50-31 | 30-11 | 10-1

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Seven albums deep, Propagandhi know how to riff. They also know how to write evocative political lyrics. Combine these two qualities and it becomes difficult to craft a subpar record. Seven great albums in a row, Propagandhi have perfected their blast-to-the-face thrash-influenced punk. While peers like Anti-Flag fell flat on their faces after the Bush years, Propagandhi have consistently found fresh ways to keep their politically-charged lyrics relevant — mostly because they strike the listener as a band who actually know what they’re talking about — as opposed to some of their peers who clearly never got past Political Science 101. Victory Lap isn’t their best record, but “Cop Out of Frame” puts a tear in my eye, and “Failed Imagineer” gets me banging my head, which should be enough to crack any best of the year list. –Robert Lowe

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Slowdive are a band that makes it all too easy to wax poetic. Their lush and vibrant music is the soundtrack to everything: depression, elation, love — moments of emotional encumbrance which call for the band’s malleable sounds and textures. Slowdive’s triumphant self-titled is, like every album before it, an arresting record full of surprising substance; a mountain built seemingly from nothing. “Slomo”, the opener, features a handful of notes but makes such extensive use of mood and effects that it feels impossibly deep. It’s this disarming complexity through use of layered simplicity that makes Slowdive so endlessly evocative and beautiful. Even more impressive, the band use this approach across a collection of songs that are bursting with variety, yielding a release that feels creative, nostalgic, and unpredictable.

In the end, what we have is a testament to a timeless vision, proving that musical excellence — when it’s this organic and pure — won’t fade, even after 22 years. –Eli K.

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Reading the Wikipedia page for Neo Wax Bloom, the debut album from Brainfeeder’s newest, upsettingly young prodigy Seamus Mallagh, you’d be hard pressed to think you weren’t reading some Adderall’d out millennial’s idea of a joke. “It’s a story about a void named ‘Mamu’ and its destruction by two falling eyeballs.” Mallagh’s convoluted, hallucinatory narrative is even more hilarious; an initial listen to Neo Wax Gloom, which sounds like your favorite breakcore record tossed in a blender with 8-bit, hip-hop, anime, a dash of Dexter’s Laboratory and occasionally a glimpse of humanity, seems to confirm this impression. Repeated listens, however, confirm that this is anything but a tossed-off acid dream. Mallagh is a clinical, painstakingly involved perfectionist, sculpting an entirely original record – no loops! – that builds and builds off of itself into a glorious hodgepodge of beats and styles, genres and riffs. The hyperactivity disguises a passion and discipline that is hard to disregard, as much as it wants to turn and twist you around until you don’t know what way is up. Most importantly, it bumps. Here’s to the future. –Rudy K.

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There are two things Disperse did with Foreword that made it so special for me this year. The first thing is that they figured out what Periphery couldn’t manage to do across their entire career in one album: they melded pop and djent (or progressive metal if you prefer) properly, marrying complex, technically sharp compositions with weird upbeat synth melodies and glossy vocal hooks. The second thing is that they reminded me that progressive music is supposed to be progressive, and can be again. For years prog acts have been coasting by with odd time signatures and technical masturbation, in the process dealing more in repetition of predecessors to earn the “progressive” designation than actually doing anything new. Numerous tracks on Foreword feel more like pop songs than metal ones, were it not for the pyrotechnic instruments that range beneath the bubbling synths and choruses they could pass for pop songs outright. On others, Jakub Zytecki genuinely leaves me mind-boggled at how some of the riffs and melodies come together, something I haven’t said about more artists in the last few years than I can count on one hand. In essence, this is a big thank you to Disperse for making me believe that progressive metal can be progressive again. –Gameofmetal

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Artificial Brain released the best death metal album of 2014 with Labyrinth Constellation, so expecting excellence in 2017 was a bit of a no… brainer. This time around, however, Artificial Brain have upped the ante with an altogether darker, heavier, and more grounded affair. Infrared Horizon, while not exceeding the lofty accomplishments of its predecessor, still matches the best of the best this year with a deliriously winding death metal album ripped from the vacuum of space. “Mists Like Mercury” veers off into murkier and more atmospheric territory complementing their thematic oeuvre, while “Ash Eclipse” offers some of the most chunky and delicious dissonance the band have ever crafted. It’s a more varied and thoughtful album this time around, whose restraint signifies a band of true masters. If anything, Infrared Horizon sees Artificial Brain go from the most promising act in the genre to one of the absolute best. –Eli K.

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Considering its massive scope, it’s not surprising Winter continues to reveal itself to me even as I write this blurb. With a runtime nearly matching a feature length film, it’s unrealistic to think you can have it all pinned down on your first listen (or even your second or third). What Fen have crafted here is a gorgeous and abstract slow burner; an album full of massive crescendos and gentle post-rock intermissions. The balanced mixture of black metal and ambiance is tightly woven between the album’s outstanding bookends: “I (Pathway)” and “VI (Sight)”. The former is a scenic, 17-minute medley of genres, while the latter’s atmospheric build-up is nothing short of therapeutic to the ears. Highly ambitious from start to finish, Winter is one of the most massive releases of 2017, as well as a huge leap forward for Fen. When heard properly – in its entirety and with few distractions – it sure as hell takes you to breathtaking heights. –Atari

24. Fever Ray – Plunge



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Sex and gender politics are absolutely nothing new, but 2017 saw popular discourse on the subject reach a fever pitch that for some felt long overdue. As to be expected with anything so thorny as personal boundary and the laws that govern it, the conversation has become exhaustive and combative for reasons that can undermine its purpose: to amplify marginalized voices and their experiences. Bless the timing of Karin Dreijer, because if ever we needed a public reminder that sex can be fun, challenging, and powerful for consenting adults of any persuasion (just as love can be fussy, incorrigible, and elusive), it was now. Politics have always informed Dreijer’s music (writ large on former band The Knife’s magnum opus Shaking the Habitual), and there’s a joyous abandon to which she emboldens her queer perspective in the starkest language, giving thornier dimensions to an electrifying music bed of lasers, robot violins, and scaling, tropic-tinted industrial beats. Were it only notable for its content, but alas: Plunge is a sublime pop record whose compositions act upon the uncomfortable bedfellows that are violence and sex, creating an atmosphere of tense compositions that constantly affirm its standing as body positive even as it grapples with the shame of its ideals (“Every time we fuck we win / This house makes it hard to fuck / This country makes it hard to fuck”). When Fever Ray loosens the grip for pointed moments of pleasurable bedlam, the effect is positively giddy (“To The Moon and Back”). Dancing can be seen as an act of communion, of independence, as a political act, and here is Plunge, an amplified experience to soundtrack it all. –plane

22 (tie). Jürg Frey – Ephemeral Constructions



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Jurg Frey’s latest might be a bit of a tough sell, in the context of an awards season at least. Many albums on this list are simulacra of various scenes, feelings, occurrences (and so on…) in 2017. Glassjaw’s Material Control is a very 2017-y album, reflective not just of the band’s return to form, but what it’s like to be a dejected 20- or 30-something who remembers being an angry, impassioned teenager. Arca’s self-titled is a very 2017-y album, one of constant efforts of evolution, tying the past to the future. Ephemeral Constructions is just… here. Or there. Wherever. It’s hard to analyze it in terms of what it means right-here-and-right-now. It’s indeterminate, and spending too much time asking why it exists — or the thought process being it — is probably a waste of time. Time is better spent getting used to it, achieving equilibrium with the subtle noises: courtesy of Frey on clarinet, Greg Stuart on percussion, and Erik Carlson on violin. The music goes nowhere, just as beautiful scenery goes nowhere, really, unless you yourself go somewhere within. These descriptions are probably all a bit wishy-washy, but in moments where I feel at my most powerless physically – yet most heightened creatively, and exhausted mentally – compositions like these have a way of winning me over. As the name suggests, Ephemeral Constructions builds noises that dissipate shortly after, constantly reminding of the effects of time, but in such a way that it’s not clear whether it’s been one second or an entire day, or month, or year. It’s the sound of letting go. –Tristan Jones

22 (tie). Fleet Foxes – Crack-Up



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If Crack-Up is any indication, the members of Fleet Foxes have spent the past six years since Helplessness Bluesmaturing their songwriting skills and overcoming that album’s themes of inner anxiety. Crack-Up is the other side of that coin, a freeing and surprisingly eclectic work of art. The number of instruments played must be close to 100. Diverse instrumentation, classical influences, and grand arrangements make for some of the group’s finest compositions yet. “Third of May”, the two-part “Cassius”, and the gorgeous “On Another Ocean” encompass these ideas in spectacular fashion. The beauty of Fleet Foxes’ music is just as apparent as it ever was, with an abundance of musical flourishes and progressive song structures that make for some of the band’s finest achievements thus far. Here’s to hoping that we won’t have to wait another six years for what the group has in store next. –Ben Kuettel

21. Falls Of Rauros – Vigilance Perennial



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Falls of Rauros’ Vigilance Perennial was, admittedly, a late year find. For all of the metal I’ve heard this year I just couldn’t bring myself to listen to yet another atmospheric black metal record. I mean, look at that name. That album title! It would be like scratching an itch that had already been rendered bloody.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t admit how wrong I was. Vigilance Perennial is not only a great album but handily some of the best black metal in years. It’s standard, for sure. It’s cold and earthy atmospheric black metal, but elegant in its approach. It’s effortlessly beautiful in ways that other black metal bands try too hard to be; being rich and contextually poetic the way that black metal was always meant. Falls of Rauros know when to use differing tones, using clean melodies in “White Granite”, not for the sake of using them, because they smartly fit the song. Likewise, some of the album’s most biting moments are reserved for “Impermanence Streakt Through Marble”, used to great effect.

Vigilance Perennial doesn’t rely on gimmicks; similarly, it is neither showboating nor pretentious. It’s pure black metal, elegant in its execution and smart in its composition. It doesn’t get much better than this. –Eli K.

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If Annie Clark was going to be accused of selling out, MASSEDUCTION makes for a tempting target. The requisite song about the empty sun and stars in Los Angeles; the exhaustion and facelessness of “New York”; the team-up with Hot 100 man-of-the-moment Jack Antonoff; the transparent social commentary regurgitated throughout “Pills”. But there’s a reason those are all tried and true subjects, and there’s certainly a reason why Antonoff has been in such demand lately. Paired with Clark’s persistently incisive writing and venomous charisma, it’s impossible not to forgive MASSEDUCTION and its flaws. A hook like “Los Ageless” makes you wonder how St. Vincent isn’t headlining stadiums, while the spartan tragedy of “Happy Birthday, Johnny” reminds that Clark is a confessional songwriter at heart. There’s a sad core behind this pop veneer, the self-doubt of Actor and achingly personal boil of emotions in the best St. Vincent songs taking some of the sheen off. The record ends with “Smoking Section”, a narcoleptic waltz that speaks of death almost like a listicle before resolving into a rousing determination. There will always be a dark core to Clark’s music, unapologetic and open. MASSEDUCTION proves St. Vincent can pretty it up with the best of them. -–Rudy K.

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Vulnerability is the main draw of neo-soul nowadays, but seldom has it been presented with such finesse and imagination as on Sampha Sissay’s debut album. Dedicated to his mother passing to cancer, Process is not only about grief, but also about coming to terms with success that may distance the artist from his roots. These two themes come together beautifully on the album’s sublime centrepiece “(No One Knows Me) Like the Piano”. It’s a heartfelt eulogy to his late mother that’s both graceful and raw with emotion, proof that oftentimes less is more. On other cuts Sampha infuses this pristine soul songwriting with electronic production to refreshing effect. Songs like “Blood On Me” and “Under” brim with masterful beat patterns that make them into instant hits, whereas “Kora Sings” sounds like a cross between Bjork and Peter Gabriel, revealing the artist’s slightly more progressive tendencies. There are many facets to this album, but it’s Sampha’s soothing yet passionate croons that link all these songs together. He’s already a refined singer whose voice is equal parts powerful and evocative. As a result, Process is a deeply felt album that’s as dignified as its maker. –Greg

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First, the voice; a falsetto descending as an alien siren from everywhere: Quítame la piel de ayer.

Remove yesterday’s skin. Arca, née Alejandro Ghersi, is a producer best known for instrumental music with the composure and beauty of stained glass shattered in a Cathedral hall, but on his third proper release, he centers his operatic voice in the midst of the maelstrom. A seasoned artist who has worked extensively with the likes of Björk, Arca’s music has always felt emotionally resonant and raw, a skittering assault on the senses that nevertheless expressed tangible elements of an intangible neuroses. In the improvised lyrical content on Arca, within that absolutely gorgeous arch of his tenor, there is revealed the id of repression, yearning, desire trapped beneath the architecture of this chaos. In a year marked by the burgeoning, congratulatory “wokeness” of its self-aware artists and consumers, here is an album startling in its willingness to cleave open the wounds of its id, to reveal something ugly and unnurtured about itself, to flay its own skin and see the beating heart beneath for what it is. It is an album fixated with a single spotlight as the production absorbs every morsel of air surrounding it, an avant-garde maximalist production with the inclination of darker, more treacherous impulses. Arca is, simply, beautiful. –plane

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Fifteen years in-between, it’d be reasonable to assume that the Daedalean road separating Material Control from Worship & Tribute might have some Head Automatica-sized potholes, but the pummeling onslaught of the album’s opening third – “new white extremity”, “shira”, “citizen”, and “golgotha” – assuages all trepidation. How can you throw caution to the wind when staring down a Category 5 sonic hurricane that’s been brewing for a decade-plus? Daryl Palumbo and Justin Beck show no signs of rust in picking Glassjaw up right where they left off, bringing aboard drummer Billy Rymer (The Dillinger Escape Plan) to amplify the indignation amidst layers upon layers of perpetual dissonance and discord. “golgotha” is a prime example of Rymer’s groove-oriented influence, with copious amounts of frenetic double bass to pace Palumbo’s seasoned shouts. Meanwhile, Beck’s break-neck guitar riffs and solos (see “shira”, “golgotha”, or “closer” for quintessential examples) as well as his attention to detail on bass (“my conscience weighs a ton”, “new white extremity”, “citizen”) are relentless constants on a record that, while certainly rife with Worship & Tribute nostalgia, exhibits an appreciable evolution in sound. At 36 minutes, Material Control compositionally runs like a Between the Buried and Me record, as if it were one gigantic song sporting a handful of transitional cuts (the best being the tribal, Ariel Telford-featured “bastille day” as a harbinger to “pompeii”) that serve as fleeting reprieves from Palumbo’s bellicose shrieks and potent snarls. The record’s production is raw, gritty, and suffocating – sometimes to the album’s detriment – but even when he seems to falter in the mix, Palumbo’s lyrical vitriol permeates from start-to-finish. Short runtime and muddy, uneven production aside, make no mistake: Material Control wasn’t made for earbuds. The only question is not if this record will have any staying power, but if it’ll be another fifteen years before the next one. –Jom

16. The War On Drugs – A Deeper Understanding



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The most obvious reference critics make when writing about Adam Granduciel is to Bruce Springsteen; a troubadour of the Northeast, writing songs about people displaced, deposed, and disaffected, made to feel inferior because of structural unemployment and the inevitable breakdowns of their marriages and friendships. In that sense, Granduciel is a balladeer whose narratives speak to the expectation of their geographic location, and to which their excellence can be compared to Springsteen. But it would be more sensible to look at where Granduciel has taken that influence with respect to Born to Run or Born in the USA; The War on Drugs have always evoked nostalgia (again, similar to Springsteen), but don’t have the same mysticism for the ’50s and ’60s that Bruce saw when he swaggered and shimmied with a bluesy, rock and roll fervour. Instead, Granduciel’s childhood was in the free trade USA of the late ’80s, when Tunnel of Love was synonymous with the Springsteen name. There’s no happier precedent in A Deeper Understanding‘s deeper understanding of America, just the unstoppable march toward global integration as soundtracked by synthesizers and a thousand guitar pedals.

In that sense, this is folk music. These are songs about the feelings that Granduciel has for his native Pennsylvania, and for the people that he has met, and the feelings they have made him feel. But he’s also not about specifics: “Strangest Thing”, a standout in a 10-track album of standouts and potential singles, is criminally vague in its depictions of the picturesque and nameless in its references. But that’s almost negligible when, around 3 minutes in, Granduciel begins layering synth upon synth around a beautiful, simple melody. In that sense, Tears for Fears’ “Shout” is a good reference point: pop music made perfect by the wideness and scope of its production, whilst grounded by its brilliant simplicity. That’s the archetype that A Deeper Understanding follows so closely, and what makes it a substantial improvement over Lost in the Dream, itself a fantastic album. In place of movements and sections is a careful progression, lingering on strong hooks in pursuit of the better pop song.

Which, ultimately, is the most Springsteen thing that Granduciel could have done. Though his embrace of keyboards may position him closer to Red Rider, his knack for anthems that hit on a primal and emotional level is in line with Dylan, Young, and any other critically acclaimed roots rocker. To that end, A Deeper Understanding works to position Granduciel further and further away from his forebearers, away from his contemporaries, and into a league of his own: an archetype for modern, synthesized Americana. –Arcade

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I have never and still do not care for Paramore. I don’t care about Riot! or Brand New Eyes, punky, bratty, overwrote efforts hamstrung by a latent Christianity lyrical theme. I don’t care about the Farro brothers, two members who have at varying times felt threatened by Hayley Williams’ very real ability to leave for greener solo pastures. And I really don’t care that After Laughter, their latest, is a problem for some older fans who feel a certain dedication to the obnoxious and loudly emotional Paramore I learnt to dislike throughout high school and early adulthood. Truthfully, this doesn’t sound anything like the Paramore I am familiar with, and I suspect that will be both a boon and a drawback depending on whether or not you like rawer displays of emotion, or instead prefer ’80s, poptimist pastiche.

For me, it’s the latter, and it’s why After Laughter is 2017’s best pop album. Paramore already have the neediness, bleakness, and introversion inbuilt, and so to apply it to Bananarama and Cindy Lauper theatrics make it that much more of a clean break from the immaturity of their youth. “Rose-Colored Boy” and “Pool”, the album’s unarguable highlights, are the prettiest examples of that; nostalgic synths, funky progression, and lyrical explorations that more or less end up at the image of the perturbed and the unimpressed. By Williams’ own admission, the album’s title references that feeling purposely, an interest in the moment when the ecstasy drains from someone’s face when the joke ends. All of After Laughter evokes that feeling; these are danceable pop songs, but they’re also crushingly depressing songs about crying and wandering aimlessly away from trauma.

In some sense, they’ve picked this all up from CHVRCHES, who in turn most likely picked it up from Jimmy Eat World, who themselves probably play no small part in Paramore’s newer, glossier musical identity. But After Laughter‘s miserable ends — estrangement, depression — feel as real to me as they must to fans of the band’s older material. I can appreciate that fact even as I continue to feel no personal appreciation for the Paramore everybody else loved, safe in the knowledge that even as the method of delivery has changed, this is still essentially the same band as ever. –Arcade

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“Rilke in one of his letters said Christ

is a pointing,

a finger pointing

at something, and we are like dogs

who keep barking and lunging

at the hand”

—Franz Wright, “The New Jerusalem”

Released six months after and thematically structured around the death of his wife, cartoonist and musician Geneviève Castrée, Phil Elverum’s AKA Mount Eerie’s A Crow Looked at Me is a challenging record. Elverum does not care to shield or mediate his feeling of total devastation in the wake of his loss, nor does he register a faith in his own practice: “Death is real / Someone’s there and then they’re not / And it’s not for singing about / It’s not for making into art”, go the first four bars of opener “Real Death”. In the face of the impossible task of keeping witness to the death of a loved one on record, one might reasonably ask why Elverum decided to go through with it at all. I think we should instead look closely at what he did release, because A Crow Looked at Me is indeed a great record — a challenging one, but a great one.

Elverum’s songwriting on this album does not resemble that of his other albums or those of other independent singer-songwriters associated with Mount Eerie. The album plays as a collection of folk ballads — usually guitar, electronic drums, and piano — whose chord progressions have been chopped in half and which are liable to cut out abruptly, formally hinting at their own pointlessness. Elverum avoids moment-to-moment pleasure in constructing these songs and in doing so deflects our identification with the aesthetic elements of rhythm and harmony to a different place, where we can hear more clearly the desperation of Elverum as an artist and as a person, if we were to separate the two at all.

Yet A Crow Looked at Me is not “anti-music” or swallowed up by its admittedly weighty concept. Listen closely to these songs and you will eventually find, couched deep in thought and hurt, fragments of utter beauty — particularly on the electric guitar chiaroscuro of “Swims” and the downward melodic trickle of “Ravens”. Confronting the limitations of artistic practice itself, Phil Elverum has impossibly produced a work of art that gives witness to his late beloved wife and brings the pain of her absence to all of us. –Alex Robertson

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Phoebe Bridgers makes music for wide open spaces with nothing inside. That’s how it feels, anyway – in the magnificent first song alone she’s touched on the deaths of Bowie and Lemmy, given a nod to Twin Peaks, and crafted a touching ode to the moments in a relationship that you can’t forget. Before the album’s finished, she’s compared herself to Dahmer, duetted with Conor Oberst, and covered a Mark Kozelek song; on breadth of ambition alone Stranger in the Alps is clearly a force to be reckoned with. Yet at the centre of it is an emptiness, a dead place that the echoes all bounce back to once the songs have run their course. Stranger may strike you as morbidly death-obsessed, and at times that’s true, but at the core is a hollow truth which is never said more plainly than in the brutal chorus of “Funeral”: “Jesus Christ, I’m so blue all the time / And that’s just how I feel / Always have, and I always will.” –Rowan

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Tyler, the Creator is growing up. Not in a getting-boring, losing-his-edge way that rappers have been known to do; no, Tyler has found a way to reconcile the two halves of himself and his music. The vulgar motormouth of previous albums is still very much alive on “Who Dat Boy” and “I Ain’t Got Time!”, but his cage is gilded with the brevity and lucidity of Flower Boy‘s production. The context of Tyler’s rise to fame becomes important on the other side of the coin, as we see an anxious young romantic, driven by the promise of human connection; his incredible Tiny Desk performance shows an artist fueled by anxiety but not consumed, channeling his nervous energy into something beautiful. When the two sides meet, when the demon and the dreamer battle it out – see “911 / Mr Lonely”, “See You Again” – what we get is simply some of the best music of the year. –Rowan

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I don’t think Science Fiction should solely be enjoyed in spite of the recent accusations concerning lead singer/songwriter Jesse Lacey. It could be – that’s up to you – but, rather, I think it could be considered on account of them, refracted under a new lens: one of disappointment, betrayal, fascination, indifference, or whatever is conjured. In hindsight, past songs like “Me vs. Maradona vs. Elvis” feel less like angst-ridden romanticizing and more potent. There’s more weight to evocative instrumentals like “Untitled”. Between you and me, I’ve always kinda skipped that song and “Welcome to Bangkok” when listening to The Devil and God; but, they could be album highlights, all things considered. What might have felt like supplemental experimentation now feels more vital in wordless contemplation. Moving on: Science Fiction is more than a well-constructed indie rock album penned by someone introspective. More accurately, it’s the result of a decade-plus of inner turmoil, growth, and (probably) regret, but never complete atonement or transparency. The overall tone is augmented by the soundscaping talents of guitarist Vincent Accardi and producer Mike Sapone (a longtime friend of the band since the Your Favorite Weapon days).

Upon release, many listeners were astounded that Brand New were able to deliver something so intricate and carefully-wrought in its agony eight years after Daisy; a few months later, it probably makes some sense. Art succeeds on account of portraying what conventional prose can’t (or won’t). As long as there’s something out of plain sight, the intrigue remains, and Lacey has had years to contemplate undisturbed by outside imputations. When he sings of fantasized heresy in opener “Lit Me Up”, we can now see it as coming to terms, illuminating one’s faults bereft of religious motivations. “Out of Mana”, which could be a soundtrack to overcoming challenges amidst depression when you feel like nothing’s left to fuel you, hits a slightly different note. “In the Water”, which some consider to be the band’s unofficial career finale, struggles with internal feelings of inadequacy and meeting the expectations of fans, sort of summing up their M.O.; now, it feels more like a requiem. Proper closer “Batter Up” feels resigned, weary, maybe resentful, but still a bit receptive and hopeful for the future. It’s probably the most realistically helpful attitude going forward, for Lacey and loyal Brand New fans alike. –Tristan Jones

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