Yup, I did it. I put together a list of my favorite 50 albums of 2018 a full six months after the year had already ended. “But Casey”, you might say, “2018 was traumatizing- the continued rise of alternative facts, kids in cages, Pete Davidson and Ariana Grande breaking up- nobody wants to relive that shit.” Which is fine. I totally get it. But I mean, do you realize how slow the film industry can be for a freelancer during January? Like, there were only so many times I could get off to the breathtaking passing of The Joker before I needed a change of pace.

Besides, I’ve always found the early December drop date for end-of-the-year lists premature. There is a reason the Oscars don’t usually happen until March: The Academy needs time to absorb a year’s worth of content before voting (and even then, the wrong films often win). Finances and attention spans may dictate that critics crown masterpieces quickly, but legacies are cemented with the clarity of time.

2018 was an odd year in music. Much like 2014, there was an abundance of quality but not much that stands out as an immediate classic. Usually, there is an album or two that worms its way into my soul and causes an unquenchable hunger for repeat listens. A parasite without the associated nutritional deficiencies. This year, I was more like a middle schooler cycling through the latest fad… enjoying myself in the moment but unsure of whether the record I purchased might wind up stashed in my parents’ attic next to the baseball cards my Mom keeps hinting I should throw away.

The decades-long pattern of young musicians planting a stick of dynamite into the concept of “genres” and lighting the fuse continued. The year’s best albums pushed the boundaries of genre until they became as blurry as an episode of standard definition television (after 5 shots of gin. And a bump of ketamine). Meanwhile, the rapper that everybody hates themselves for loving led the charge in popularizing the release of EP’s disguised as albums. Seriously, Kanye decides he’s gonna produce a series of albums that are exactly 7 songs long and suddenly everybody is getting off on the short shit. As if his ego needed any reason to get bigger.