rooftop of disguised handclaps and classical pianos.
This is a song full of moments that excite and inspire, from the sudden onslaught of dark bass after three minutes to the moment where everything comes together at the end of the track. In Colour might have flashier tracks, or better and bigger singular moments. “The Rest Is Noise”, however, is unparalleled in its consistent momentum - it’s Jamie xx at his best, taking a simple set of musical ideas and conjuring life out of them.
Of all the music that came out in 2015, very little was this ambitious. “Brought to the Water” is an onslaught of sound and fury at first glance, sure, but what makes the opener to Deafheaven’s New Bermuda truly captivating is its songwriting, something which doesn’t always come first in black metal. George Clarke’s band can shred, and they let loose on the first half of this track; drummer Daniel Tracy does fantastic work in keeping a deadly rhythm during the song’s breakneck first act. But as the song progresses, losing its obsidian edge and becoming more nuanced, the one-note thrashing slowly blossoms into an imposing minor-key jam - then it goes even further, introducing a bold guitar riff three minutes in which plays with major-key notes. All of a sudden, the song is in a major key; it carries onwards, introducing a gorgeously laidback guitar riff and ending with a cathartic piano piece.
The point of all this kind-of-but-not-really music theory is to reveal how brilliant "Brought to the Water” is at using songwriting to get across a nuanced combination of emotions. This track starts off as a frenzied explosion of crazy drums and monotonous bass and gradually melts into a more layered, musical piece - it’s a magnificent portrayal of how behind our visceral anger, there’s always something a little more human.
“Should Have Known Better”
Carrie & Lowell doesn’t remember Sufjan Stevens’ mother by telling a concise story about her life; instead, it’s more of a piece-by-piece recollection, like a diary that’s been put through the shredder and pasted back together to make more of an subconscious impression than a conscious one. This is how Sufjan writes, and “Should Have Known Better” is him at his utter pinnacle; depression and hope are tied exquisitely together, all around love for his mother.
He comes close on other songs, but in the end, this is the most intimate he’ll ever sound towards his mom. The funny thing is that he almost never mentions her, but when he does - “Oh, be my rest, be my fantasy” - it’s a feeling of desperate desire, as if she’s alive for one moment more. He recalls being “three, maybe four” and experiencing his earliest memories of her - being left at a video store, seeing her picture on a door in his house - and that feeling of being an impressionable toddler who loves their mom more than anything is so painfully apparent. “Should Have Known Better” is stunning; every tiny detail contributes to paint an overall picture that’s a little rough at the margins, but so, so clear where it really matters.
Four Tet (a.k.a. Kieran Hebden) has spent his career as a musician exploring two things, the more intimate side of the dancefloor and the allure of Eastern traditional music, and Morning / Evening - especially “Morning” - takes both of those and sets them free, letting them intertwine across 40 sprawling minutes. The funny thing about this song is that it wouldn’t really be that good if it were, say, 7 minutes long - the distinctive Bollywood sample and the train-tracks beat behind it work much better when stretched for so long that they fade warmly into the background. Hebden almost never stops adding and taking away elements of the song, as if the core sample is a diamond that looks different every time you move an inch in any direction.
The more romantic side of me loves this song for something a little less demonstrable: to me, "Morning” is an ode to the power of travel, and a statement about how vast our Earth truly is. Hebden’s use of the Indian sample never really strays into the poisonous territory of orientalism; there’s almost nothing else in the track that suggests any connection with Indian culture. Even so, there’s something thrillingly “other”-ish about the song, and it doesn’t feel like it’s cultural. “Morning” represents the better side of travel, the side that shows you how boundless the human experience really is. It makes complete sense that it’s titled something like “Morning”; it makes complete sense that it sounds like how a sunrise looks. After all, that’s all we have in common.
Even though they’ve spent their entire career trying, Beach House have never said more with less than in this song. The opener to Depression Cherry is like a dream where you fall in love with someone you’ve never met, and Victoria Legrand is happy to play the part. Her first lyric, simply a wistful “You...... and me,” puts you in the palm of her hand. To some extent, the criticisms that Beach House’s songs are too detached too make an emotional connection are understandable. With “Levitation”, though, it’s not so much detached as it is universal. It’s hard not to feel something to the words Legrand sings, or the way she sings them; it’s hard not to feel lifted up in the air when Alex Scully’s reverbed-out guitars suddenly fill the space surrounding her vocals. “There’s a place I want to take you” - the words that are said over and over as the song disappears into a cloud of wistful, silvery keyboards. The journey is the destination.
While the title to Grimes’ “Realiti” might suggest otherwise, this song feels like a dream - and maybe it’s supposed to. The song plays with present and past tense, jumping from one to the other between every verse and chorus; it’s almost like Grimes herself is torn between the present and her past loved one. “Oh baby, every morning there are mountains to climb,” she sings over a nocturnal synthpop beat. “Realiti” is not a happy song - it’s remembering an old relationship, and how she doesn’t feel the way she used to. Even still, there’s something incredibly joyous in the way she embraces these memories; Grimes doesn’t merely revisit them, she lets them wash over her. “Realiti” is a song thick with feeling and memory, yet it manages to stay cool as a cucumber. You won’t find another song from 2015 like this one - so unassuming on the surface, but you never really let go of it.
It’s important to read the lyrics to this song. You should pore over them - read the Genius page, Google Wallace Thurman, read how, a month before the release of this song, Kendrick Lamar said in Billboard, “When we don't have respect for ourselves, how do we expect them to respect us?” and was met with criticism from the hip hop community. You should understand how the song fearlessly unfolds its message - Lamar is black, and his community faces nothing less than annihilation by those who oppress it, but when the gangs continue to kill each other, peace will be hard, if not impossible to accomplish.
But the song’s greatest strength isn’t something that needs to be learned. It’s something that Kendrick Lamar has always possessed, more so than any other rapper out there today. It’s the ability to tell a story without relying on the words, and he’s never done it better than he does it here. Boi-1da’s vicious production and Assassin’s chorus contribute to the mood, but the catalyst here is Lamar - his carefully chosen words are yelled out with venom, as if he’s been emotionally strained so intensely that his outburst, while passionate, still hits all the right points. The phrases he uses to identify himself - “I’m a proud monkey”, “heart as black as a fuckin’ Aryan”, “my hair is nappy, my dick is big, my nose is round and wide” - lack any restraint. And when the song reaches its absolute peak, he’s there to give his all. By the end of “The Blacker The Berry”’s five-plus minutes, Kendrick Lamar’s point hasn’t merely hit home - it’s shattered any response you could possibly have. The biggest hypocrite of 2015, maybe, but he’s also the best storyteller.
“Loud Places (feat. Romy)”
“I go to loud places / to search for someone / to be quiet with / who will take me home.” The protagonist of “Loud Places” is also the protagonist of In Colour as a whole - just like Romy in this wonderful, wonderful song, the album is besotted with the dancefloor because it is a place where love happens. This is the most emotionally rewarding moment on Jamie xx’s In Colour - the elegance of the chorus simply cannot be matched. It’s packed with emotion - it’s as if fear, depression, hope, frisson, and new love were all packed inside of a tiny club - but it remains utterly exquisite, a rare moment of serenity in the middle of a night of extremes. Jamie xx proves his talent time and time again. In “Loud Places”, he’s made maybe the best song he’ll ever make, a song of such astounding grace and momentum that it makes you fall in love with music all over again.
“Psychedelia is not a genre. It has nothing to with guitar or synths. Psychedelia is a sensation. It’s when you transport people; where you feel like you’re outside your own skin.”
Kevin Parker took a huge departure with “Let It Happen”. He left behind the world that he’d inhabited for the last four years - sure, not that long of a time, but it’s important because Parker’s Tame Impala had kind of made it their own; Innerspeaker and Lonerism are two of the 2010s’ best psychedelic rock records. The key to Tame Impala’s skill was never in what the music sounded like, though. It’s what it felt like - nervous, insecure, cluttered, and introverted to a fault. There is real conflict in Tame Impala’s music; it’s these imperfect feelings that give you the urge to leave your own body and look at things on a cosmic level. Parker has always been a genius at invoking these feelings; the difference is that on “Let It Happen”, they’re perilously out in the open.
“Let It Happen” strips away the grimy rock façade in favor of a cleaner, more dreamy sound: you won’t hear any guitar fuzz or vocal distortion. The skittery guitar line at the beginning sings an uneasy, one-note tune; underneath, the drums are crisp but quietly frenetic. Parker’s voice is unnervingly sleek as he urges his inner self, “Let it happen (it’s gonna feel so good)”; he retreats inside himself to find “an ocean growing inside”, and then resurfaces to an even more nervous variation on the opening theme. With each repetition of this simple chorus/verse format, the intensity in the song grows; it’s like he’s pushing on his own inner walls, trying to make his inhibitions give way. When the second riff kicks in, it’s as if the true battle has begun; when the song unexpectedly freezes into a loop and goes underwater, it’s as if Parker is facing the boss level, his inner ego that prevents this vast, ambiguous change from taking over.
Parker goes to war with himself in “Let It Happen”, and when he wins, the payoff is palpable. The song resurfaces and resumes its second melody, but it’s different - it’s proud, even triumphant. When Parker returns, singing nothings into a vocoder, it’s as if he’s finally found his groove. Currents was an album about the beauty and tragedy of inevitable change, and “Let It Happen” is its shimmering peak, the first hill on the rollercoaster ride that, once crossed, will change everything forevermore.
“I Know There’s Gonna Be (Good Times) [feat. Young Thug & Popcaan]”
Here’s a statement about 2015 that, while a little simplified and subjectively, I’d certainly like to say I believe: this year was a year where we came to terms with our modernity. The best songs this year always came as surprises; they were bold and brave, more so than the year before or the year after. The meme fully arrived on the scene as a thrilling (at least at first) new way to talk about music. The age of streaming continued its journey, full steam ahead. And, overall, it seemed like a year to deal with looming technological advancements.
What “I Know There’s Gonna Be (Good Times)” says about the future is that even though it’s unfamiliar, we’ll make it familiar. Jamie xx’s poppiest song on In Colour takes these polar elements - starry-eyed nostalgia and electric modernism - and lets them gloriously clash against each other. The beat - dancehall-inspired with a very house music-styled sample, is so childlike in spite of it all. That dancehall vibe is executed with a radiant kind of chime noise that’s colorful and playful; it’s bolstered by weird, glassy sound effects and goofy synths that mirror Popcaan’s voice. The sample, meanwhile (it’s of The Persuasions’ “Good Times”), is similarly lighthearted: it has an anthemic kind of positivity to it that pays homage to the simpler days of yesterday.
And then, on top of this hyperactive, buoyant beat, we have Young Thug and his partner-in-crime Popcaan. To this day, this is Young Thug’s best performance ever, and it’s all because of how his electric, alien flow interlocks with Jamie xx’s youthful production. He’s tender one second (“Watch her come to my lights like a reindeer”) and triumphantly feeling himself the next (”Me and Poppy on the same pills”). His voice, which has been AutoTuned and smoothed into a neon whine, sits pleasurably right on top of the song’s key, although it regularly roams to the I and the III chords. Every little bit of this performance is thrilling. It makes you sit back and listen closer, it makes you laugh (”I’ma ride in the pussy like a stroller”? Seriously?!), but - most importantly - it makes you dance.
Popcaan, meanwhile, plays an important rule too - he adds one more layer of melody (and one more exciting flow) to a song that is already overflowing with feel-good songwriting. This more than anything is what makes “I Know There’s Gonna Be (Good Times)” exciting on a purely pop level: there is always music to latch onto. There are Jamie’s chimes, which set the main groove of the song and occasionally drop down to a lower frequency. There’s the weird glassy thing, which playfully swings from note to note like a rubber band that’s being pulled tight and let loose again. There’s Thug himself, who provides almost constant gratification by riding smoothly on top of the whole thing. There’s the sample, which adds a layer of old-school whimsy to the whole thing, and then there’s the Jamaican dancehall star, who interplays with the sample beautifully during each chorus. This track is teeming with melody, so much so that it’s damn near life-affirming.
In the end, yeah, “I Know There’s Gonna Be (Good Times)” is just a pop song, and not even that much of a popular one. There are those who will say this, and they’re right; they’re also right that it’s hard to give a year a particular spirit, or write about Young Thug like he’s some sort of music theory wet dream. But what fun is that? It’s alright to be pretentious about music sometimes - because our favorite song is never “just a pop song” to us. Our favorite music is full of life, emotion, and color. It makes us feel better about the world and about ourselves - or, if it makes us feel worse, it at least comforts us in our moments of despondency. There were some good times in 2015, and it was all thanks to songs like this one.
