The Best Albums of 2020 Ranked

Despite not having not released an album in over a decade, Annie Strand has demonstrated a remarkable ability to stay on trend with Dark Hearts, and at the same time produced a shimmering, cinematic record.

Sounding both like a throwback to the '80s as well as a glimpse of the future, listening to Dark Hearts is akin to time travel. Strand paints a dystopian picture, with sparkling synths and throbbing basslines contrasted firmly against the Norwegian singer's honed vocals. It’s enough to make you believe that this could have been recorded at any time in the past - or indeed future - decade.

It begs the question “what next?” for the singer, whose career now spans more than two decades. With the transition from bubblegum pop on breakthrough 1999 debut The Greatest Hit to the more comprehensive offering here now complete, we hope we won’t have to wait so long for the next instalment. DAN CROMB

Even the title of Haim's third album suggests the completion of a trilogy for the trio and if that's the case, Women in Music Pt III is a perfect example of how to take an established sound and perfect it. What warms the soul most about the record is its familiar, yet elevated feel - but a warm and inviting execution makes it stand out from the rest. It’s due in part to strong production, fashioning the album’s sharp, lovable tone and old school sound alongside what's definitely the peak of Haim’s songwriting talent. Round that off with driving grooves and even some tongue-in-cheek cuts in "3am" or "All That Ever Mattered", and you’ll be hard pressed to find another album this year as self-assured as this one. SARAH SHODIPE

The highs on The Prettiest Curse are euphoric, zigzagging through Hinds' well-hewn garage path and into an invigorating new space that feels like a blueprint for their future. Their much-loved formula hasn't been totally turned on its head, and the hallmarks of previous records Leave Me Alone and I Don't Run are easily found throughout, with raucous moments of freefalling fuzz, cheekily biting choruses, and a palpable sense of camaraderie, but thing are definitely different on the Madrid quartet's third outing. This is the first time we see the Madrid four-piece properly embracing pop - “Boy”, “Good Bad Times”, and “Just Like Kids (Miau)” in particular have hooks you'll be singing for days - as well as using their native Spanish in a big way, and they pull these changes (albeit pretty natural ones) off without missing a step.

In an interview with Rolling Stone, guitarist/singer Carlotta Cosials puts the newfound confidence down to the recording process in New York City with producer Jenn Decilveo (Bat for Lashes, Anne-Marie, Porridge Radio), where for the first time Hinds were able to slow down the creation of their music and let it unfold and evolve at a leisurely pace. The results are a candid missions statement for the band, with The Prettiest Curse sitting proudly as a turning point in their journey and as a thoroughly excellent collection guitar pop songs in itself. LARRY DAY

A rare posthumous release which exceeds much which came before it, Mac Miller’s Circles was not intended as a final testimony; it is instead a tantalising taste of a successful new direction cut tragically short. On the album Miller sings more than he raps, in an imperfect croon which is threadbare emotionally. With assistance from Rick Rubin and Fiona Apple’s producer Jon Brion, the record takes as many cues from Wilco and early '80s synthpop as it does Sounwave.

Singing candidly of his struggles with addiction and depression over bright synths and plucked strings, the songs range between the orchestral swing of “That’s On Me” and the bittersweet confessionality of “Surf”. Two songs steal the show though: a pitch-perfect cover of Arthur Lee’s “Everybody’s Gotta Live” and the bittersweet optimism of “Good News”, which sees Miller sing “hope I make it home from work / so tired of being so tired / why I gotta build something beautiful just to go set it on fire?”

Often his words are so predictive that they sound prophetic, but instead Circles is just a bright lesson in musical earnestness, delivered by an artist who had many more left to impart. LIAM INSCOE-JONES

'Mixtape' was a label too liberally applied in 2020, but Giggs' Now and Never - which arrived unexpectedly last month minus any real fanfare - nails the format. This vault of miscellaneous treasures, from the soulful politics of “It's Hard” to the ghostly warehouse trap of “Hoochies”, features a curious cast of collaborators, including Jorja Smith, Obongjayar, and A Boogie wit da Hoodie.

It's a nod to his character that Giggs gives his features room to breathe: none of A Boogie wit da Hoodie's wrought intensity is compromised on “Changed Me”, and Dave is given the first three minutes of “Straight Murder” to, well, straight murder. Then again, the emcee knows his worth. Whether over industrial drill or low-slung dancehall, Giggs' dulcet delivery and sly punchlines solidify his legacy as one of UK rap's most dependable narrators - even what may possibly be this year's worst cover art cannot obscure him. KITTY RICHARDSON

Channelling the traces of those pop stars who have previously looked to disco for inspiration - the Gagas, the Arianas, the Rihannas - Future Nostalgia is as much a showcase of Dua Lipa’s vision as it is a portrait of the artist coming into her own. Lipa’s reverie for her music to sound like a “dancercise class” births a timeless romance, with tracks such as the lead single “Don’t Start Now” becoming a testament to her fusion of the ‘nostalgic’ with the modern.

Instant nu-disco staples seamlessly flow into roller disco anthems (“Levitating”), but, foremost, the sound is distinctly her own throughout. Future Nostalgia is anchored by snappy basslines, disco strings, and house-infused piano chords, all the while refusing to delegate itself to filler or features. We know the hits by now, and they deserve to be remembered in equal merit to the iconic pop albums that defined the '00s. It makes a persuasive case for Lipa as the pop powerhouse of this generation as she capitalises on effervescent retro vibes that should always feel this good. HANNAH BROWNE

Stylistic shifts have been the norm for Sweden’s I Break Horses - from the traditional rock sound of Hearts, their debut from almost a decade ago, to the electronic synthpop of its follow up Chiaroscuro in 2014. Both commendable releases, they were always an act searching for a sound that truly fit their ambitions, a search this sepia-tinged, darkly cinematic release has concluded.

More than ever a solo vehicle for Maria Lindén, this is the most focused I Break Horses record to date and follows a troublesome gestation period with a back story of failed collaborations and music lost on broken harddrives. Initial sketches for the record were created as imaginary scores while watching her favourite films with the sound turned down, and these dramatic ambient pieces were used as a blueprint for the record. The original intention of an instrumental album is evident in its wide-reaching ambition and tricksy intricate detailing pushed to the fore by Lindén; her voice is used more as an atmosphere, a distant hush throughout.

Lyrically musing on love and loss, on opening track "Turn" she delivers one of the year’s most direct observations on the futility of keeping a broken relationship alive: “Maybe we’re fucking with absent minds / While our hearts are breaking.” Musically venturing into new areas such as thunderous trip-hop beats, propulsive arpeggiated basslines, swirling dreampop with hypnotic synth chords, introspective coldwave, and on highlight "Neon Lights" she takes the flatness of krautrock and sprinkles it with an '80s pop fizz, all done with a deft touch. CHRIS TODD

Petals For Armor comes not only as Williams’ debut solo outing, but an intricately designed web of vulnerability. Rattling around echoes of sparse indie comes a vehement tongue that has something its been dying to say and is done sugarcoating, all without putting forward an oppressive wave. The opening hushed hurry of "Simmer" offers all you need in terms of expectation for the record. It wears brooding like a protective shell, but not to the point it closes itself off.

Yet Williams offers hope and understanding amidst the gentle indie and subtle pop sensibilities. Far from letting the negativity eddy and suffocate, Petals For Armor's grooves swell and burst, elevating the impassioned sentiments of reflection and empowerment, both Williams' own and whatever emerges from the delicately assured journey one may undertake. With the record, Williams has given the world a way of supporting themselves through the smoke and rubble, by offering up her own reflective, expressive experience. STEVEN LOFTIN

It's a long-running joke that Canadian artists don't get their dues, but the under-the-radar-ness of Donovan Woods seems baffling at this point. A songwriter with the pop chops of Ed Sheeran and the lyrical acuity of Paul Simon - topped off with cinematic, tear-teasing production - he's a decade into his career and still a relative unknown on the world stage. Here's hoping Without People, his fourth studio album, changes all that.

Woods' brand of folk-pop is both grand and unassuming. He has a knack - like the aforementioned Simon - of examining the minutiae of common tragedies: the wedding band in the pawn shop, the scraps of a shared life swept up on moving day. Most tracks on Without People tackle painfully human trials, from the static shock of seeing your ex after a break up (“The Last Time I Saw You”) to the shame of wheeling your emotional baggage into a new relationship (“Clean Slate”). And as a musician, Woods' lumberjack-esque stature belies him: his voice is feather-light and climbs octaves with ease, and his arrangements are soft, laying sweeping strings and shuffling drums over sad-eyed acoustics. Woods' decision to share his platform with those who aren't cishet white dudes is heartening, too. When the pandemic lay waste to many artists' incomes, Woods rewired the budget that would have gone on a billboard campaign for Without People to fund video collaborations with a diverse group of visual artists - evidence that his sensitivity extends far beyond his arrangements. KITTY RICHARDSON

Taylor Swift gave us perhaps the most unprecedented about-turn of any contemporary musical career this year. Known for her masterfully crafted, arena-ready, glitterbomb pop, the former country star ditched her trademark flashy outfits for comfy cardigans, and her usually slick, huge sound for an extraordinarily hushed and stripped-back one on her eighth album, folklore.

With the world in lockdown, and the prospect of touring and performing any new material for the foreseeable future unlikely, Swift found herself writing songs in a completely uninhibited way for the very first time. Seeking escape - as many of us have been throughout the year - and dialling down her usual self-referential tendencies, Swift let her imagination run wild, letting just fragments of her reality mingle with the worlds and stories of characters she’d conjured up.

As someone whose strength has always been vivid storytelling, she thrived in this state of reverie, weaving some of her finest heart-panging tales of love yet. To go with the stories of love triangles, American dynasties, and ricocheting tears, Swift - together with The National’s Aaron Dessner and regular collaborator Jack Antonoff - conceived a sound akin to a soft breeze that blows through the fallen leaves on a forest floor, a sound gently illuminated by candlelight and autumnal sunsets. Folky strumming and plucking nestles into the pitter-patter of a subtle electronica backdrop, putting Swift’s chronicling at front and centre like never before, and giving us a rich, textured tapestry of folklore to escape into at a time when we need it most. OLIVER KUSCHER

If you’re well versed in Montreal-based singer/songwriter, Helena Deland’s electro-tinged EP series, Altogether Unaccompanied Volumes I, II, III, and IV, you might be a little surprised to hear sombre strums in her debut LP, Someone New. It's an album to cherish - a soundboard for validating your feelings and really figuring them out. Spending a lot of time with this album, you’ll find exquisite snippets of saccharine encased with lingering vulnerability.

"Truth Nugget", a highlight on the full-length, sees Deland considering a relationship, the distance in which engulfs it, despite efforts to be overtly honest. The starkness in the storytelling is balanced out by a captivating melody that ebbs and flows throughout. "Pale" is another standout which illustrates Deland’s attempts at understanding her person, as well as the struggles that come with trying to accept ourselves.

The record is an evaluation of the self. Sitting in the reflections of who you are - learning and unlearning certain tropes and traits. It eases the earbuds with each listen as we become more familiar with Deland’s thought processes, privy to the singer/songwriter’s most inner workings. CHARLOTTE CROFT

The driving force behind some of the most seminal pop moments of the past decade, Victoria Monét was a reputable hitmaker in her own right well before her unveiling to the masses. Penning records for figures as disparate as Ariana Grande, Fifth Harmony, T.I., and Nas, Monét established herself as one of the quiet arbiters of popular music in the last decade, with a demonstrable ease and dexterity across styles and genres.

Such skills are abundant on her debut record, Jaguar - an album that is as much a document of Monét’s personal evolution as it is a meditation on the very concept of inner strength itself. A panoply of '80s-inspired funk, hip-hop-inflected quiet storm, and Y2K pop-soul, the record charts its narrative of acceptance and growth against the sonic history of contemporary R&B, a testament to the singer-songwriter’s various stylistic forebearers.

There is a quiet radicalism that underpins this approach, with tracks such as “Ass Like That” and the Motown-inspired “Dive” operating as paeans for self-love, transforming oft-used signifiers of objectification and fetishisation into vehicles for empowerment. For Monét, success isn’t determined through arbitrary measurements of pop stardom, but through internal, spiritual, and personal gratification - sentiments which run throughout Jaguar with forceful verve and stunning rhythm. UDIT MAHALINGAM

When COVID officially cancelled dating this summer, no record made us mourn the possibility of making out with strangers quite like THEY.'s The Amanda Tape. On their sophomore effort, Drew Love and Dante Jones come equipped with a sophisticated set of bedroom bangers: rich, finely-tuned arrangements in one corner, and lyrics that'll make you hump the sofa in the other.

THEY.'s signature use of acoustic guitar gives the tape a unique silhouette: providing “Playfight” with Tinashe its Craig David-esque hook, glinting in the background of the sombre breakup ballad “On and On”, and driving the heart of “FWM”. Love is pretty free with his pen on the naughtier cuts (shout out to "Imma eat it like I don't know what it taste like," for being 2020's most confusing cunnilingus bar), but he also knows how to open a vein: see “On and On”, where his pleas to keep a relationship afloat - despite an endless list of failures - will catch your heart off-guard.

There's always a risk that such a homage to late '90s R&B - especially one this sincere - could be written off as parody. This is where Dante Jones' hyper-literate production comes in: he offsets Love's syrupy vocal arrangements and earnest bars about love-making with clean, hard drum breaks and the kind of sad-boy reverbs favoured by The Weeknd. The result is a record so switched-on and steeped in emotion you'll damn near forget that Love is singing about making his ex squirt. KITTY RICHARDSON

The music of 2020 is inevitably going be framed by the individual, collective, and cultural context of COVID-19, but with her second record Kelly Lee Owens presciently and unwittingly wrote a soundtrack of hope. Originally due for release in May, Owens - who worked in some of London's greatest record stores during her early years in music - held back its release until August in solidarity, so that people could buy the vinyl in stores.

Such a gesture is a testament to the Welsh artist’s belief in the collective, something that the world needs more than ever right now. Written over the three-year period following her self-titled debut, Inner Song sees Owens dig into her psyche to create a universal message of the effects of solitude, transition and the bittersweet joy of moving on. Whereas Kelly Lee Owens contained songs of innocence - the smitten “S.O” exalted in the bliss of new love - Inner Song deals with the reality of experience. Songs such as “L.I.N.E” reflected that “Love is not enough," but Inner Song is full of love - for music as well as her Welsh heritage, brilliantly celebrated on “Corner of My Sky”, a collaboration with John Cale.

The record lays out how much power lies in the collective, in storytelling, and that from the darkness comes the light. ED NASH

The past few years have produced some incredible country music, from the stoic classicism of Colter Wall to the sepia-toned nostalgia of Charley Crockett (not forgetting Lil Nas X) - but no artist has distinguished themselves as thrillingly, as utterly magnificently, as Canada’s newest queer icon Orville Peck. His 2019 debut, Pony, was loaded with beautiful, haunting gothic tunes that drew as much from Joy Division as they did from Roy Orbison, in the process creating a Lynchian chimera of a sound that was utterly his own, one of nostalgic doom and heartbroken bliss.

Thankfully, he wasn’t content to let another year pass by without blessing us with new material, and with this year’s mini-album Show Pony, he’s taken that same sound and pointed it skyward, resulting in a collection of songs that match and often better those found on his debut.

The biggest draw for newcomers is undoubtedly the appearance of another Canadian country star: Shania Twain. The fact that he’s landed Twain this early into his career only goes to show the diverse and potent appeal of his songwriting chops. Their duet, “Legends Never Die”, also proves that he isn’t a one-trick pony (sorry): the track, at once both muscular and sparkling, showed that Peck had serious rock-radio potential, drawing as it does on the kind of beefy country rock you might find on, say, a prime-era Bon Jovi record.

The other five tracks on the collection effortlessly pull at your heartstrings, with a stunning sense of tears-in-your-beer country classicism. There’s a heartstopping power ballad in “Summertime”; widescreen grandeur in “No Glory in the West”; glossy saturnine thrills in “Drive Me, Crazy” (which evokes both Chris Isaak and Bruce Springsteen in its sumptuous gloom) and a breathtaking cover of Bobby Gentry’s “Fever”.

Put simply, Show Pony is one of the finest collections released this year for a single, obvious reason: nobody else is doing anything remotely as unique as this. Not only is Orville Peck refashioning classic sounds to fit his relentlessly progressive approach, he’s doing it with such style, with such finesse, that it seems effortless. There’s not a single wasted moment on this thing, not a single second that isn’t filled with a luxurious intensity. ROSS HORTON

On Beginners, the debut album from Los Angeles singer/songwriter Christian Lee Hutson, six or seven words may be enough to build an entire world of possibility, or to destroy it with a devastating gut punch.

On opening track “Atheist”, he conjures a childhood home glimpsed through the small oval of an airplane window, complete with memories of shirts in the microwave and trash in the sink. On the chorus of “Twin Soul”, he confesses a fundamental flaw to a would-be lover with unflinching self-reproach, promising “I’m gonna hurt you and myself too / ‘Cause that’s the only thing / That I know how to do.”

Towards the end of lead single and album standout “Northsiders”, after riffing nostalgically on the things that build fast friendships in high school, he describes the death of one of his fellow Northsiders in a car accident in a heartbreaking rush of syllables: “I read an article about the accident / probably reaching for cigarettes / And missed the brake lights up ahead / I hope it was an instant death.”

It’s not that Beginners is revolutionary: Hutson’s blend of fingerpicking and strumming has drawn comparisons to Paul Simon and John Prine, and the double-tracked vocals used throughout are reminiscent of Elliot Smith, an obvious (and admitted) influence here. At their core, these are simple songs, but Hutson’s writerly detail and effortless knack for melody imbue them with a depth that rewards repeat listens. On any given play through, you might focus in on the way Hutson’s voice threatens to break on “Keep You Down”, or delight in the way the melody seesaws between sugary and sour on the chorus of “Get The Old Band Back Together” before resolving in ascending steps on his promise to “let the magic happen”, or wonder who provides the roaring harmonica solo on the same song (Conor Oberst, it turns out).

And though he appeared to have arrived back in May fully formed, famous friends in tow, with just a few Better Oblivion Community Center and boygenius writing credits to his name (he has since been credited with co-writing on five songs from Phoebe Bridgers’ Punisher, released in June this year), Hutson had apparently been not just performing, but recording many of the songs found on his debut for the last five years. It wasn’t until he got into the studio with friend, occasional bandmate, and Beginners producer Bridgers that he found versions of them that he actually liked.

Bridgers’ subtle touch can be heard throughout, whether in the keyboard line she plays in “Twin Soul” or in the contributions from friends like Nathaniel Walcott, the aforementioned Oberst, Meg Duffy, and Lucy Dacus. But in multiple interviews, Hutson has emphasized the role Bridgers played in giving him permission to be himself and let the songs be “good enough to exist”.

Perhaps that's the secret to Beginners; maybe it’s not just Katie and Charlie and Harry and the stories that grow out of the fragments planted around them, or the melodies that bring them to life. Maybe these songs are so easy to live in because they have been lived in for a long time; maybe hearing Hutson’s heart break and letting him break yours is so enticing because, at 29, he is finally, fully himself. MICHAEL MCANDREW

Last Halloween, Los Angeles’ premier purveyors of experimental hip-hop released There Existed an Addiction to Blood, a concept album that summoned the ghost of '90s horrorcore and reworked it for the current climate. So rich was the creative vein that clipping. tapped into in the process, they returned in time for 2020’s spooky season with Visions of Bodies Being Burned, a direct sequel that again cloaks a slickly-assembled, horror-heavy framework of smart cultural references in an oppressive atmosphere, thick with foreboding. Producers Jonathan Snipes and William Hutson seem to deal exclusively in monolithic menace, with aggressive beats and unnerving electronics providing a sinister backdrop over which frontman Daveed Diggs - an alum of the original Hamilton run, seen more recently in Black-ish, Velvet Buzzsaw, and Snowpiercer - spins razor-sharp, modern day ghost stories.

Visions of Bodies Being Burned’s evocative title nods directly to the origins of horrorcore - it’s lifted from a verse by Scarface, the Geto Boys MC who’s arguably the godfather of a sub-genre that remains misunderstood and unfairly maligned. clipping. get that; the record’s littered with respectful nods to the likes of Gravediggaz, Flatlinerz, and early Three 6 Mafia, and it’s hard to think of another hip-hop record in 2020 that has gone out of its way to demand a reappraisal of an under-appreciated niche the way this one does. That’s crucial, because contrary to what horrorcore’s detractors might have you believe, at its best the style never seeks to unsettle the listener for the sake of it - instead, it holds up a mirror to society and reflects what it sees sonically.

For all its clever nods to Scream (“’96 Neve Campbell”), Candyman (“Say the Name”) and H.P. Lovecraft (“Enlacing”), what lies at the jet-black heart of Visions of Bodies Being Burned is a profound discomfort, if not outright revulsion, with the state of America in 2020. That’s why we get a furious repudiation of the country’s gun culture on "Make Them Dead", a graphic, disturbing rejection of police brutality on "Body for the Pile", and an unhinged rebuttal of the veneer of respectability that so flimsily masks the nation’s racist foundations on "Something Underneath". There are no gimmicks to Visions of Bodies Being Burned - no novelty to its ouija-board resurrection of a hip-hop offshoot long thought buried. They’ve plundered horrorcore’s grave with a grim purpose - to paint an unflinching portrait of the world around them. In the process, they’ve maybe made 2020’s most politically vital record. JOE GOGGINS

Lorely Rodriguez's third full-length offering as Empress Of is a stunning foray into deeply personal themes and ideas, backed by goosebump-inducing production. It scrapes past the 30-minute mark across a dozen tracks, and despite its relatively brief existence manages to draw you deep into a rich web of personal storytelling, with dizzying synthpop, intricate beats, and spacey, psychedelic electronica. It's a transformative listen, blasting through the gamut of emotion at a breakneck pace, but there's no sense of rush - it's a perfectly whole album.

“Love Is A Drug” is a standout moment, nodding to Rodriguez's highest pop points to date, standalone single “Go To Hell” and “Water Water” from debut Me, with a terrifyingly addictive melody and swelling bursts of vocal prowess, but I'm Your Empress Of is flush with high points. “Bit Of Rain”'s thwomping, floorfilling beat, the sparse “Should've” cascades, and the future R&B of Caribou-esque “Not This Time” all sit with you long after the final beat - and not just because of the stellar production.

I'm Your Empress Of fizzes with scraped-knee-raw thoughts and feelings, more so than anything else Rodriguez has put to tape before. It feels like a more fluid and diaristic than her previous work - it's still carefully thought out, of course, but the way she slips between sentiments and sonic styles over the record smacks of stream-of-consciousness...ness. It shifts subtly and suddenly, moving in three dimensions and never outstaying its welcome in any particular area. It's a mix, it's a sample platter, and it's a series of faded dreamscapes phasing between realities - ultimately it breaks a lot of her own conventions in surreptitious ways and works best as one entity. Bangers can easily be carved out of it, but this is an Album with a capital A that is greatly enhanced when treated to as such: sit back, stick the headphones on, and enjoy. LARRY DAY

Julianna Barwick’s fourth album is the result of major changes, both personal and creative. Haunted by past broken relationships she relocated from her longtime-Brooklyn base to LA to begin a new life chapter in 2016. The catharsis a change of environment can bring coincided with signing to Ninja Tune for her first record in four years.

While her previous albums, recorded on GarageBand, were sonically rich and full of intricate sound designing, there’s a fuller bodied sound on Healing Is A Miracle. The reverb on her word-free weightless soprano more glacial, the synths more luxurious, the act of a sudden shift more dramatic, such as the unexpected introduction of bass synth on "Inspirit" and the abrupt conclusion of the piece.

The reason for these advances could be the move from recording solely using headphones, to producing her music using monitor speakers - gifted to her by Jónsi - for the first time, or it could be the artists she's collaborated with here. The Sigur Ròs frontman agreed to collaborate on "In Light" if she wrote actual lyrics - a rarity for her - and his voice merges with hers with ease. Harpist Mary Lattimore, a kindred spirit who herself released an essential album this year with Silver Ladders, adds a delicate layer of aural fragility on "Oh Memory", while Nosaj Thing compliments Barwick's more electronic leanings on "Nod".

Or it could be none of those changes, but time itself that has moved on. With the external noise of normality suspended, we are afforded the space needed to truly immerse in her sound, the uncertainty of isolation an environ matched by the music which shuts the outside out as soon as it commences.

Healing Is A Miracle works as a mood piece, vocals are looped, processed, and multitracked into an electronic facsimile of the human voice, the freedom of working outside of the constraints of regular song structure results in freeform pieces, but always remains focussed. On the occasion percussive touches are applied, they abruptly crash in, only to disappear as rapidly. The way Barwick manipulates the space between the sound, while managing to be both nuanced and uncluttered is reminiscent of the more ambient work of Boards of Canada, or Talk Talk's Mark Hollis. CHRIS TODD

Katie Crutchfield's weirder, wonderfully messy, left-of-mainstream sound was born as a rebellion against her Southern country roots, but it was always a rebellion that still skirted the fringes of those roots. On this year's Saint Cloud she’s no longer fighting what’s in her musical DNA but she does detail the fight within herself - the fight with codependency and addiction which began in 2018 when she decided to get sober.

Embracing the softer side of her voice - and dropping, for the most part, that gravel-y edge we’d come to love - Saint Cloud is clean in many senses of the word. There is a self-assuredness to the record, a slower-paced considered approach, a reckoning of sorts with her previous self. Saint Cloud is special because it marks a new chapter in Crutchfield's life and her creative output as Waxahatchee.

It’s a beautiful record too, in which Crutchfield's songwriting opens up and finds a new directness - even though she still communicates in abstract poetic metaphors there are more literal lyrics weaved in. The record playfully and appropriately kicks off with the still ragged, leftfield “Oxbow” (which was written in Barcelona) which leaves listeners guessing about the journey they’re about to take. Those messy edges still exist on songs like “Fire” and “Arkadelphia” but the twanging guitars and swinging rhythms of “Can’t Do Much”, “Lilacs”, and almost every other track leave you in no doubt that this is a change for Crutchfield. LAUREN DOWN

Killer Mike and El-P understand that fury is what love needs to fight hate - and hell hath no fury like Run The Jewels. A declaration of war, the fourth instalment of their truth-spitting saga came at a time when we needed it more than ever.

“You so numb you watch the cops choke out a man like me / Until my voice goes from a shriek to whisper - ‘I can’t breathe’ / And you sit there in the house on couch and watch it on TV,” Killer Mike raps on the snarling “walking in the snow”, his voice grab-you-by-the-collar urgent. The lyric was originally inspired by the murder of Eric Garner, but now it’s about George Floyd, too - and his murder, in turn, belonged to an ugly mosaic of state-sanctioned slayings of people of colour by the very institution designed to protect its people. The Black Lives Matter movement gave RTJ4 gravitas like never before.

The record is their most evolved yet because, while their whip-smart, trash-talking lyrics still have an outlet, at last, they are channelled into a moment of living, breathing history. There are no artists better equipped for this moment than Run The Jewels - they’ve been waiting, but this record is all about action: a definitive call-to-arms.

Let it be said, Killer Mike and El-P know how to pick their collaborations. Those taking even the most passing interest in music will no doubt recognise the names the duo rally for this record. “pulling the pin” enlists civil rights activist and legendary R&B artist Mavis Staples and Queens Of The Stone Age’s Josh Homme, to goosebump-inducing effect. Staples’ voice is like a wound, punctuated by the duo’s flow which deals more incisive blows than ever before. RTJ4 saw their skillset honed into a leaner, sharper beast.

While their lyricism tackling the spectres of systemic racism and capitalism plays centre-field, they don’t compromise for a minute on their beats. The Pharrell-featuring “JU$T” is the best weapon in their armoury. “The breath in me is weaponry”, Rage Against The Machine’s Zack de la Rocha spits, over a skittering, bass-swelling instrumental. It’s the most kinetic protest anthem to be committed to record in decades. The battle lines are drawn on all fronts on RTJ4 and on this album, more than ever before, they are not be fucked with.

But, crucially, RTJ4 proves that Killer Mike and El-P still know how to have fun. The trash-talking wordplay carve them out as a Tarantino-type duo of blockbuster proportions. It’s packed with wisecracks primed to tease a smile amidst what would otherwise be a heavy record, like Killer Mike’s lyric on “ooh la la”: “Fuck a king or queen and all of their loyal subjects / I'll pull my penis out and I piss on their shoes in public.”

You almost forget they’re in their forties; their music is still over-brimming with vitality and immediacy. RTJ4 is a record that nods to the past, but keeps its sights fixed unshakably on the present - better still, the future. “It’s been 20-plus years, you think that’s a clue / Maybe this guy kinda kills what he do?” El-P sneers on the vitriolic “holy calmafuck”.

RTJ4 is one of the best records of the year - obviously. What doesn’t it do? It’s all killer, no filler; it’s a graduate of the old-school, and yet a thousand steps ahead with its radical production choices and cultural references. But above all, capturing not only the zeitgeist, but a historical milestone, careering towards a future they’ve been armed, ready, and waiting for. SOPHIE WALKER

In 1818, a teenager named Mary Shelley wrote a novel called Frankenstein. Written in a blaze of creativity over one stormy weekend, it told of the the trials and tribulations of a melodramatic Swiss scientist named Victor who, for all of his intellectual brilliance, makes the regrettable, fateful decision to reanimate the finest pieces of corpse he could dig up - carefully stitching the pieces together and electrifying them until they were forced back to life.

Miami-born, Tennessee-raised, Turin-residing experimentalist Yves Tumor (the recording alias of Sean Bowie) has achieved a similar feat on their stunning new album Heaven to a Tortured Mind - only it’s not a human corpse they’ve resurrected, but the long-dead rotten remains of what was once known as rock and roll. Bowie skillfully, effortlessly, seamlessly stitches together the very best aspects of decades worth of rock, soul, and funk music, in the process producing a deeply erotic, endlessly sensual experience not heard in aeons. This is the music of Prince, of George Clinton, of Lenny Kravitz, of Sly Stone… all together, blended and melted and electrified. This music is brilliantly Black, proudly Queer, and - most importantly - frighteningly good. Where their previous albums had attracted praise and critical acclaim for their somewhat difficult, eccentric take on avant-pop, Heaven... goes straight for the jugular. From the opening lock-step glitched-out industrial-soul of “Gospel for a New Century”, to the muscular sexadelic grooves of closer “A Greater Love”, Tumor takes you on a thrill-ride through the haunted house of their mind.

“Medicine Burn” is as intense as Funkadelic, and just as harrowing. The track invites you to immerse yourself in a migraine-inducing electronic funk squall that doesn’t let up until bits of grey matter are banging around inside your skull. The oddball skronk of “Identity Trade” sounds like a melted Isaac Hayes 45 played at the wrong speed, while “Kerosene!” (which features Diana Gordon) is a syrupy late-night banger that grows in intensity with each passing second. The true centrepiece of the record is “Super Stars”, with its kaleidoscopic guitars and glitter-dusted psych-soul vibes. Close behind is the bass-led brilliance of “Strawberry Privilege”, which blends both post-punk and funk with glorious results. As if those weren’t enough, “Asteroid Blues”, “Romanticist” and “Hasdallen Lights” all do weird, wonderful things to your auditory cortex too.

Heaven to a Tortured Mind isn’t just one of the best albums of the year, but one of the greatest statements of intent ever made in the rock genre. It belongs on the same shelf as Dirty Mind, Mothership Connection, Mama Said, and Fresh – and it holds its own against all of them. The moves Tumor makes on Heaven... are aggressive, and the results are mindblowing – proving, despite all of the evidence to the contrary, that rock isn’t dead just yet. ROSS HORTON

Winner of the Oscar for Best Original Song (2001) and the 2016 Nobel Prize for Literature. Author of some of the most immortal songs and albums in existence. The originator of all good things we now associate with the term ‘songwriter’. Bob Dylan had nothing left to prove in 2020.

Even so, Rough and Rowdy Ways aimed for the lofty levels of inspiration and depth of the Minnesota-born genuine American legend’s most celebrated masterpieces -and succeeded. The first inkling that Dylan had been applying some proper elbow grease in his latest undertaking came in the form of “Murder Most Foul”, a hypnotic, elegiac epic set to a disembodied, eerie drone that suggested a wee small hours jazz club jam attended exclusively by ghosts (and was unlike anything else in the extensive Dylan catalogue), released as a surprise drop as the world was reeling from the first wave of COVID-19 in March. Ostensibly about the assassination of John F. Kennedy, the track’s staggering, initially almost overwhelming 17-minute recital of powerful imagery and intimations of conspiracy and deceit appeared to hone in on the infamous 1963 murder as the point where the American dream permanently curdled. But there was more to it.

Although rooted in the specifics of 20th-century US history, the song’s themes of darkness overtaking light and glimmers of hope being ruthlessly snuffed out seemed almost supernaturally suited for a year when the American democratic process was again pushed to the ropes and a global pandemic ravaged the planet. The track’s palpable sense of loss sounded deeply, movingly personal, too, suggesting that the tragic events of 57 years ago in Dallas may have marked the point at which the idealism that fired up young folkie Dylan’s ‘protest’ classics á la “The Times They Are A-Changing” wilted and expired.

When it eventually emerged in June, the rest of Rough and Rowdy Ways proved equally fit to stand alongside the catalogue of assorted highlights from American popular song that Dylan reels off as balm and sustenance for a damaged nation and battered ideals during the breathtaking coda of “Murder Most Foul”. Throughout, there was a sense that the endlessly enigmatic Dylan was a bit less intent on donning disguises this time around. Although it is risky to read too much into the words of an endlessly over-analysed artist whose autobiography (2004’s Chronicles) reportedly didn’t always land on the actual facts of events, there is a sense the ‘I’ in songs such as the lilting swoon of “I Contain Multitudes” might just relate somewhat to the actual Bob Dylan, although the song’s vivid juxtapositions and internal conflicts could apply equally to US society, maybe even humanity at large.

Similar seamless transfers between the (possibly) personal and the universal, arcane history, and the urgently pulsating right now popped up throughout the album. Set to a particularly crackling take on the kind of gin-soaked juke joint 12-bar chug that Dylan’s 21st-century albums have fixated on - a rarity on a record that favors melody and lightness of touch, with guests such as Fiona Apple and Blake Mills adding to Dylan’s trusty touring band. “Goodbye Jimmy Reed” could equally well be a tribute to the trials and tribulations of its titular, long-gone blues legend, or Dylan himself. The stunning “I’ve Made Up My Mind to Give Myself to You” surely ranks amongst the most immeasurably affecting moments in a catalogue not exactly short of stunning devotionals.

Transmitted from the utmost reaches of a particularly vivid creative imagination, this multilayered richness and potential for rediscovery and re-interpretation over time is what made Dylan’s 37th studio album ideal listening in a year when many of us had more scope for digging in deep, what with the world having hit a more or less permanent pause.

The album gave Dylan his first US Number One single (for “Murder Most Foul”), hit the top of the charts in a number of countries, and deservedly reaped various plaudits. Not only did the 79-year-old Dylan craft an album that fit to stand the test of time just as well as his past peaks, but managed to wrench its vintage points of reference into the living, breathing, present tense. ‘’I’ve already outlived my life by far,’, he sighs on “Mother of Muses”, a wistful plea for enduring inspiration, one of the highlights on an album with no mediocre moments. On this evidence, there is plenty of life left in him yet. JANNE OINONEN

The most striking thing about Phoebe Bridgers’ second album Punisher is not her whimsical tone, nor the psychedelic, ethereal feel to the album as a whole - it is simply how it is delivered. All of the fleeting thoughts that would cross your mind or the things you would confide in with a close friend in a private room are exclaimed boldly and without hesitation on this record.

It might seem simple and commonplace to throw your feelings into a body of music - it’s a trait many artists claim to possess. However, what the Californian native masters here is sonically displaying experiences in plain sight. It’s the intricate yet banal explanations that portray Bridgers’ extensive worldview and intense self-awareness that drive the album and brought Bridgers to the forefront this year. (It is something we saw glimmers of on 2017 debut Stranger In The Alps but has since been expanded upon). On "Halloween", Bridgers tells us about living next to a hospital, hearing sirens at night and jokingly saying that if they woke her up that somebody better be dying, while "Moon Song" picks up on the minor detail of a nautical themed birthday party she attended in a dream. The thought processes draw in and out like waves, drawing out as one thing and coming back in with another thing to say (the second chorus of "Halloween" talks about the fan killed outside of the Dodgers stadium over a disagreement about John Lennon, for example).

The seamless words on this album leave you enthralled, but also heartbroken and ultimately sympathetic. Title track "Punisher" tells of Bridgers’ superfan status towards the late American singer/songwriter Elliott Smith, who it is clear that she still idolises both through her musical stylings today and the desire to write a tribute song to him. Woven in between details of walking by his house with the storybook tiles is the personal agony of Bridgers’ fear of being a punisher - someone Smith’s eyes would glaze over if they ever met. It is the common folklore that you should never meet your heroes but without the concrete evidence, just the assumption.

Musically, the album flows in a similar way to the words. The soft and dainty arrangement of "Garden Song" binds the telling of fantasies and nightmares in stark contrast and creates a song that feels like a flower in slow bloom. Meanwhile, the joyful horn that draws out the choruses of "Kyoto" acts as an exclamation of sadness and resentment. A song about imposter syndrome and always wanting to be somewhere you’re not, the upbeat percussion mars the true extent of the anguish.

Punisher is an album that sees Bridgers portray her darkest moments and most inner thoughts, in a way that is colourful. Through celestial production, we see Bridgers on the brink of collapse, whilst also simultaneously at her best. This album has cemented Bridgers’ status as a songwriter that writes exactly from experience. Whether it’s driven by a dream, or plucked from a candid self-observation, Punisher is a sonic diary, in every sense of the term. HAYLEY MILROSS

Entering your mid-twenties during the most confusing and extreme period of a generation is far from an easy feat. All the opportunity that was promised through childhood - the sunny days of a future predetermined through going to college, or starting a job, even of a world that wants to protect you - are all ideas that soon become far removed the more we live. But in the last four years, while learning to cope with the good, the bad and the ugly of norm, chuck in a pandemic, a right-wing government hellbent on tearing apart all that is good for a litany of unreason and things get a bit, well, helpless.

While all this is going on around her, 23-year-old Samia Finnerty has produced a debut album that relinquishes the need to struggle in the water and instead finds her floating, surrounded by revelation - exposing her intricate and intimate thoughts and ultimately letting go safe in the knowledge that it's okay to be The Baby.

Through the ethereal pop and twee indie comes a coming-of-age tale set in a world beyond uncertain, reminding us that while all these major events are happening, so is life. Predominantly based around Finnerty's own, in New York and on the road, the biographical elements are what give The Baby a consciousness that has often felt missing from this tremendously weighty year.

By finding most of the inspiration coming from her time touring and making a name for herself - the dingy motel rooms, failed romances, and exposure to the harsher realities of life - it’s the human aspects of her growth and journey that imprint throughout. It strikes through in the gentle rollick of “Big Wheel” where Finnerty “got bad news / I didn’t fight”, or the reflective “Fit N Full” where she “got prettier in Denver / phasing out this old fairy tale” - it’s all delivered with an airy, ethereal presence of understanding. Effortlessly swaying between driven folk-rock to twilight summoning acoustic, the highs and the lows are all tackled bluntly, with Samia refusing to water down any of the vulnerable aspects, after all, why should she given the world that's around her is a constant Twitter feed of brutal honesty?

The fact that Finnerty has managed to not only craft a debut that stands out while proffering a deep vulnerability, and using the catharsis to understand the ins and outs of her own life in a year that has the world in a flurry of indecision and uncertainty is testament to her abilities. Cutting through the noise with glimmering indie to deliver truth, The Baby is a lesson for all involved, while also forming a flowing listen with highs and lows for all occasions. STEVEN LOFTIN

Despite not having not released an album in over a decade, Annie Strand has demonstrated a remarkable ability to stay on trend with Dark Hearts, and at the same time produced a shimmering, cinematic record.

Sounding both like a throwback to the '80s as well as a glimpse of the future, listening to Dark Hearts is akin to time travel. Strand paints a dystopian picture, with sparkling synths and throbbing basslines contrasted firmly against the Norwegian singer's honed vocals. It’s enough to make you believe that this could have been recorded at any time in the past - or indeed future - decade.

It begs the question “what next?” for the singer, whose career now spans more than two decades. With the transition from bubblegum pop on breakthrough 1999 debut The Greatest Hit to the more comprehensive offering here now complete, we hope we won’t have to wait so long for the next instalment. DAN CROMB

Even the title of Haim's third album suggests the completion of a trilogy for the trio and if that's the case, Women in Music Pt III is a perfect example of how to take an established sound and perfect it. What warms the soul most about the record is its familiar, yet elevated feel - but a warm and inviting execution makes it stand out from the rest. It’s due in part to strong production, fashioning the album’s sharp, lovable tone and old school sound alongside what's definitely the peak of Haim’s songwriting talent. Round that off with driving grooves and even some tongue-in-cheek cuts in "3am" or "All That Ever Mattered", and you’ll be hard pressed to find another album this year as self-assured as this one. SARAH SHODIPE

The highs on The Prettiest Curse are euphoric, zigzagging through Hinds' well-hewn garage path and into an invigorating new space that feels like a blueprint for their future. Their much-loved formula hasn't been totally turned on its head, and the hallmarks of previous records Leave Me Alone and I Don't Run are easily found throughout, with raucous moments of freefalling fuzz, cheekily biting choruses, and a palpable sense of camaraderie, but thing are definitely different on the Madrid quartet's third outing. This is the first time we see the Madrid four-piece properly embracing pop - “Boy”, “Good Bad Times”, and “Just Like Kids (Miau)” in particular have hooks you'll be singing for days - as well as using their native Spanish in a big way, and they pull these changes (albeit pretty natural ones) off without missing a step.

In an interview with Rolling Stone, guitarist/singer Carlotta Cosials puts the newfound confidence down to the recording process in New York City with producer Jenn Decilveo (Bat for Lashes, Anne-Marie, Porridge Radio), where for the first time Hinds were able to slow down the creation of their music and let it unfold and evolve at a leisurely pace. The results are a candid missions statement for the band, with The Prettiest Curse sitting proudly as a turning point in their journey and as a thoroughly excellent collection guitar pop songs in itself. LARRY DAY

A rare posthumous release which exceeds much which came before it, Mac Miller’s Circles was not intended as a final testimony; it is instead a tantalising taste of a successful new direction cut tragically short. On the album Miller sings more than he raps, in an imperfect croon which is threadbare emotionally. With assistance from Rick Rubin and Fiona Apple’s producer Jon Brion, the record takes as many cues from Wilco and early '80s synthpop as it does Sounwave.

Singing candidly of his struggles with addiction and depression over bright synths and plucked strings, the songs range between the orchestral swing of “That’s On Me” and the bittersweet confessionality of “Surf”. Two songs steal the show though: a pitch-perfect cover of Arthur Lee’s “Everybody’s Gotta Live” and the bittersweet optimism of “Good News”, which sees Miller sing “hope I make it home from work / so tired of being so tired / why I gotta build something beautiful just to go set it on fire?”

Often his words are so predictive that they sound prophetic, but instead Circles is just a bright lesson in musical earnestness, delivered by an artist who had many more left to impart. LIAM INSCOE-JONES

'Mixtape' was a label too liberally applied in 2020, but Giggs' Now and Never - which arrived unexpectedly last month minus any real fanfare - nails the format. This vault of miscellaneous treasures, from the soulful politics of “It's Hard” to the ghostly warehouse trap of “Hoochies”, features a curious cast of collaborators, including Jorja Smith, Obongjayar, and A Boogie wit da Hoodie.

It's a nod to his character that Giggs gives his features room to breathe: none of A Boogie wit da Hoodie's wrought intensity is compromised on “Changed Me”, and Dave is given the first three minutes of “Straight Murder” to, well, straight murder. Then again, the emcee knows his worth. Whether over industrial drill or low-slung dancehall, Giggs' dulcet delivery and sly punchlines solidify his legacy as one of UK rap's most dependable narrators - even what may possibly be this year's worst cover art cannot obscure him. KITTY RICHARDSON

Channelling the traces of those pop stars who have previously looked to disco for inspiration - the Gagas, the Arianas, the Rihannas - Future Nostalgia is as much a showcase of Dua Lipa’s vision as it is a portrait of the artist coming into her own. Lipa’s reverie for her music to sound like a “dancercise class” births a timeless romance, with tracks such as the lead single “Don’t Start Now” becoming a testament to her fusion of the ‘nostalgic’ with the modern.

Instant nu-disco staples seamlessly flow into roller disco anthems (“Levitating”), but, foremost, the sound is distinctly her own throughout. Future Nostalgia is anchored by snappy basslines, disco strings, and house-infused piano chords, all the while refusing to delegate itself to filler or features. We know the hits by now, and they deserve to be remembered in equal merit to the iconic pop albums that defined the '00s. It makes a persuasive case for Lipa as the pop powerhouse of this generation as she capitalises on effervescent retro vibes that should always feel this good. HANNAH BROWNE

Stylistic shifts have been the norm for Sweden’s I Break Horses - from the traditional rock sound of Hearts, their debut from almost a decade ago, to the electronic synthpop of its follow up Chiaroscuro in 2014. Both commendable releases, they were always an act searching for a sound that truly fit their ambitions, a search this sepia-tinged, darkly cinematic release has concluded.

More than ever a solo vehicle for Maria Lindén, this is the most focused I Break Horses record to date and follows a troublesome gestation period with a back story of failed collaborations and music lost on broken harddrives. Initial sketches for the record were created as imaginary scores while watching her favourite films with the sound turned down, and these dramatic ambient pieces were used as a blueprint for the record. The original intention of an instrumental album is evident in its wide-reaching ambition and tricksy intricate detailing pushed to the fore by Lindén; her voice is used more as an atmosphere, a distant hush throughout.

Lyrically musing on love and loss, on opening track "Turn" she delivers one of the year’s most direct observations on the futility of keeping a broken relationship alive: “Maybe we’re fucking with absent minds / While our hearts are breaking.” Musically venturing into new areas such as thunderous trip-hop beats, propulsive arpeggiated basslines, swirling dreampop with hypnotic synth chords, introspective coldwave, and on highlight "Neon Lights" she takes the flatness of krautrock and sprinkles it with an '80s pop fizz, all done with a deft touch. CHRIS TODD

Petals For Armor comes not only as Williams’ debut solo outing, but an intricately designed web of vulnerability. Rattling around echoes of sparse indie comes a vehement tongue that has something its been dying to say and is done sugarcoating, all without putting forward an oppressive wave. The opening hushed hurry of "Simmer" offers all you need in terms of expectation for the record. It wears brooding like a protective shell, but not to the point it closes itself off.

Yet Williams offers hope and understanding amidst the gentle indie and subtle pop sensibilities. Far from letting the negativity eddy and suffocate, Petals For Armor's grooves swell and burst, elevating the impassioned sentiments of reflection and empowerment, both Williams' own and whatever emerges from the delicately assured journey one may undertake. With the record, Williams has given the world a way of supporting themselves through the smoke and rubble, by offering up her own reflective, expressive experience. STEVEN LOFTIN

It's a long-running joke that Canadian artists don't get their dues, but the under-the-radar-ness of Donovan Woods seems baffling at this point. A songwriter with the pop chops of Ed Sheeran and the lyrical acuity of Paul Simon - topped off with cinematic, tear-teasing production - he's a decade into his career and still a relative unknown on the world stage. Here's hoping Without People, his fourth studio album, changes all that.

Woods' brand of folk-pop is both grand and unassuming. He has a knack - like the aforementioned Simon - of examining the minutiae of common tragedies: the wedding band in the pawn shop, the scraps of a shared life swept up on moving day. Most tracks on Without People tackle painfully human trials, from the static shock of seeing your ex after a break up (“The Last Time I Saw You”) to the shame of wheeling your emotional baggage into a new relationship (“Clean Slate”). And as a musician, Woods' lumberjack-esque stature belies him: his voice is feather-light and climbs octaves with ease, and his arrangements are soft, laying sweeping strings and shuffling drums over sad-eyed acoustics. Woods' decision to share his platform with those who aren't cishet white dudes is heartening, too. When the pandemic lay waste to many artists' incomes, Woods rewired the budget that would have gone on a billboard campaign for Without People to fund video collaborations with a diverse group of visual artists - evidence that his sensitivity extends far beyond his arrangements. KITTY RICHARDSON

Taylor Swift gave us perhaps the most unprecedented about-turn of any contemporary musical career this year. Known for her masterfully crafted, arena-ready, glitterbomb pop, the former country star ditched her trademark flashy outfits for comfy cardigans, and her usually slick, huge sound for an extraordinarily hushed and stripped-back one on her eighth album, folklore.

With the world in lockdown, and the prospect of touring and performing any new material for the foreseeable future unlikely, Swift found herself writing songs in a completely uninhibited way for the very first time. Seeking escape - as many of us have been throughout the year - and dialling down her usual self-referential tendencies, Swift let her imagination run wild, letting just fragments of her reality mingle with the worlds and stories of characters she’d conjured up.

As someone whose strength has always been vivid storytelling, she thrived in this state of reverie, weaving some of her finest heart-panging tales of love yet. To go with the stories of love triangles, American dynasties, and ricocheting tears, Swift - together with The National’s Aaron Dessner and regular collaborator Jack Antonoff - conceived a sound akin to a soft breeze that blows through the fallen leaves on a forest floor, a sound gently illuminated by candlelight and autumnal sunsets. Folky strumming and plucking nestles into the pitter-patter of a subtle electronica backdrop, putting Swift’s chronicling at front and centre like never before, and giving us a rich, textured tapestry of folklore to escape into at a time when we need it most. OLIVER KUSCHER

If you’re well versed in Montreal-based singer/songwriter, Helena Deland’s electro-tinged EP series, Altogether Unaccompanied Volumes I, II, III, and IV, you might be a little surprised to hear sombre strums in her debut LP, Someone New. It's an album to cherish - a soundboard for validating your feelings and really figuring them out. Spending a lot of time with this album, you’ll find exquisite snippets of saccharine encased with lingering vulnerability.

"Truth Nugget", a highlight on the full-length, sees Deland considering a relationship, the distance in which engulfs it, despite efforts to be overtly honest. The starkness in the storytelling is balanced out by a captivating melody that ebbs and flows throughout. "Pale" is another standout which illustrates Deland’s attempts at understanding her person, as well as the struggles that come with trying to accept ourselves.

The record is an evaluation of the self. Sitting in the reflections of who you are - learning and unlearning certain tropes and traits. It eases the earbuds with each listen as we become more familiar with Deland’s thought processes, privy to the singer/songwriter’s most inner workings. CHARLOTTE CROFT

The driving force behind some of the most seminal pop moments of the past decade, Victoria Monét was a reputable hitmaker in her own right well before her unveiling to the masses. Penning records for figures as disparate as Ariana Grande, Fifth Harmony, T.I., and Nas, Monét established herself as one of the quiet arbiters of popular music in the last decade, with a demonstrable ease and dexterity across styles and genres.

Such skills are abundant on her debut record, Jaguar - an album that is as much a document of Monét’s personal evolution as it is a meditation on the very concept of inner strength itself. A panoply of '80s-inspired funk, hip-hop-inflected quiet storm, and Y2K pop-soul, the record charts its narrative of acceptance and growth against the sonic history of contemporary R&B, a testament to the singer-songwriter’s various stylistic forebearers.

There is a quiet radicalism that underpins this approach, with tracks such as “Ass Like That” and the Motown-inspired “Dive” operating as paeans for self-love, transforming oft-used signifiers of objectification and fetishisation into vehicles for empowerment. For Monét, success isn’t determined through arbitrary measurements of pop stardom, but through internal, spiritual, and personal gratification - sentiments which run throughout Jaguar with forceful verve and stunning rhythm. UDIT MAHALINGAM

When COVID officially cancelled dating this summer, no record made us mourn the possibility of making out with strangers quite like THEY.'s The Amanda Tape. On their sophomore effort, Drew Love and Dante Jones come equipped with a sophisticated set of bedroom bangers: rich, finely-tuned arrangements in one corner, and lyrics that'll make you hump the sofa in the other.

THEY.'s signature use of acoustic guitar gives the tape a unique silhouette: providing “Playfight” with Tinashe its Craig David-esque hook, glinting in the background of the sombre breakup ballad “On and On”, and driving the heart of “FWM”. Love is pretty free with his pen on the naughtier cuts (shout out to "Imma eat it like I don't know what it taste like," for being 2020's most confusing cunnilingus bar), but he also knows how to open a vein: see “On and On”, where his pleas to keep a relationship afloat - despite an endless list of failures - will catch your heart off-guard.

There's always a risk that such a homage to late '90s R&B - especially one this sincere - could be written off as parody. This is where Dante Jones' hyper-literate production comes in: he offsets Love's syrupy vocal arrangements and earnest bars about love-making with clean, hard drum breaks and the kind of sad-boy reverbs favoured by The Weeknd. The result is a record so switched-on and steeped in emotion you'll damn near forget that Love is singing about making his ex squirt. KITTY RICHARDSON

The music of 2020 is inevitably going be framed by the individual, collective, and cultural context of COVID-19, but with her second record Kelly Lee Owens presciently and unwittingly wrote a soundtrack of hope. Originally due for release in May, Owens - who worked in some of London's greatest record stores during her early years in music - held back its release until August in solidarity, so that people could buy the vinyl in stores.

Such a gesture is a testament to the Welsh artist’s belief in the collective, something that the world needs more than ever right now. Written over the three-year period following her self-titled debut, Inner Song sees Owens dig into her psyche to create a universal message of the effects of solitude, transition and the bittersweet joy of moving on. Whereas Kelly Lee Owens contained songs of innocence - the smitten “S.O” exalted in the bliss of new love - Inner Song deals with the reality of experience. Songs such as “L.I.N.E” reflected that “Love is not enough," but Inner Song is full of love - for music as well as her Welsh heritage, brilliantly celebrated on “Corner of My Sky”, a collaboration with John Cale.

The record lays out how much power lies in the collective, in storytelling, and that from the darkness comes the light. ED NASH

The past few years have produced some incredible country music, from the stoic classicism of Colter Wall to the sepia-toned nostalgia of Charley Crockett (not forgetting Lil Nas X) - but no artist has distinguished themselves as thrillingly, as utterly magnificently, as Canada’s newest queer icon Orville Peck. His 2019 debut, Pony, was loaded with beautiful, haunting gothic tunes that drew as much from Joy Division as they did from Roy Orbison, in the process creating a Lynchian chimera of a sound that was utterly his own, one of nostalgic doom and heartbroken bliss.

Thankfully, he wasn’t content to let another year pass by without blessing us with new material, and with this year’s mini-album Show Pony, he’s taken that same sound and pointed it skyward, resulting in a collection of songs that match and often better those found on his debut.

The biggest draw for newcomers is undoubtedly the appearance of another Canadian country star: Shania Twain. The fact that he’s landed Twain this early into his career only goes to show the diverse and potent appeal of his songwriting chops. Their duet, “Legends Never Die”, also proves that he isn’t a one-trick pony (sorry): the track, at once both muscular and sparkling, showed that Peck had serious rock-radio potential, drawing as it does on the kind of beefy country rock you might find on, say, a prime-era Bon Jovi record.

The other five tracks on the collection effortlessly pull at your heartstrings, with a stunning sense of tears-in-your-beer country classicism. There’s a heartstopping power ballad in “Summertime”; widescreen grandeur in “No Glory in the West”; glossy saturnine thrills in “Drive Me, Crazy” (which evokes both Chris Isaak and Bruce Springsteen in its sumptuous gloom) and a breathtaking cover of Bobby Gentry’s “Fever”.

Put simply, Show Pony is one of the finest collections released this year for a single, obvious reason: nobody else is doing anything remotely as unique as this. Not only is Orville Peck refashioning classic sounds to fit his relentlessly progressive approach, he’s doing it with such style, with such finesse, that it seems effortless. There’s not a single wasted moment on this thing, not a single second that isn’t filled with a luxurious intensity. ROSS HORTON

On Beginners, the debut album from Los Angeles singer/songwriter Christian Lee Hutson, six or seven words may be enough to build an entire world of possibility, or to destroy it with a devastating gut punch.

On opening track “Atheist”, he conjures a childhood home glimpsed through the small oval of an airplane window, complete with memories of shirts in the microwave and trash in the sink. On the chorus of “Twin Soul”, he confesses a fundamental flaw to a would-be lover with unflinching self-reproach, promising “I’m gonna hurt you and myself too / ‘Cause that’s the only thing / That I know how to do.”

Towards the end of lead single and album standout “Northsiders”, after riffing nostalgically on the things that build fast friendships in high school, he describes the death of one of his fellow Northsiders in a car accident in a heartbreaking rush of syllables: “I read an article about the accident / probably reaching for cigarettes / And missed the brake lights up ahead / I hope it was an instant death.”

It’s not that Beginners is revolutionary: Hutson’s blend of fingerpicking and strumming has drawn comparisons to Paul Simon and John Prine, and the double-tracked vocals used throughout are reminiscent of Elliot Smith, an obvious (and admitted) influence here. At their core, these are simple songs, but Hutson’s writerly detail and effortless knack for melody imbue them with a depth that rewards repeat listens. On any given play through, you might focus in on the way Hutson’s voice threatens to break on “Keep You Down”, or delight in the way the melody seesaws between sugary and sour on the chorus of “Get The Old Band Back Together” before resolving in ascending steps on his promise to “let the magic happen”, or wonder who provides the roaring harmonica solo on the same song (Conor Oberst, it turns out).

And though he appeared to have arrived back in May fully formed, famous friends in tow, with just a few Better Oblivion Community Center and boygenius writing credits to his name (he has since been credited with co-writing on five songs from Phoebe Bridgers’ Punisher, released in June this year), Hutson had apparently been not just performing, but recording many of the songs found on his debut for the last five years. It wasn’t until he got into the studio with friend, occasional bandmate, and Beginners producer Bridgers that he found versions of them that he actually liked.

Bridgers’ subtle touch can be heard throughout, whether in the keyboard line she plays in “Twin Soul” or in the contributions from friends like Nathaniel Walcott, the aforementioned Oberst, Meg Duffy, and Lucy Dacus. But in multiple interviews, Hutson has emphasized the role Bridgers played in giving him permission to be himself and let the songs be “good enough to exist”.

Perhaps that's the secret to Beginners; maybe it’s not just Katie and Charlie and Harry and the stories that grow out of the fragments planted around them, or the melodies that bring them to life. Maybe these songs are so easy to live in because they have been lived in for a long time; maybe hearing Hutson’s heart break and letting him break yours is so enticing because, at 29, he is finally, fully himself. MICHAEL MCANDREW

Last Halloween, Los Angeles’ premier purveyors of experimental hip-hop released There Existed an Addiction to Blood, a concept album that summoned the ghost of '90s horrorcore and reworked it for the current climate. So rich was the creative vein that clipping. tapped into in the process, they returned in time for 2020’s spooky season with Visions of Bodies Being Burned, a direct sequel that again cloaks a slickly-assembled, horror-heavy framework of smart cultural references in an oppressive atmosphere, thick with foreboding. Producers Jonathan Snipes and William Hutson seem to deal exclusively in monolithic menace, with aggressive beats and unnerving electronics providing a sinister backdrop over which frontman Daveed Diggs - an alum of the original Hamilton run, seen more recently in Black-ish, Velvet Buzzsaw, and Snowpiercer - spins razor-sharp, modern day ghost stories.

Visions of Bodies Being Burned’s evocative title nods directly to the origins of horrorcore - it’s lifted from a verse by Scarface, the Geto Boys MC who’s arguably the godfather of a sub-genre that remains misunderstood and unfairly maligned. clipping. get that; the record’s littered with respectful nods to the likes of Gravediggaz, Flatlinerz, and early Three 6 Mafia, and it’s hard to think of another hip-hop record in 2020 that has gone out of its way to demand a reappraisal of an under-appreciated niche the way this one does. That’s crucial, because contrary to what horrorcore’s detractors might have you believe, at its best the style never seeks to unsettle the listener for the sake of it - instead, it holds up a mirror to society and reflects what it sees sonically.

For all its clever nods to Scream (“’96 Neve Campbell”), Candyman (“Say the Name”) and H.P. Lovecraft (“Enlacing”), what lies at the jet-black heart of Visions of Bodies Being Burned is a profound discomfort, if not outright revulsion, with the state of America in 2020. That’s why we get a furious repudiation of the country’s gun culture on "Make Them Dead", a graphic, disturbing rejection of police brutality on "Body for the Pile", and an unhinged rebuttal of the veneer of respectability that so flimsily masks the nation’s racist foundations on "Something Underneath". There are no gimmicks to Visions of Bodies Being Burned - no novelty to its ouija-board resurrection of a hip-hop offshoot long thought buried. They’ve plundered horrorcore’s grave with a grim purpose - to paint an unflinching portrait of the world around them. In the process, they’ve maybe made 2020’s most politically vital record. JOE GOGGINS

Lorely Rodriguez's third full-length offering as Empress Of is a stunning foray into deeply personal themes and ideas, backed by goosebump-inducing production. It scrapes past the 30-minute mark across a dozen tracks, and despite its relatively brief existence manages to draw you deep into a rich web of personal storytelling, with dizzying synthpop, intricate beats, and spacey, psychedelic electronica. It's a transformative listen, blasting through the gamut of emotion at a breakneck pace, but there's no sense of rush - it's a perfectly whole album.

“Love Is A Drug” is a standout moment, nodding to Rodriguez's highest pop points to date, standalone single “Go To Hell” and “Water Water” from debut Me, with a terrifyingly addictive melody and swelling bursts of vocal prowess, but I'm Your Empress Of is flush with high points. “Bit Of Rain”'s thwomping, floorfilling beat, the sparse “Should've” cascades, and the future R&B of Caribou-esque “Not This Time” all sit with you long after the final beat - and not just because of the stellar production.

I'm Your Empress Of fizzes with scraped-knee-raw thoughts and feelings, more so than anything else Rodriguez has put to tape before. It feels like a more fluid and diaristic than her previous work - it's still carefully thought out, of course, but the way she slips between sentiments and sonic styles over the record smacks of stream-of-consciousness...ness. It shifts subtly and suddenly, moving in three dimensions and never outstaying its welcome in any particular area. It's a mix, it's a sample platter, and it's a series of faded dreamscapes phasing between realities - ultimately it breaks a lot of her own conventions in surreptitious ways and works best as one entity. Bangers can easily be carved out of it, but this is an Album with a capital A that is greatly enhanced when treated to as such: sit back, stick the headphones on, and enjoy. LARRY DAY

Julianna Barwick’s fourth album is the result of major changes, both personal and creative. Haunted by past broken relationships she relocated from her longtime-Brooklyn base to LA to begin a new life chapter in 2016. The catharsis a change of environment can bring coincided with signing to Ninja Tune for her first record in four years.

While her previous albums, recorded on GarageBand, were sonically rich and full of intricate sound designing, there’s a fuller bodied sound on Healing Is A Miracle. The reverb on her word-free weightless soprano more glacial, the synths more luxurious, the act of a sudden shift more dramatic, such as the unexpected introduction of bass synth on "Inspirit" and the abrupt conclusion of the piece.

The reason for these advances could be the move from recording solely using headphones, to producing her music using monitor speakers - gifted to her by Jónsi - for the first time, or it could be the artists she's collaborated with here. The Sigur Ròs frontman agreed to collaborate on "In Light" if she wrote actual lyrics - a rarity for her - and his voice merges with hers with ease. Harpist Mary Lattimore, a kindred spirit who herself released an essential album this year with Silver Ladders, adds a delicate layer of aural fragility on "Oh Memory", while Nosaj Thing compliments Barwick's more electronic leanings on "Nod".

Or it could be none of those changes, but time itself that has moved on. With the external noise of normality suspended, we are afforded the space needed to truly immerse in her sound, the uncertainty of isolation an environ matched by the music which shuts the outside out as soon as it commences.

Healing Is A Miracle works as a mood piece, vocals are looped, processed, and multitracked into an electronic facsimile of the human voice, the freedom of working outside of the constraints of regular song structure results in freeform pieces, but always remains focussed. On the occasion percussive touches are applied, they abruptly crash in, only to disappear as rapidly. The way Barwick manipulates the space between the sound, while managing to be both nuanced and uncluttered is reminiscent of the more ambient work of Boards of Canada, or Talk Talk's Mark Hollis. CHRIS TODD

Katie Crutchfield's weirder, wonderfully messy, left-of-mainstream sound was born as a rebellion against her Southern country roots, but it was always a rebellion that still skirted the fringes of those roots. On this year's Saint Cloud she’s no longer fighting what’s in her musical DNA but she does detail the fight within herself - the fight with codependency and addiction which began in 2018 when she decided to get sober.

Embracing the softer side of her voice - and dropping, for the most part, that gravel-y edge we’d come to love - Saint Cloud is clean in many senses of the word. There is a self-assuredness to the record, a slower-paced considered approach, a reckoning of sorts with her previous self. Saint Cloud is special because it marks a new chapter in Crutchfield's life and her creative output as Waxahatchee.

It’s a beautiful record too, in which Crutchfield's songwriting opens up and finds a new directness - even though she still communicates in abstract poetic metaphors there are more literal lyrics weaved in. The record playfully and appropriately kicks off with the still ragged, leftfield “Oxbow” (which was written in Barcelona) which leaves listeners guessing about the journey they’re about to take. Those messy edges still exist on songs like “Fire” and “Arkadelphia” but the twanging guitars and swinging rhythms of “Can’t Do Much”, “Lilacs”, and almost every other track leave you in no doubt that this is a change for Crutchfield. LAUREN DOWN

Killer Mike and El-P understand that fury is what love needs to fight hate - and hell hath no fury like Run The Jewels. A declaration of war, the fourth instalment of their truth-spitting saga came at a time when we needed it more than ever.

“You so numb you watch the cops choke out a man like me / Until my voice goes from a shriek to whisper - ‘I can’t breathe’ / And you sit there in the house on couch and watch it on TV,” Killer Mike raps on the snarling “walking in the snow”, his voice grab-you-by-the-collar urgent. The lyric was originally inspired by the murder of Eric Garner, but now it’s about George Floyd, too - and his murder, in turn, belonged to an ugly mosaic of state-sanctioned slayings of people of colour by the very institution designed to protect its people. The Black Lives Matter movement gave RTJ4 gravitas like never before.

The record is their most evolved yet because, while their whip-smart, trash-talking lyrics still have an outlet, at last, they are channelled into a moment of living, breathing history. There are no artists better equipped for this moment than Run The Jewels - they’ve been waiting, but this record is all about action: a definitive call-to-arms.

Let it be said, Killer Mike and El-P know how to pick their collaborations. Those taking even the most passing interest in music will no doubt recognise the names the duo rally for this record. “pulling the pin” enlists civil rights activist and legendary R&B artist Mavis Staples and Queens Of The Stone Age’s Josh Homme, to goosebump-inducing effect. Staples’ voice is like a wound, punctuated by the duo’s flow which deals more incisive blows than ever before. RTJ4 saw their skillset honed into a leaner, sharper beast.

While their lyricism tackling the spectres of systemic racism and capitalism plays centre-field, they don’t compromise for a minute on their beats. The Pharrell-featuring “JU$T” is the best weapon in their armoury. “The breath in me is weaponry”, Rage Against The Machine’s Zack de la Rocha spits, over a skittering, bass-swelling instrumental. It’s the most kinetic protest anthem to be committed to record in decades. The battle lines are drawn on all fronts on RTJ4 and on this album, more than ever before, they are not be fucked with.

But, crucially, RTJ4 proves that Killer Mike and El-P still know how to have fun. The trash-talking wordplay carve them out as a Tarantino-type duo of blockbuster proportions. It’s packed with wisecracks primed to tease a smile amidst what would otherwise be a heavy record, like Killer Mike’s lyric on “ooh la la”: “Fuck a king or queen and all of their loyal subjects / I'll pull my penis out and I piss on their shoes in public.”

You almost forget they’re in their forties; their music is still over-brimming with vitality and immediacy. RTJ4 is a record that nods to the past, but keeps its sights fixed unshakably on the present - better still, the future. “It’s been 20-plus years, you think that’s a clue / Maybe this guy kinda kills what he do?” El-P sneers on the vitriolic “holy calmafuck”.

RTJ4 is one of the best records of the year - obviously. What doesn’t it do? It’s all killer, no filler; it’s a graduate of the old-school, and yet a thousand steps ahead with its radical production choices and cultural references. But above all, capturing not only the zeitgeist, but a historical milestone, careering towards a future they’ve been armed, ready, and waiting for. SOPHIE WALKER

In 1818, a teenager named Mary Shelley wrote a novel called Frankenstein. Written in a blaze of creativity over one stormy weekend, it told of the the trials and tribulations of a melodramatic Swiss scientist named Victor who, for all of his intellectual brilliance, makes the regrettable, fateful decision to reanimate the finest pieces of corpse he could dig up - carefully stitching the pieces together and electrifying them until they were forced back to life.

Miami-born, Tennessee-raised, Turin-residing experimentalist Yves Tumor (the recording alias of Sean Bowie) has achieved a similar feat on their stunning new album Heaven to a Tortured Mind - only it’s not a human corpse they’ve resurrected, but the long-dead rotten remains of what was once known as rock and roll. Bowie skillfully, effortlessly, seamlessly stitches together the very best aspects of decades worth of rock, soul, and funk music, in the process producing a deeply erotic, endlessly sensual experience not heard in aeons. This is the music of Prince, of George Clinton, of Lenny Kravitz, of Sly Stone… all together, blended and melted and electrified. This music is brilliantly Black, proudly Queer, and - most importantly - frighteningly good. Where their previous albums had attracted praise and critical acclaim for their somewhat difficult, eccentric take on avant-pop, Heaven... goes straight for the jugular. From the opening lock-step glitched-out industrial-soul of “Gospel for a New Century”, to the muscular sexadelic grooves of closer “A Greater Love”, Tumor takes you on a thrill-ride through the haunted house of their mind.

“Medicine Burn” is as intense as Funkadelic, and just as harrowing. The track invites you to immerse yourself in a migraine-inducing electronic funk squall that doesn’t let up until bits of grey matter are banging around inside your skull. The oddball skronk of “Identity Trade” sounds like a melted Isaac Hayes 45 played at the wrong speed, while “Kerosene!” (which features Diana Gordon) is a syrupy late-night banger that grows in intensity with each passing second. The true centrepiece of the record is “Super Stars”, with its kaleidoscopic guitars and glitter-dusted psych-soul vibes. Close behind is the bass-led brilliance of “Strawberry Privilege”, which blends both post-punk and funk with glorious results. As if those weren’t enough, “Asteroid Blues”, “Romanticist” and “Hasdallen Lights” all do weird, wonderful things to your auditory cortex too.

Heaven to a Tortured Mind isn’t just one of the best albums of the year, but one of the greatest statements of intent ever made in the rock genre. It belongs on the same shelf as Dirty Mind, Mothership Connection, Mama Said, and Fresh – and it holds its own against all of them. The moves Tumor makes on Heaven... are aggressive, and the results are mindblowing – proving, despite all of the evidence to the contrary, that rock isn’t dead just yet. ROSS HORTON

Winner of the Oscar for Best Original Song (2001) and the 2016 Nobel Prize for Literature. Author of some of the most immortal songs and albums in existence. The originator of all good things we now associate with the term ‘songwriter’. Bob Dylan had nothing left to prove in 2020.

Even so, Rough and Rowdy Ways aimed for the lofty levels of inspiration and depth of the Minnesota-born genuine American legend’s most celebrated masterpieces -and succeeded. The first inkling that Dylan had been applying some proper elbow grease in his latest undertaking came in the form of “Murder Most Foul”, a hypnotic, elegiac epic set to a disembodied, eerie drone that suggested a wee small hours jazz club jam attended exclusively by ghosts (and was unlike anything else in the extensive Dylan catalogue), released as a surprise drop as the world was reeling from the first wave of COVID-19 in March. Ostensibly about the assassination of John F. Kennedy, the track’s staggering, initially almost overwhelming 17-minute recital of powerful imagery and intimations of conspiracy and deceit appeared to hone in on the infamous 1963 murder as the point where the American dream permanently curdled. But there was more to it.

Although rooted in the specifics of 20th-century US history, the song’s themes of darkness overtaking light and glimmers of hope being ruthlessly snuffed out seemed almost supernaturally suited for a year when the American democratic process was again pushed to the ropes and a global pandemic ravaged the planet. The track’s palpable sense of loss sounded deeply, movingly personal, too, suggesting that the tragic events of 57 years ago in Dallas may have marked the point at which the idealism that fired up young folkie Dylan’s ‘protest’ classics á la “The Times They Are A-Changing” wilted and expired.

When it eventually emerged in June, the rest of Rough and Rowdy Ways proved equally fit to stand alongside the catalogue of assorted highlights from American popular song that Dylan reels off as balm and sustenance for a damaged nation and battered ideals during the breathtaking coda of “Murder Most Foul”. Throughout, there was a sense that the endlessly enigmatic Dylan was a bit less intent on donning disguises this time around. Although it is risky to read too much into the words of an endlessly over-analysed artist whose autobiography (2004’s Chronicles) reportedly didn’t always land on the actual facts of events, there is a sense the ‘I’ in songs such as the lilting swoon of “I Contain Multitudes” might just relate somewhat to the actual Bob Dylan, although the song’s vivid juxtapositions and internal conflicts could apply equally to US society, maybe even humanity at large.

Similar seamless transfers between the (possibly) personal and the universal, arcane history, and the urgently pulsating right now popped up throughout the album. Set to a particularly crackling take on the kind of gin-soaked juke joint 12-bar chug that Dylan’s 21st-century albums have fixated on - a rarity on a record that favors melody and lightness of touch, with guests such as Fiona Apple and Blake Mills adding to Dylan’s trusty touring band. “Goodbye Jimmy Reed” could equally well be a tribute to the trials and tribulations of its titular, long-gone blues legend, or Dylan himself. The stunning “I’ve Made Up My Mind to Give Myself to You” surely ranks amongst the most immeasurably affecting moments in a catalogue not exactly short of stunning devotionals.

Transmitted from the utmost reaches of a particularly vivid creative imagination, this multilayered richness and potential for rediscovery and re-interpretation over time is what made Dylan’s 37th studio album ideal listening in a year when many of us had more scope for digging in deep, what with the world having hit a more or less permanent pause.

The album gave Dylan his first US Number One single (for “Murder Most Foul”), hit the top of the charts in a number of countries, and deservedly reaped various plaudits. Not only did the 79-year-old Dylan craft an album that fit to stand the test of time just as well as his past peaks, but managed to wrench its vintage points of reference into the living, breathing, present tense. ‘’I’ve already outlived my life by far,’, he sighs on “Mother of Muses”, a wistful plea for enduring inspiration, one of the highlights on an album with no mediocre moments. On this evidence, there is plenty of life left in him yet. JANNE OINONEN

The most striking thing about Phoebe Bridgers’ second album Punisher is not her whimsical tone, nor the psychedelic, ethereal feel to the album as a whole - it is simply how it is delivered. All of the fleeting thoughts that would cross your mind or the things you would confide in with a close friend in a private room are exclaimed boldly and without hesitation on this record.

It might seem simple and commonplace to throw your feelings into a body of music - it’s a trait many artists claim to possess. However, what the Californian native masters here is sonically displaying experiences in plain sight. It’s the intricate yet banal explanations that portray Bridgers’ extensive worldview and intense self-awareness that drive the album and brought Bridgers to the forefront this year. (It is something we saw glimmers of on 2017 debut Stranger In The Alps but has since been expanded upon). On "Halloween", Bridgers tells us about living next to a hospital, hearing sirens at night and jokingly saying that if they woke her up that somebody better be dying, while "Moon Song" picks up on the minor detail of a nautical themed birthday party she attended in a dream. The thought processes draw in and out like waves, drawing out as one thing and coming back in with another thing to say (the second chorus of "Halloween" talks about the fan killed outside of the Dodgers stadium over a disagreement about John Lennon, for example).

The seamless words on this album leave you enthralled, but also heartbroken and ultimately sympathetic. Title track "Punisher" tells of Bridgers’ superfan status towards the late American singer/songwriter Elliott Smith, who it is clear that she still idolises both through her musical stylings today and the desire to write a tribute song to him. Woven in between details of walking by his house with the storybook tiles is the personal agony of Bridgers’ fear of being a punisher - someone Smith’s eyes would glaze over if they ever met. It is the common folklore that you should never meet your heroes but without the concrete evidence, just the assumption.

Musically, the album flows in a similar way to the words. The soft and dainty arrangement of "Garden Song" binds the telling of fantasies and nightmares in stark contrast and creates a song that feels like a flower in slow bloom. Meanwhile, the joyful horn that draws out the choruses of "Kyoto" acts as an exclamation of sadness and resentment. A song about imposter syndrome and always wanting to be somewhere you’re not, the upbeat percussion mars the true extent of the anguish.

Punisher is an album that sees Bridgers portray her darkest moments and most inner thoughts, in a way that is colourful. Through celestial production, we see Bridgers on the brink of collapse, whilst also simultaneously at her best. This album has cemented Bridgers’ status as a songwriter that writes exactly from experience. Whether it’s driven by a dream, or plucked from a candid self-observation, Punisher is a sonic diary, in every sense of the term. HAYLEY MILROSS

Entering your mid-twenties during the most confusing and extreme period of a generation is far from an easy feat. All the opportunity that was promised through childhood - the sunny days of a future predetermined through going to college, or starting a job, even of a world that wants to protect you - are all ideas that soon become far removed the more we live. But in the last four years, while learning to cope with the good, the bad and the ugly of norm, chuck in a pandemic, a right-wing government hellbent on tearing apart all that is good for a litany of unreason and things get a bit, well, helpless.

While all this is going on around her, 23-year-old Samia Finnerty has produced a debut album that relinquishes the need to struggle in the water and instead finds her floating, surrounded by revelation - exposing her intricate and intimate thoughts and ultimately letting go safe in the knowledge that it's okay to be The Baby.

Through the ethereal pop and twee indie comes a coming-of-age tale set in a world beyond uncertain, reminding us that while all these major events are happening, so is life. Predominantly based around Finnerty's own, in New York and on the road, the biographical elements are what give The Baby a consciousness that has often felt missing from this tremendously weighty year.

By finding most of the inspiration coming from her time touring and making a name for herself - the dingy motel rooms, failed romances, and exposure to the harsher realities of life - it’s the human aspects of her growth and journey that imprint throughout. It strikes through in the gentle rollick of “Big Wheel” where Finnerty “got bad news / I didn’t fight”, or the reflective “Fit N Full” where she “got prettier in Denver / phasing out this old fairy tale” - it’s all delivered with an airy, ethereal presence of understanding. Effortlessly swaying between driven folk-rock to twilight summoning acoustic, the highs and the lows are all tackled bluntly, with Samia refusing to water down any of the vulnerable aspects, after all, why should she given the world that's around her is a constant Twitter feed of brutal honesty?

The fact that Finnerty has managed to not only craft a debut that stands out while proffering a deep vulnerability, and using the catharsis to understand the ins and outs of her own life in a year that has the world in a flurry of indecision and uncertainty is testament to her abilities. Cutting through the noise with glimmering indie to deliver truth, The Baby is a lesson for all involved, while also forming a flowing listen with highs and lows for all occasions. STEVEN LOFTIN