Best Albums of 2024
Artificial Bouquet - Frail Body
Some albums have an opening salvo; not just meant to set a tone but bludgeon any listener into submission. Husker Du’s New Day Rising, Deafheaven’s Sunbather. Albums that start like an avalanche. Please welcome Frail Body’s visceral and eviscerating Artificial Bouquet to that pantheon. A primal scream of rage and grief, the Rockford power trio thrashes through a vivisection of lead singer and guitarist Lowell Shaffer’s days, months, and years after his mother passed from cancer. The sheer emotional force on display is unrelenting, a wall of violent sorrow fed through shrill, screaming guitars and Nic Kuczynski’s brutal bass melodies. Combined with Nicholas Clemenson’s richter scale registering drum fills, Artificial Bouquet crashes down like nothing else in 2024, in service to the impossible emotional weight behind every note. On final song “Capsule in the Sediment,” Shaffer places his mom’s ashes in a film canister and drops them into a pristine lake. That moment, the growth after, the turmoil still boiling within all of Frail Body, is perfectly etched in those ever-spiraling guitars. Artificial Bouquet is not an album that will grant easy healing, but the catharsis embedded in its center is undeniable, unshakeable. - Nate Stevens (Listen to our interview.)
Celestial Body - Senza
Eugene-via-Portland trio (and friends of the blog!) Senza double-jump themselves on their new EP, a striking follow-up to their 2019 debut, Even a Worm Will Turn. The five tracks on Celestial Body are simultaneously raucous and suffocating, with bassist Tim Mansell’s frightening yelp sitting somewhere on the spectrum between Haela Hunt-Hendrix and Connie Sgarbossa. The grand finale here, the 5-minute “Scrap the Waste” is a masterclass of post-rock and blackened skramz (blamz?) roiling in catharsis. Senza forever! - Hunter
Critterland - Willi Carlisle
The best part of the Willi Carlisle concert wasn’t the clog stomping percussion, the gut-busting banter, his manager coming out in a hotdog costume and a clarinet; but, instead, a picture show. His manager unveiled parchment hung between two rolls that he handspun as Carlisle and his band played a hymn. “Two Headed Lamb,” is a dedication to the freaks, queers, and trans folks who made this world brighter and stranger–but only for a short time. It’s the same surreal love as Neutral Milk Hotel’s “Two Headed Boy,” the same mystic force as Willie Nelson’s “The Time of the Preacher” and it inhabits all of Critterland. Carlisle raves like a prophet about the infuriating, unending persistence of hope even in the darkest times, from the most devastating song of this decade thus far (“When the Pills Wear Off”) to the uneasy, yet rousing, prayer of “I Want No Children.” As Carlisle howled through the grief of friends long gone, dollars stretched too short, and the light that somehow remains. Hope, and Critterland, is a rupture. - Nate Stevens
De Repente Otra Vez - Sanje
It’s been a long time coming for Santiago Mijares. The Mexico City musician has been a fixture of the local scene for over ten years, both as a player and more recently as a producer. From his beginnings fronting the psych indie outfit Big Big Love, to his work as part of acts like Little Jesus and Petit Amie, and even lending his touch to the recent Panda Bear x Sonic Boom collaboration with El Mariachi 2000 de Cutberto Perez. De Repente Otra Vez, his solo debut as Sanje, sees him closing the loop by updating the sound of his first band and infusing it with folk and latin influences, for a set of songs that draw as much from Grizzly Bear as they do from Rubén Blades.
The result is a rich-sounding record whose songs remind us that even when things don’t go as we’d hoped (“Anfitrión”), we remain connected to those around us both through tangible things in the now (“Kristina”), and perhaps even in the unknowable beyond (“Buen Fantasma” one of the best songs of the year). This sense of connection extends to the record’s collaborators: trombonist Saúl Millán, who lends his name to the song “Saúl”; Yöels, another veteran from the local scene going solo; Santiago’s brother Patricio, who mixed the record and has shared his journey since the days of BBL; or the collective voices that soar on the closer “Nadatodo”.
I first encountered Sanje when he opened for Weyes Blood in late 2023, and even back then —on his first live show under that name, no less— it felt like stumbling into something special. De Repente Otra Vez proves that feeling right —a solo album that refuses solitude. When Sanje sings “Todos a comer, en mi casa”, he means it. There’s always room for one more at his table. And, let me tell you, this is a really good meal. - JP Alva (Listen to our interview.)
Diamond Jubilee - Cindy Lee
You happen upon an old car, overgrown by vegetation. Somehow, its radio still works, but the sun-faded frequency spectrum is just barely legible, and none of the stations are where they should be. There is no talk radio, no Top 40, no golden oldies, or if there are, they are so distorted that they are unintelligible, except for one station that seems to come in on multiple frequencies. The more you listen, the more you realize that all of the songs are sung by the same angelic voice, and that guitar… holy shit that guitar.
On Diamond Jubilee, Cindy Lee foregrounds the classic, girl group pop sensibilities that have always haunted their sound, even on their harshest noise experiments, and stretches them as far and wide as the North American sky. Over 32 songs, and two hours, Pat Flegel rattles off perfect, genre-bending songs like a lost retrospective of a spurned popstar ahead of their time, and stakes their claim as a true guitar god, layering one self-indulgent guitar solo after another. It would be too much if it didn’t feel like it wasn’t enough. The grooves suck blood, the cheques cash, the flesh pulsates, the choogles choogle, and the result is the purest, crystal clear hit of rock and roll anyone has managed on this astral plane in, well, maybe ever. Follow these songs to wherever roads can’t take you. - Pads
Endlessness - Nala Sinephro
I encountered Nala Sinephro’s Endlessness in the sweetest way possible: by walking up to the record store guy, asking, “What on earth is this wonderful music?”, and walking out the door with the album in hand (after, you know, paying for it). I can even tell you the exact moment that caught—and kept—my attention. There’s lush and rich synthesizer swell almost exactly four minutes into the first track that sweeps the whole band off its feet and into the air like a cormorant diving through a waterfall, reminiscent of some of the brightest moments on Promises, the mighty Floating Points/Pharoah Sanders/London Symphony collab from a few years ago. Synth, sax, and percussion weave together like alchemy, or magic, or the “petite phrase of Vinteuil” that returns again and again in Proust. I do not raise these points of comparison lightly. It’s that good.
Arguably, nothing swings less than a modular synthesizer; any instrument that could theoretically have a “swing” dial on it with an assigned number value is getting pretty far afield from any rhythm with its roots set fundamentally in the movement of the human body. But Sinephro shows how, in conversation with the right drummers (Morgan Simpson and Natcyet Wakili) and some of the best reed players in the business (Nubya Garcia and James Mollison), even a staccato arpeggiator can tune into the breathy regions of fusion conjured by the likes of Terje Rypdal and Jakob Bro, even invoking Alice Coltrane.
“Ambient” is far too reductive a term for this unclassifiable series of swirls and loops, especially as a lazy synonym for “consonant.” Much of this album tracks along the traditional major or minor scale (with a few joyously dissonant earworms); many of these tracks make for intuitively pleasant listening. That’s the genius of Sinephro and her co-conspirators, to build cloud castles of sonic complexity using relatively straightforward tools. However, unlike that jazz-ambient album by André 3000/Carlos Niño, Sinephro’s music never floats all the way off into the ether; the warm mix, the steady percussion, and the subtle chord changes keep everything tangible and present, electronic music with the up-close-and-personal spirit of Cassie Kinoshi’s seed.
Since each song is just named “Continuum,” followed by a track number, the listener is given wide latitude to impose their own meaning onto the sounds. I suggest that you resist this impulse altogether: don’t try to make it mean anything. Take a Saturday afternoon, lay down on the floor, and just let this music wash over you in the fullness of its being. You will feel endless. - Nate Schmidt
Every Bridge Burning - Nails
Chapter 16: RIFFS.
When I listen to the new Nails, the first in eight years, I feel like I’m getting punched over and over by a five-time heavyweight champ who’s been paid to give me a TBI, but I…like it? Todd Jones and his powerviolence circus (complete with lineup change and all) wear their influences (Agnostic Front, Gism) on their sleeves more than usual, and the vocals seem more inspired by those of grind and goregrind legends like Travis Ryan and J.R. Hayes than on records like Unsilent Death. But ultimately this record lives or dies on the strength of its Crazy-Ass Riffs™️, and, boy, there are a lot! What a wonderfully punishing little album. Nails is an amazing band, and I’m so glad they’re back. - Hunter
Exploring Together - Saphileaum
Ignore the uncomfortable, uneasy stares of those paper dudes on the album cover. You’re welcome here. Every good adventure needs an able guide, and Georgia’s Saphileaum already busted out the compass. Over a dreamy, but impish, series of electronic amblers, Saphileaum creates a breezy, calming globe trek. Old transmissions from the goofy days of lounge beam in (the bouncy “Rapa Nui”) alongside odes to 808 State (The brilliant “Eau Thermale”). It’s electronic with a groovy spine, but such a relaxed, friendly demeanor it nearly falls into ambient. Couldn’t ask for a better travel companion. - Nate Stevens (Listen to our interview.)
The Fool - Young Jesus
Money haunts this record like a ghost. It opens with the narrator playing a lonely show to two older women, who may or may not be bandits on the lam. Its climax is a ballad about the miseries of society’s most fortunate. Its greatest joys are either found in the dirt or purchased second hand. Its greatest weapon is its voice: John Rossiter’s tender, powerful, absolute fucking meteor of a voice. And your voice is free, no one can take it away from you--unless you sign it away or resign yourself to a life of silence. Be thankful that, despite the crushing realities of the business of Indie Rock, the universe found a way to help The Fool find his voice, anew, often accompanied by only the most sparing arrangements. Only fitting for a “band” named Young Jesus to find rebirth after being pushed to the financial, and spiritual brink. - Pads
I Want to Run Barefoot Through Your Hair - Chris Owens
We know who he is. We know what he’s capable of. Being the main songwriter for one of indie rock’s absolute best ever has afforded Christopher Owens leeway but coming back to his solo work after nearly a decade, there was some uncertainty surrounding I Want To Run Barefoot Through Your Hair. As a fan since Girls’ Album, and after Chrissybaby Forever, I approached this with caution and measured expectations. Does he still have it? Will it still have that same warm feeling after such a departure?
You can’t even imagine the sense of not just relief, but of pure euphoria, after the first listen. It’s the same thing we’ve always loved, just more refined, more polished, more beautifully lethal. The sense of familiarity behind Owens’ songwriting has always been the secret weapon. It’s like we’ve heard his songs somewhere before, and it provides a sense of intense longing and nostalgia even when it’s brand new. I Want To Run Barefoot Through Your Hair does this magnificently.
The big surprise here for me comes in the form of the sonic textures, experimental arrangements, the warm, full production, and the dueling acoustic and electric guitar parts. Holy shit, those guitars, man; absolute perfection. There are standouts (“I Think About Heaven”, “This Is My Guitar”), but the real unforgettable moment after this incredible journey comes with the closing track, “Do You Need A Friend.” The accumulation of all the longing, all the emotion, in one gigantic refrain that feels like an avalanche. “If you really want to know, I’m barely making it through the days…” is the mantra he recites as the wall of fuzz swells behind him, each reiteration becoming heavier and more unhinged. What a lovely bow on this beautiful gift.
The massive entirety and gravity of it as a whole makes it hard for me to listen to anything else immediately afterwards. I usually have to sit in silence for a bit and gather my marbles, and I can’t say that happens too often. Every listen simultaneously makes it feel like I’ve always had this in my life and that it’s something excitingly brand new. At this point, I’m comfortable and confident saying it’s the best piece of art he’s ever released, and if you’re familiar with or a fan of Girls, you know how bold that statement is. - MCG
Keeper of the Shepherd - Hannah Frances
Hannah Frances lives in the churn and toil of loss with Keeper of the Shepherd, holding grief tight even as it thrashes like a wounded animal. Through a baffling mass of time signature changes, a full orchestra of woodwinds, and her own soaring voice, Frances finds phantoms in her own life by recognizing the constant cycle of death and rebirth in nature. Rot, after all, is birthing by another’s passing. On the hushed “Husk,” Frances strips away all pretenses and sings an ode to Death, who whispers harmonies with her. It is a shuddering, sudden, sublime moment of grace in ultimate uncertainty. - Nate Stevens (Listen to our interview.)
Lafandar and Veena - Heems
Queens’ own Himanshu Suri, back from a hiatus that his fans (my editor and me) thought would never end, has created a thoughtful, hilarious, and surprisingly personal pair of records released six months apart on his own Veena Sounds label. I loved both but Lafandar is my favorite of the two, featuring amazing production from Lapgan and joke-a-minute guest slots from the likes of Open Mike Eagle, Your Old Droog, and, of all people, Saul Williams. In a year where Wolverine reigned supreme at the worldwide box office, leave it to Heems to compare himself to his favorite former Sexiest Man Alive with the throwaway line, “I’m like Hugh Jackman / I’m a huge, jacked man.” Good to have you back, buddy. - Hunter
Mahashmashana - Father John Misty
If you’ve had the pleasure of catching their live show over the past couple of years, you know that Father John Misty is a jam band now. Josh Tillman continues to conceal his “lack of skill” in the spotlight surrounded by a murderer’s row of session musicians in tuxedos choogling to the ends of the universe. But where most jam bands treat songwriting as an afterthought, Papa John Murphy excels. The latest record, Mahashmashana, a Sanskrit word meaning “great cremation ground,” finds Josh Tillman, a newly minted father himself, welcoming death and the infinite silence with cinematic, orchestral splendor. Maybe nothingness ain’t so bad. Here’s hoping there are this many saxophone solos and wry zingers in the great beyond. - Pads
marked - Klein
Standing head and shoulders above the disgusting riches of form-shattering guitar music in 2024, Klein's latest combines wonderfully hideous guitar tones with bleak soundscapes that recall Daniel Bachman at his most apocalyptic, blown-out, and bridge-burning. Tracks like "(breaking news)" and "enemy of the state" channel contemporary social anxieties into thrillingly abrasive material, and the range of soundsfrom the percussive agitation of "Blow the Whistle" to the eerily sedate drone of "more than like" highlights an unpredictable range of sound. marked as well as its secondcousin in noisy dissonance Estrella por estrella by Joshua Chuquimia Crampton answers the tedious question of "Is rock dead?" with a resounding "Yes, what a beautifully noisy death for all to hear." Pull up and watch it all burn. - Carter Simonson