MySpace Music – The Best Albums of 2010

MySpace Music – The Best Albums of 2010

Around this time every year, music people like us start getting reflective. Don’t question it, that’s just what we do. Over the course of any given year, we sink our teeth into every bit of music we can grab onto, before ultimately deciding whether it actually is the next big thing. Or if it’s just the next, well, Lady Sovereign.

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Some albums we’ll eventually view as timeless, while others will end up feeling a bit too 2010. But that’s the beauty of these end-of-the-year lists. You just never know. This week, we are unveiling our Top 50 Albums of the Year. Ten a day for the next week. And, to make this a bit more unique, we had our friends at Vahalla Studios design minimal posters for each album. (They’re not just for movies anymore!)

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In the end, we’d like to think of this as a sprawling collection of musical goodness that cuts across all genres, the results of a process that, per usual, brought on an intense amount of ego-bruising, music taste-harassment and every other brand of unnecessary critique you can dream of.

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Yes, it’s safe to say we love this stuff.

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The Drums, a relatively new indie trio from Brooklyn, broadcast with the name of their band how much they care about gear and sound and technique. They then make it even clearer with their self-titled debut, which could fool an experienced record collector into thinking they are hearing some compilation of out-of-the-vault rarities from the original post-punk era. In other words, if you’re one of those listeners for whom invention trumps inspiration, it’s probably best to stay away from “Best Friend,” where The Drums channel The Cure’s mopey jangle, and “It Will All End in Tears,” where they do an even better job with New Order’s propulsive melancholy. As for everybody else: Good luck trying to get their whimsical ode to summer “Let’s Go Surfing” out of your head.—Mikael Wood

An Ivy League grad and former management consultant seems like an unlikely candidate to help revive the heavy-hearted protest music and gritty soul of yesteryear. But John Legend, one of R&B’s most refined voices, along with arguably the most versatile backing band alive, The Roots, have taken the old school funk and soul classics on Wake Up! and treated them with a modern day sheen. Baby Huey’s “Hard Times” receives a bass-heavy thwack, Marvin Gaye’s “Wholy Holy” makes Sunday School haters yearn for the kneeler and Ernie Hines’ “Our Generation (The Hope Of The World)” is updated with CL Smooth’s East Coast hip-hop swag. “War is hell / It always has been, it always will be,” Legend elegantly prophesizes in the spoken-word intro to “I Can’t Write Left Handed.” Legend may not have been in the trenches, but the man’s certainly got a feel for the fight. —Dan Hyman

Nathan Williams of Wavves comes on like the lowest-ambition rock-star aspirant since the word “slacker” made its half-hearted exit from the cultural lexicon. “Our stupid CD came out today,” he told an audience at an L.A. record-release show for King Of The Beach this past summer. “Big deal.” Truth be told, though, the release of Wavves’ third full-length was a big deal, with a cleaned-up production job by Modest Mouse knob-twirler Dennis Herring, backing-band help from the late Jay Reatard’s former crew and a considerable promotional push overseen by the revitalized cool-hunters at Fat Possum. (There was also Williams’ blog-bait romance with Bethany Cosentino of Best Coast, whose Crazy for You came out, rather synergistically, within a few weeks of King.) Yet none of that is what you think about when you listen to the fuzz-bomb power-pop found here: What you think about is nothing at all. —Mikael Wood

For their fourth collaborative album together, veteran lyricist Murs and legendary producer 9th Wonder have finally settled into the perfect groove. Now 11 albums into his storied career, Murs perfectly walks that line between hardass and everydude (even though he’s trying to be “something like a mix between Tooki and Shakespeare”). Murs is usually found in chill mode, like vintage DJ Quik or King Tee, reveling in simple pleasures like food, drink and girls. (Sample song titles include “Live From Roscoe’s,” “Cigarettes And Liquor” and, er, “Asian Girl.”) But 9th Wonder is his perfect foil for this laidback ride, lacing each track with the vintage soul samples (Ohio Players, the Lovelites, Johnny Bristol) that gives Murs’ boasts and punchlines equal parts bounce and nostalgia. But the album’s secret weapon is a who’s who of ’90s Cali underdogs—Kurupt, Suga Free, Sick Jacken—making the whole album feel like a sunny, summer hang sesh.—Christopher R. Weingarten

Ludacris’ seventh effort, first billed as a lyrical mêlée between the rapper and his DTP labelmate Shawnna, lost its initial direction once his female cohort jumped ship. But naturally, the Mouth of the South turned to the over-the-top brand of sexual braggadocio he’s cooked to perfection for the past 10 years. If he’s not teasing (“Feelin’ So Sexy”), he’s gettin’ nasty (“My Chick Bad) and the only battle here is whether his lyrical speed can match how fast he’ll get you laying butt-ass naked in his bed. Though his original concept never did come to full fruition, he does take some time out to spar with a few of rap’s leading ladies: Nicki Minaj and Lil Kim join the battle-turned-orgy, but Luda’s been shaggin’ long enough to know that’s one ménage-a-trois that won’t end pretty.—Dan Hyman

Strip away the Dr. Death Defying interludes and storylines involving post-apocalyptic gangs and it becomes clear that the real concept guiding the fourth album by My Chemical Romance is something far more human than you might have suspected. Which is a relief, because after a string of deals with the devil and damned-saving martyrs, it wasn’t entirely clear whether or not frontman Gerard Way understood how fantastic his own life had become. Turns out he’s acutely self-aware: If naming the first single “Na Na Na (Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na)” is technically the least resistant gesture on your high-stakes album, then an earnest new wave ballad like “Summertime” or a four-to-the-floor club track like “Planetary (GO!)” is going to feel par for the course. In fact, this is why Danger Days is one of the year’s best records: It’s the “dangerous” rock ‘n’ roll album we were promised, but for none of the reasons we initially imagined. And when Way sings, “Make no apology / It’s death or victory,” it’s clear that he is no longer speaking on behalf of a fictional character.—Norman Brannon

Despite its all-encompassing title, Trey Songz’s fourth studio disc actually retreated a bit from the red-needle intensity of last year’s Ready, which turned this young R&B singer into a bona fide star. Of course, with a track called “I Invented Sex,” Ready was destined to make any follow-up sound mild in comparison. That’s not to say that Passion, Pain & Pleasure didn’t deliver what it advertised: In fact, newly mature slow jams such as “Made to Be Together” and “Love Faces” suggested that Songz is growing into the kind of understated confidence necessary for a lengthy career. After all, you don’t make it through a song like “Bottoms Up,” his double-entendre duet with Nicki Minaj, without believing in your ability to get away with what other dudes can’t.—Mikael Wood

Euphoric electro-Brits Hot Chip have morphed from a dance band with a giddy pop streak into a softhearted, vaguely nostalgic pop band that coincidentally might make you dance. For their best—and most sonically ambitious—record to date, the band shed both the panic and the disco, crafting a sophisticated art-pop masterpiece. While One Life Stand is equal parts R&B-leaning and indie-slouching, it’s ultimately a modern take on the rapturous mid-’80s incandescence of Pet Shop Boys and Erasure—moody, tender, propulsive, infectious, and human after all. Dual vocalists Alexis Taylor and Joe Goddard sing these naked songs of lifelong monogamy while wrapped in cloaks of Autotune, floaty reverb and the wry distance reminiscent of bands like ABC. But it’s not all cool demeanor and warm synths: Vulnerability lurks everywhere, especially in Taylor’s cracking, straining falsetto.—Christopher R. Weingarten

More than 20 years into their accidental career, these grizzled vets stand before you as a band squarely out of time: They offer no blog-generated buzz or brush ups with TMZ, just songs that recall an era when you would actually venture to something called a “record store” to discover your new favorite band. And just like they did in that now-distant epoch (let’s just call it the “early ’90s”), the songs on Majesty Shredding positively beam: These 11 tracks are all furiously strummed bar chords, slacker rock guitar solos and instantly hummable choruses. After a near nine-year-hiatus (during which the band’s members took time out to make babies and put out hugely successful albums by groups like Arcade Fire on their beloved label, Merge), the ’Chunk have seemingly created the template for any indie rock comeback. The rules are simple: Play to your strengths, own your generation gap and, when in doubt, pogo your ass off. —Trevor Kelley

These long-toiling L.A. electro-rap mavens finally broke out of the club-rat race when their insanely catchy “Like A G6” rocketed to the top of the singles chart this past fall. But the delights of Free Wired, Far East Movement’s major label debut, run deeper than that ode to gettin’ slizzard: “Girls on the Dance Floor” rides a similarly sproingy video-game bass line, “White Flag” is a chipper slice of digital disco and “So What?” reminds you of how great the beat from the Black Eyed Peas’ “Imma Be” was. In “Don’t Look Now” (featuring Keri Hilson) and “Rocketeer” (with Ryan Tedder of OneRepublic) they even step out of the club for a minute to target the same radio-pop turf that, in 2010, Bruno Mars and Taio Cruz controlled. With an album this strong, 2011 may be another story.—Mikael Wood

From the outside, it always seemed like Wolf Parade ringleaders Dan Boeckner and Spencer Krug were two highly talented songwriters, pooling their efforts for maximum payoff. With all the side projects these dudes have (Handsome Furs, Sunset Rubdown, et al), you’d be forgiven for thinking so—especially when you consider that previous Wolf Parade efforts offered a clear demarcation line between Krug’s keyboard witticisms and Boeckner’s modish guitar jags. But on Expo 86, they threw all of that prevailing “wisdom” out the window: This was the first (and possibly last?) Wolf Parade album that felt like it was made by a cohesive unit, complete with laser-guided melodies (“Palm Road”), slash-and-stomp arena anthems (“Pobody’s Nerfect”) and manic Talking Heads-style pop (“Cloud Shadow On The Mountain”). Was it as good as Apologies To The Queen Mary? With these results, who cares?—J. Bennett

After a year where she defined herself as one of the world’s leading artists on other people’s songs (see Usher, Mariah Carey, Ludacris and her ridiculous verse on Kanye West’s “Monster”), Nicki Minaj used her surprisingly pop-attuned debut as an opportunity to demonstrate that there’s more to her artistry than a flamethrower flow. The gamble made doubt Minaj, but not us: Expecting a straight rap record from Minaj seems like a willful misunderstanding of her kaleidoscopic vision and penchant for multiple personalities. Plus, when she does return to rap, like on the vicious“Roman’s Revenge,” it’s clear her skills are still intact. Who else could threaten to show up Eminem?—Mikael Wood

It was probably inevitable that a synth-and-drums duo would eventually turn to hip-hop for inspiration. But when the much-loved Brooklyn power couple Matt & Kim started touring with Cool Kids, showing up on records with De La Soul and opening their shows with a Dead Prez song, shit got real. The duo’s third full-length album, Sidewalks, reflects this, and it’s probably the most affecting love-letter to hip-hop ever written by two white kids who don’t rap. On Sidewalks, there is a debt to Mannie Fresh in the staccato 808 handclaps of “Cameras” and an inspired mash-up of “Block After Block” with T.I.’s “Swing Ya Rag” just waiting to happen. But at the end of it all, we still know who’s album this is. Having expelled the angst from indie and the arrogance from hip-hop, Matt & Kim hold it together with the kind of charming optimism you might expect from an episode of Glee—which is, in this case, is the crucial element for a triple zeitgeist.—Norman Brannon

Shortly after cutting a track together for David Lynch’s soundtrack project Dark Night Of The Soul and moving in with one another to form an intense musical bromance, shape-shifting producer Brian “Danger Mouse” Burton and the Shins’ introverted frontman James Mercer cut one of the year’s most consistently pleasing debuts. As was seen in his Gnarls Barkley project (not to mention production gigs with The Black Keys and Beck), Burton keeps Mercer honest, while simultaneously swathing the songwriter’s choir-boy harmonies in a classically funky glaze. The resulting 10 tracks find the duo shifting between ’60’s psychedelic skuzz (“Citizen”), acid-laced Motown funk (“The Ghost Inside”) and trusted alterna-pop (“The High Road”), but throughout Burton proves he may be the music world’s current master of serene pop beauty. Broken Bells might help you drift off, but your dreams promise to be pristine.—Dan Hyman

Even before they released this winning debut, Surfer Blood were already crowned kings of the CMJ Music Marathon after playing something like 17 sweat-soaked shows over three days. But tastemaker acclaim wasn’t the only reason why so many music listeners (including us) gravitated toward the band’s music in 2010. By mixing fuzzed-out guitars with idiosyncratic vocals and stripped-down arrangements, the 10 songs on Astro Coast embody ’90s indie rock minimalism without sounding forced or contrived. (Sadly we can’t say the same for the inevitable crop of Dick Dale-aping peers that are likely to ensue in the near future.) Plus, the anti-guitar-solo noodling on songs like “Anchorage” further confirm Surfer Blood have the potential to be the successor to Built To Spill or, better yet, Pavement’s slacker rock crown.—Jonah Bayer

If we’re going to be fair, when this Oxford-bred five-piece promised that their second album was going to sound “like the dream of an eagle dying” we had our reservations—because, well, come on! Fortunately, and perhaps improbably, the band actually backed up that claim with one of the year’s most incredible transformations. 2008’s Antidotes was, in retrospect, a dense and frantic—albeit somewhat ordinary—post-punk album; the overwhelming critical accolades from the UK press were a bit premature. But on Total Life Forever, Foals actually deliver the kind of expansive, forward-thinking record that NME thought they released two years ago. It’s not that they’ve lost the propulsive indie-disco rhythms of their debut as much as they have—on songs like the slow-building single “Spanish Sahara”—improved upon them. They’ve also proven that, if your band can make an album that somehow evokes the idea of Arthur Russell covering “Music for 18 Musicians,” then you are allowed to talk all the shit you want about dead eagles.—Norman Brannon

Best Coast mastermind Bethany Cosentino got nearly as much flak for the lyrics on Crazy For You as the Black Eyed Peas’ will.i.am did for rhyming “uptown” with “downtown” in “Meet Me Halfway.” In a way, though, the moon-June simplicity of Best Coast’s sun-baked retro-pop is also its greatest prize. With fuzzed out guitars and jangly chords reminiscent of the early ’90s K Records catalog, Crazy For You’s songs may be simple, but they carry a considerable emotional heft. When Cosentino sings, “I wish he was my boyfriend,” over and over again in opener “Boyfriend,” she’s not doing it because she can’t think of any other words to sing. She’s doing it because she can’t think of any other words to think.—Mikael Wood

When you think of psychedelic rock, chances are you conjure up images of guys in their 50’s with badly maintained mustaches debating which 13th Floor Elevators album has the best electric jug solo—and for the most part, you’d be absolutely right. However, over the past few years there have been a handful of international acts who are worthy of inclusion on a future Nuggets compilation, and Tame Impala are probably the most notable. On this debut full-length, they combine atmospheric arrangements with endlessly repetitive ripping to create sonic textures that listeners sink into. If their current acclaim keeps up, Tame could be one of the biggest acts from Australia in recent memory… and when considering that the Vines currently own that title, it’s not happening a minute too soon.–Jonah Bayer

The name of this South African rave-rap outfit means “the answer” in Afrikaans, but the best thing about Die Antwoord’s major-label debut—much of which the group posted for free on their website before signing to Interscope earlier this year—is that you never even know what the question is. With lead MC Ninja’s off-kilter boasts, hook-slinger Yo-Landi Vi$$er’s chirpy vocal melodies and DJ Hi-Tek’s post-PlayStation production, $O$ was 2010’s giddiest art-school prank, a free-floating swamp of inside jokes and cultural signifiers that couldn’t seem less concerned with What It All Means, Man. In a year where Eminem returned with his soberest, most introspective album yet, it felt good to have a new Slim Shady on the prowl.—Mikael Wood

With Champ, Tokyo Police Club have done the unthinkable: They’ve created a pop record that’s so versatile it would go over as successfully in a hipster dance club as it would on a mopey emo kid’s iPod. A huge progression from the band’s 2008 full-length Elephant Shell, the third substantial TPC offering manages to seamlessly implement synthesizers and sequencers into their breezy guitar pop sound. But it also allows them to sing about cold coffee and the first records they bought in a way that’s still incredibly captivating. In the end, this is TPC’s most “mature” effort, but the fact that they managed to create it without losing their sense of youth or spirit is what makes it such a rare, unlikely joy.—Jonah Bayer

Bruno Mars spent the first half of 2010 as the guy singing the hooks on other guys’ hits: There’s no doubt that both B.o.B.’s “Nothin’ On You” and Travie McCoy’s “Billionaire” owed much of their chart success to Mars’ sweet pop stylings. On Doo-Wops & Hooligans, the 25-year-old Hawaii-native filled in the rest of the picture, showing off his love of old-school rock (“Runaway Baby”), his bedroom know-how (“Our First Time”) and a hopeless-romantic streak as deep as Chris Martin from Coldplay’s (“Just The Way You Are”). Not surprisingly, given the hours he’s logged inside Hollywood’s hitmaking machine, each of these 10 tracks shines like radio gold; “Marry You” even made it on Glee a few weeks back without the aid of a traditional single push. Yet Mars pairs that craftsmanship with real heart. He’s the song doctor next door.—Mikael Wood

In 1995, at the peak of Blur’s Britpop dominance, the idea of Damon Albarn teaming with the Lebanese National Orchestra would have seemed totally fucking insane. That exact reaction, however, is why Albarn concocted Gorillaz: The media-crazed frontman-turned-musical-alchemist needed an outlet, a place where his ridiculously vast imagination could shatter naïve misconceptions. On the band’s third album, the mad scientist’s visions occasionally bust out of the test tubes, but the chemical reactions are far too compelling to care. There’s Snoop Dogg, completely blazed, introducing the record above wavy gongs. There’s Lou Reed, classically disenchanted, blathering about eating mayonnaise. There is even soul-great Bobby Womack swirling over heavenly harps. But it’s Albarn who is behind it all—jockeying the same brand of lethargic disco fever and Ambien-sedated vocals that helped the first two Gorillaz records outsell Blur’s entire catalog. Call him mad. Call him crazy. We just call him a genius.—Dan Hyman

In a word, Yelawolf is an anomaly: The Alabama native raps about Lynyrd Skynyrd, was raised on heavy metal and would rather take a Hollywood brat to Waffle House than the roof of the Roosevelt. “Tell me I ain’t hip-hop / Bitch you ain’t hip-hop,” ’Wolf snickers over a minimalist beat on the Raekwon assisted tell-off “I Wish.” The 30-year-old is flipping conventions: His Nascar-quick flow is greasy—a Southern-fried twang you’ve never heard before—and is void of imitation. With a brash new sound, the MC is establishing himself as one of the game’s most intriguing newcomers. And sure, there’s obligatory tracks about burning bud and snatching chicks, but dude shine brightest when his rhymes make you wonder whether he’s gonna whoop your ass or dish on Eddie Vedder’s wardrobe.—Dan Hyman

A confession: We’re such big TV On The Radio fans that if Dave Sitek, the band’s guitarist and sonic mastermind, announced he was producing the new Susan Boyle album, we’d be still buy it. Even minus that predisposition, though, you can’t help but dig the mutant-disco grooves Sitek flexes on his solo debut under the Maximum Balloon moniker; dude knows how to move butts and brains like nobody’s business. And though his good pal Scarlett Johansson doesn’t show up here, Sitek’s guest-star mojo is nearly unequaled among his indie rock cohorts. Ultra-hip Swedish synthmeisters Little Dragon? Check. Karen O of Yeah Yeah Yeahs? Check. Former Talking Head David Byrne? Check. Hey, maybe that SuBo collab isn’t that far off… —Mikael Wood

In the mid-to-late ’90s, the term “metalcore” was used to describe technically proficient hardcore bands that started slipping Swedish death-metal riffs into their repertoires. Today, it’s practically a dirty word in the metal underground, synonymous with pretty boys with sideways haircuts and all-over-print T-shirts who, well, play in technically proficient hardcore bands with a soft spot for Swedish death-metal riffs. On the surface, Bring Me The Horizon, the English metalcore stars who conquered Teen-dom in 2010 with their male-model looks (ultra-tatted frontman Oli Sykes is a confirmed heartthrob on at least two continents), seem like perfect culprits. But the band’s third full-length, complete with guest shots from Canadian singer-songwriter Lights and vocalist Josh Scogin from The Chariot, turns that idea on its head. Throughout, BMTH create a perfect storm by combining what the kids love (high drama, glossy production, self-pity) with what the rock snobs respect (co-ed vocals, instrumental interludes borrowed from Sigur Ros, et al). In the end, though, everybody wins.—J. Bennett

Matt Beringer managed to beat Nicki Minaj in the race to release 2010’s first song about eating brains, and that fact alone speaks volumes about The National’s chilling fifth album. This is, from the outset, a record that dwells in dark places—so much so that even more upbeat tracks like “Bloodbuzz Ohio” are only marginally more buoyant than, say, Echo & The Bunnymen. But High Violet is far too understated to be maudlin: Take, for example, the sustained tension of “England,” which is inexplicably released with only the subtle percussion of an added shaker. This, on some level, is the “torturous” part of what’s been called the band’s “torture-chamber pop.” But it’s also the reason that Park Slope’s moodiest sons remain so beloved. Eschewing the grand-scale voltas and anthemic tropes most associated with parting dark clouds, High Violet is more likely to greet you with an umbrella and a warm hug.—Norman Brannon

If there’s one thing you can count on Liars for it’s never putting out the same album twice. Over the course of the last decade, this LA-via-NYC-via-LA-(again) art-punk trio has swung wildly from atonal witch-trial fairy tales to Moodswinger-enhanced motör-skronk with little regard. On their fifth and latest album, they largely embrace warbled melodies over wanton noise. The results alternately invoke a drunken Beck (“No Barrier Fun,” “Drip”), mid-’90s Sonic Youth (“Drop Dead”) and Tom Waits jamming with TV On The Radio (“Scissor”). Much of the material has a decidedly seasick feel that’s punctuated only occasionally by angular blasts of carnival-esque speed. But that’s a bizarre contrast that only Liars could favorably manipulate.—J. Bennett

To some extent, Aubrey Drake Graham was probably the least likely candidate for becoming a universally renown hip-hop star—if only because 23-year-old bi-racial Canadian child actors best known for their roles on Degrassi: The Next Generation typically don’t incite major-label bidding wars. But in an era where the traditional business model is becoming increasingly less relevant—and underground mixtapes carry just as much weight as certifiable hits—Drake’s debut felt more like a victory lap than an introduction; if he spends the bulk of Thank Me Later contemplating his success, it’s because there was pretty much no way this album wasn’t going to sell 450,000 copies in its first week. On “Over,” the album’s lead single, Drake pulls off the impossible tightrope act of being a consummate rhymesayer, vulnerable crooner, swag-carrying street kid and introspective boyfriend—all by the end of the first 16 bars. If anyone else in 2010 came close to doing the same, good luck trying to name them.—Norman Brannon

If your idea of Long Beach musical acts begrudgingly begins with Sublime, then you’re going to be pleasantly surprised that the area’s best new act owes more to The Shins’ indie legacy than anyone currently hanging out with The Dirtyheads. Oh, and bonus points must also be given to Avi Buffalo frontdude Avigdor Zahner-Isenberg for not singing about malt liquor. Instead, Zahner-Isenberg and his bandmates are as equally inspired by West Montgomery as they are Wilco, two influences that you wouldn’t think your typical post-high school kid would absorb kicking around the So Cal burbs. Admittedly, songs like “Can’t I Know?” wear the band’s psychedelic folk influences on their flared sleeves, but it’s more of a homage than a lack of imagination. Ultimately, Avi Buffalo is the kind of album that’s not only captivating to hear, but that will also send listeners scrambling through the record stacks to hear where some of this magic originated.–Jonah Bayer

This Ohio-based blues-garage duo started out as a product of record-collector puritanism, but over the last few years, The Black Keys have shown an admirable determination when it comes to dipping their toe into mainstream waters. In 2008, they hired Danger Mouse to produce Attack & Release, then last year they formed Blakroc with Damon Dash and went to work as a backing band for the likes of Ludacris and Raekwon. On Brothers, singer-guitarist Dan Auerbach and drummer Patrick Carney strike a perfect balance between the present and the past, putting more funk into their rhythms without stinting on the heavy-duty guitar fuzz beloved by middle-aged dads and record store owners alike. The disc’s best cut, the glam-grunge jam “Howlin’ for You,” could even convince a Lady Gaga fan to give up their feathers for flannel. Well, at least for three minutes.—Mikael Wood

It’s no surprise that Orange County soul revivalist Aloe Blacc used to be a crate-digging indie rapper—the 31-year-old knows the most important parts of a soul song are the ineffable things that lurk between the melodies. He tries to live in the two magical seconds that you want to sample forever. An enterprising producer could find dozens of things to loop on Blacc’s second album Good Things: The taut shoebox drums, the tenderhearted horns, the warm Rhodes, the acid-damaged guitar churn, the euphoric background harmonies. And obviously there’s Blacc himself, a mix of Al Green silkiness, weathered Bill Withers sobriety and the socio-political sting of Syl Johnson. Tracks like “I Need A Dollar” and “Life So Hard” are two of the best recession-era meditations we’ll get. And they could have just as easily been written 30 years ago.—Christopher R. Weingarten

Ben Bridwell has led South Carolina’s Band of Horses through a number of different lineups since the group first began turning heads in 2005. But the frontman’s commitment to his band’s wistful, reverb-soaked guitar pop has never wavered; he’s as dependable a source for this kind of stuff as Doug Martsch of Built to Spill. So there wasn’t much surprise to be had on the Horses’ big major-label debut—just another dozen gorgeous night-sky jams about home, nature and the occasional need to slow one’s mind with a bottle of wine. “Laredo” and “Compliments” bring the raucous roots-rock fuzz, while “Dilly” and “For Annabelle” shimmer with Bridwell’s lush multitracked vocal harmonies. Best of all, though, might be “Evening Kitchen,” the sort of hushed acoustic lament Hollywood music supervisors dream about.—Mikael Wood

The band is named after an ultra-violent Shakespeare tragedy. The album title references an ironclad Navy warship. And one of the songs goes on for nearly a quarter of an hour. Obviously, the second full-length by New Jersey’s Titus Andronicus should’ve been about as much fun as an episode of “Frontline.” Somehow, though, history-obsessed Patrick Stickles and his bandmates ended up with the year’s most rip-roaring punk album, a sprawling, Civil War-inspired opus that felt more like a drunken house party than a trip to the library. The Monitor shared some Jersey DNA with similarly Springsteen-esque efforts by The Gaslight Anthem and The Hold Steady. But in 2010—as he sang about counting the cars on the Garden State Parkway and bricking tallboys—only Stickles seemed like he was having the time of his life.—Mikael Wood

Five years after their last record and a few members leaner, Broken Social Scene’s third full-length album is as sprawling as ever. It’s also a lot more manageable. Things can get hectic when you’re trying to make room for a dozen people to play on one song, but free from that restraint, Forgiveness Rock Record plays to Broken Social Scene’s strengths as a songwriting collective more so than its reputation as a jam-band. Kevin Drew’s indelible stamp on “Ungrateful Little Father” jogs your memory with the same efficacy in which Lisa Lobsinger’s vocal on the sweetly arpeggiated “All in All” induces Feist-amnesia. But it’s Metric’s Emily Haines—in her familiar role as Broken Social Scene’s earnest one—who brings the album to its emotional apex. On “Sentimental X’s” she is key in the effortless transformation of an unswerving Krautrock rhythm into a heartrending synth-layered coda. The version of Broken Social Scene you’ll find on Forgiveness Rock Record is willfully simplified, but hardly simplistic.—Norman Brannon

Good things come to those who wait. Although a lot of the songs on Big Boi’s second solo album were delayed by three years of label hell, every note sounds fresher than most rap albums released in 2010. The drumroll flow from the OutKast MC is as manic and labyrinthine as ever, and it practically floats over producers picked for maximum Southernplayalistic funkiness and regal, enveloping lushness—Organized Noise, Scott Storch, Lil Jon and even old partner in rhyme André 3000. But the devil is in the details throughout: 808s splay themselves into psychedelic, speaker-bending rainbows; guitars wail and whine into swirling acid-funk; doublebacking beats sound like UGK-in-space; and “General Patton” is the wild place where the syrup-soaked pulse of Three 6 Mafia meets the bluster of Italian opera. And of course, there’s Big Boi himself, a perennial ladies man and game-spitter whose got better punchlines than anyone—but you’ll probably have to rewind to catch ’em all.—Christopher R. Weingarten

Is it too soon to grow nostalgic for last year? In a musical landscape where 2009 break out stars Passion Pit and Miike Snow are snacking on Babagnoush and celery sticks backstage at the world’s most prestigious rock fests, the first album from this anthemic New Zealand electro-pop act not only recalls those band’s landmark debuts, but is also a welcomed kick to the face—or as this New Zealand-bred act would more poetically put it, it’s like “Punching In A Dream.” Sure, synthesizer-driven songs like “Frayed” would go over fantastically on the dance floor, but it’s the tension and controlled chaos that’s evident in tracks like “A Wolf In Geek’s Clothing” that really set TN&F apart. This year, the majors courted the band for a stateside re-issue after buzz began to build abroad, which means one thing: This is likely to be the only album here that will turn up on your Best Of 2011 list, too.—Jonah Bayer

For their first Sub Pop release, and third overall, Beach House guitarist-keyboardist Alex Scally and singer-organist Victoria Legrand crafted a meditative rendezvous of otherworldly proportions: Encased in a glass cradle of twinkling reverb, these 10 angelic offerings mist through the speakers like a baptismal rain shower. While other bands (The Flaming Lips, Sonic Youth) have dabbled in dreamy dirges, the Baltimore duo go full force, pushing beyond their early-day homages to dream-pop pioneers like Galaxie 500. Standouts like “Norway” and “Zebra” exude confidence and assurance, but being heaven’s house band is often too much to bear… even for these professionals. “My heart stands for nothing,” Legrand swoons. “And your soul’s too weak.” Yeah girl, we feel you.—Dan Hyman

It was only last year that the Milan-based Crookers went from being an obscure fidget-house duo to an international crossover success story when their remix of Kid Cudi’s “Day ‘n’ Nite” entered the official UK charts at Number Two. In fact, let’s rewind that last sentence for a second: Crookers nearly scored a Number One single with a remix. For a couple of guys who were, at that point, better known for being friends with Switch than for making records, that’s a hugely admirable coup. Earlier this year, Crookers stepped their game up with an epic 20-song debut album called Tons of Friends, which—due in part to its guest appearances by will.i.am, Kelis, Pitbull, and Kid Cudi, among others—is also probably the most literal album title on our year-end list. Although the blithe hip-house sound of their biggest hit dominates, the album’s unexpectedly somber centerpiece is the Miike Snow-led “Remedy”—a 120 beats-per-minute elegy about “living long enough to be forgiven.” Real talk for the after-party: Tech-house dudes have feelings, too.—Norman Brannon

He is rubber, you are glue. After Rick Ross, the reigning don of cocaine-pushing yacht-rap, was outed as a former corrections officer (and called a big ol’ poser by actual drug kingpin Freeway Ricky Ross), the unshakable Miami badass just flipped the conversation. For his fourth album, he stepped up his rapping game, told bigger fish tales, and projected his black-card boasts like scenes from a big budget popcorn flick. Through his beefy, breathless rasp he erects statues to himself, steals your girl, blows money like he’s M.C. Hammer and throws parties where the guest list may include Kanye West, Jay-Z and T.I. But the biggest asset to the currently bulletproof Ross is the production prowess of J.U.S.T.I.C.E. League and summer hitmaker Lex Luger: Two producers capable of expansive, monolithic lurch, both wrapping Ross’s slow-flow bluster in an equally cocksure mix of suffocating synths and skittering hi-hats.—Christopher R. Weingarten

It’s not completely correct to call The Soft Pack this San Diego garage-rock act’s debut: 2008’s eponymous The Muslims was their true entrance into the music world. But ever since scraping their off-putting original name, The Soft Pack have begun crafting tunes with the swagger of wide-eyed CMJ newbies. And with these 10 tracks that enthusiasm has paid off in spades: Many of their three-minute musical-history missiles glide between surf-rock (“Mexico), ‘60’s sing-song choruses (“Move Along”) and grungy-power-chords (“Answer To Yourself”). And throughout, straight-shooting vocalist Matt Lamkin doesn’t miss an opportunity for a vintage punk-rock tell-off. “Don’t have the look, don’t have the name?” Lamkin jeers on the album’s best track, “C’mon,” while a jangly-hi-hat fills in the coloring. The twenty-something singer then pauses, realizing he’s really got nothing to complain about. “Aw’ c’mon!” he responds. And, just like that, you’re there with him.—Dan Hyman

After Deftones bass player Chi Cheng fell into a coma in late 2008, his brothers in Sacramento alt-metal had every right to be moody, melancholy, defeatist and dark on their long-awaited follow-up to 2006’s Saturday Night Wrists. Instead, they buckled down and recorded Diamond Eyes, a joyous, anthemic, downright spiritual piece of scream therapy. Something like a mix between artcore lovemaking and a windswept love letter to life, Diamond Eyes is built on their sunniest melodies and most life-affirming hooks to date—or what frontman Chino Moreno has said was intended to represent “that butterfly-in-the-stomach feeling.” In this case, that emotion comes by mixing the mountain-gazing triumph of late period Faith No More with the cuddly smear-’n’-drone of vintage 4AD-style dreampop. Of course, it’s ultimately a metal record so there’s no shortage of Moreno’s anguished roar. But throughout, he sounds more like he is lusting for life than he is mad at the world.—Christopher R. Weingarten

In a year when former emo torchbearers Fall Out Boy decided to call a hiatus in order to explore swaggering bar rock, whiteboy funk and (gasp!) ska, it must have felt incredibly odd to have not only come up alongside Pete Wentz and company, but still be slugging it out in the Warped Tour trenches. Then again, it’s not like Circa Survive frontman Anthony Green hasn’t had a pretty weird life at this point, considerably so in the months leading up to his band’s breathtaking major label debut. In that time, the falsetto-voiced sage famously checked himself into a mental hospital, the trauma of which can be heard in every cascading guitar and emotional caterwaul here. By channeling both the primal screams of DC’s best post-hardcore thinkers, as well as the heady alt-rock of Radiohead’s first three records, much of Sky felt more musically sophisticated than just about every album churned out by Circa’s supposed “peers” this year. But it was also about 20 times more cathartic: When Green bellows “Get ouuuuuuut!” in the rage-athon of the same name, you can’t help but think he’s speaking to his inner-demons. Here’s hoping they listened.—Trevor Kelley

Electronic music has never been mainstream fodder, which makes the overwhelmingly positive reception to Crystal Castles‘ second self-titled album even more impressive. Especially when you consider that it sounded like the soundtrack to an impending apocalypse. From the ethereal pop of “Celestica” to the mesmerizing groove of “Pap Smear,” the gloom-n-doom here often conjured up Kid A, but written by a punk band. Or a mid-career Bjork. Throughout, there is some surprisingly organic and, yes, reassuring emotions lurking within all these bleeps and blips—and while we can’t promise that listening to Crystal Castles will save your soul, it should at least occasionally put it at ease. —Jonah Bayer

With its dancehall horns, synth-pop grooves and infamous use of Auto-Tune, Vampire Weekend’s sophomore album left no doubt about this young New York foursome’s genius for postmodern style-swapping. (Did any other guitar band sound less like a guitar band in 2010?) More importantly, though, Contra revealed a newly emotional aspect to Vampire Weekend’s music, as frontman Ezra Koenig left behind the detached vibe he flexed on the band’s debut in order to tackle some surprisingly universal themes: Entering adulthood, discovering what you want and breaking somebody’s heart. Sure, the dude often did it while rhyming “horchata,” “balaclava” and “Aranciata.” But just listen to his impossibly tender vocal melody in closer “I Think UR a Contra” and you’ll hear a heart beating beneath that Ivy League brain.—Mikael Wood

As the album title implies, this Brooklyn duo’s buzzed-and-fuzzed debut offered the musical equivalent of eating a bag (or three) of Sour Patch Kids then chasing that with a two-liter of Mountain Dew. The formula was insanely uncomplicated: Hilariously overdriven guitar riffs from an ex-hardcore kid + hilariously catchy vocal hooks from a former teen-pop singer + hilariously distorted beats from an iPod = the most hilariously pumped-up party music since Andrew W.K.’s I Get Wet. And somehow the result didn’t wear out after a handful of listens. Credit for that should probably go to Derek Miller’s deceptively crafty songwriting, as well as to the wise inclusion of “Rill Rill,” a refreshing, Funkadelic-sampling slow jam situated at the album’s center. Then again, maybe we just needed something simple to offset all the craziness this year.—Mikael Wood

Ever since the 2002 release of “Losing My Edge,” the debut 12-inch by LCD Soundsystem, James Murphy has consistently positioned himself as more of a record geek than a rock star—a seemingly innocent assertion that underwent increased scrutiny when he unexpectedly became a rock star. For his third and supposedly final album, however, Murphy stays true to form and turns in his most crafted work yet—which, despite the unending critical comparisons to Bowie and Eno owes more of a spiritual debt to the underground house and techno DJs who championed that first single. Opener “Dance Yrself Clean” faithfully subscribes to a slow-building acid house template on one hand, while “One Touch” examines the sobering possibility of 303s and heartbreak on the other. It’s no surprise that Murphy’s only direct reference to the unlikely trajectory of LCD Soundsystem is a bold, if not meandering, nine-minute track called “You Wanted A Hit.” Sample lyric: “Maybe we don’t do hits / I try and I try / It ends up feeling kind of wrong.” Well, not exactly.—Norman Brannon

Before he became the man behind three consecutive Billboard Top 10 hits, B.o.B was a mixtape rapper whose vibe was as street as you’d expect from anyone who could write and record a song called “Fuck You” two years before Cee-Lo Green. In that sense, The Adventures Of Bobby Ray was nothing short of a reinvention. As far as singles go, “Nothin’ On You” owned the first half of 2010 with its bullish R&B crossover appeal, while “Airplanes”—featuring Eminem and Paramore’s Hayley Williams—proved to be the most compelling rags-to-riches hip-hop narrative since Biggie declared he was no longer living in public housing. Of course, it could be argued that Bobby Ray shines brightest in between the hits: Whether it’s sampling Vampire Weekend, trading bars with T.I. or setting up Rivers Cuomo to deliver the hook, he has come a long way since he was self-deprecative enough to title a mixtape Who the Fuck is B.o.B? Conspicuously, he doesn’t curse nearly as much as he used to.—Norman Brannon

It often feels like The Arcade Fire are lobbying incredibly hard for your hatred: Concocting pompous, grandiose U2-esque ballads disguised as secrets from a shrink’s psychology textbook. All while dressing in quasi-military garb and touting a backing band the size of the starting line for a Canadian hockey team. But worst of all they’ve become that band—the one that you’re supposed to love, but can’t always figure out why. And sure, at times we’d love to hate them. But we simply cannot because, at their core, The Arcade Fire consistently create stunning records like The Suburbs, a watercolor of emotions and over-the-top anthems. Dr. Win Butler believes we’re all too wrapped up in in the minutia of modern life, too preoccupied with our iPhones to see the big reveal. From the majestic swirl of “Rococco” to the ping-pong guitars of “City With No Children” its not always easy to bring yourself to therapy. But the weird, self-involved doctors’ gentle coo always keeps you coming back to the couch.—Dan Hyman

This gloriously bloated 68-minute monsterwork is the arrogant victory lap from a sore winner—a 24K gold-plated Kanye West statue dedicated to what may go down as the greatest hip-hop five-album winning streak of all time. But it’s also much more than that: For it West reinvented himself as the music industry’s James Cameron, a maximalist auteur who knows that sometimes bigger actually means better. In turn, the songs on Fantasy are bulging with keening orchestral arrangements, anthems that lope and coil for nine minutes at a time, a budget that has room for a “living painting,” a 35-minute Fellini-influenced short film, costly King Crimson and Aphex Twin samples, cover art by Whitney-endorsed visual artist George Condo and a guest list that rivals the Grammy red carpet. But beneath all the bluster, West is still one of the most emotionally raw lyricists around, whether he’s being a self-congratulatory blowhard who is asking you to kiss his ring, or an introspective softie forced to confront his many relationship fumbles. He’s imperfect, sure, but in 2010 we were all the better for it.—Christopher R. Weingarten

Around this time last year, just as we anointed four unassuming French dudes called Phoenix the owners of 2009’s best album, something funny occurred: 2010’s best album materialized out of thin air. Like many, we discovered it on a total stranger’s blog. Or attached to an IM that read, “You have to hear this.” It was literally months before the album’s release, a bummer of epic proportions for any band, especially this one. But then, as we opened the zip file and quickly hit play, any worries about diminishing returns began to vanish.

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By January, it seemed certain that Odd Blood might be one of the year’s best albums—and we still had another 11 month’s worth of releases to consider. But throughout 2010 there it was, this magical, tender and yet still unrelentingly creative masterpiece, following us with each passing day. By ditching the missionary style freak-folk that turned up on their 2008 debut and retreating to a remote studio in the hills of upstate New York—where they borrowed some of that early ’80s shoulder pad mojo from owner, and former Hall And Oates session vet, Jerry Marotta—Yeasayer created one of the few records in 2010 that sounded as stunning on its first listen as it did on its four hundredth.

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And, like all albums that demand such rampant, repeat visits, the rewards on Odd Blood revealed themselves over time: Co-frontman Chris Keating was seemingly born with a New Romantic heart, which helped he and Anand Wilders craft the album’s sweetly sung odes to hard fought love and freaky nights at home with the wife. But they also wisely channeled Duran Duran, Flock Of Seagulls and the numerous other synth-pop titans who once dominated the video playlists of early ’80s MTV. (Which, for you kids out there, was sort of like YouTube—only with less ads!) In the end, it was an unlikely juxtaposition of heart, hooks and giddy experimentation—and, in 2010, literally no other album sounded remotely like it.

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But album of the year? Even now, as you look around this list, it’s hard not to think about who this tiny band had to slay in order to get here. Kanye’s oversharing, instant classic? The Arcade Fire’s latest bid for stadium grandeur? With such competition how could this really be the best album of 2010? But for a moment today fire up Odd Blood and watch those around you smile through the over-the-top keys of “Ambling Alp” or the ascending chorus of “Madder Red.”

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And then it will hit you. How could this be the best album of 2010? Man, how could it not?—Trevor Kelley