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The defining tracks of the decade, starring Robyn, Drake, Vampire Weekend, Daft Punk, SZA, and many more. When I arrived at college in ,1 had never heard of an mp3. Piracy was a social phenomenon, and once you knew where to look, you could begin to make. Here's a random torrent via [not sure what this blog is called, the defiantly socialist Red Rockers Rule is a Social Distortion prototype for sure (and. EWQL GYPSY VST TORRENT As a leading made it easy for me to devices located anywhere. In Softonic we set up a files hosted on Remote Utilities is the notification panel, the remote there. The module also is compatible with digital advertising software.
Many arrangements crescendo or decrescendo in unison, as if mixing is just turning a knob, and often while listening to these bands I could imagine the screen with multiple colored lines and waveforms, the overlapping triangles representing the triumph of amplitude.
The suspension of disbelief—the sense that I am inside of a song—was ruined when the music evoked only its own production. So what? Ha ha. Whooooo, ooo ooo oo oo, a uh uh oh oh oh. Here they are: our favorite, Rooster-worthy novels from For brevity, I kept each to exactly six words. You wrote the Sopranos theme. Move on. But otherwise Weird mix. Unexpectedly tapping my foot, so. Bloody Sunday? Enough organ already. But likely precious live. End the show. Chunka, synth, sing. Kill him. Subtle mix, fine vocals.
Although intelligent use of keyboards. Guitar-driven, and chatty. Some outliers removed. Never arrives. I am Brazilian. Or not. Never, ever stop dying. Delay lay lay. Not again. Notable, even, but not Creature. This band gives me serious paws. More instruments than ideas. Likely good live. Needs to end sooner. I want to stab dolphins. Crisp open turns to rock mushmeal. He means well. Nick On the Fourth in a Fervor Proudly debasing the southern rock tradition.
Then no excuse. Well, how about Aimee Mann tastic? Virgin Islands Everlasting Love Zion sounds like quite the place. The switch at —huh? That sure did redeem itself. Neither is accurate. They are nerds. That explain it? Because they love dem hose. Gotta Rock! So badly infected with rock disease.
Cloud Nice early s singer-songwriter songcraft. More guitar. LOL JK. I never expected to hear this in a song: In Berlin I saw Two men fuck In the dark corner of a basketball court Just the slight jingle of pocket change pulsing. Masood Introspective, wanders, apparently inspired by Afghanistan.
Poi Dog Ponderous. Oh My! Eat my dust! Pink Floyd Strawberry Fields all over. Nice percussion. Then just retarded. No there there. They sound very little like Bjork. It grows like kudzu. Just add organ. Falls apart at Odd synth. Blue Sky with some clouds. Sybris—good name for a spaceship. Takka takka. Alas jazz, pop will eat you. Hailing from the most anarchic corners of the social internet but also Atlanta , Carti is someone whose promise will always outpace his official output, and that is by design.
And no one has ever wielded that energy as fluidly as DJ Rashad. Spinn and Taso]. By grafting a fashionably clipped pop melody over a retro, Shabba Ranks-inspired Caribbean fusion beat, producers Skrillex and BloodPop created one of the best tropical house hits of the decade. Here is an anthem for anyone who has felt adrift, abandoned, unsure of their purpose in the world. By any conventional wisdom, a five-minute, three-part suite of a song should have never become a phenomenon in a climate where dwindling attention spans are leading to shorter and shorter hits.
Once the funky second beat hits, you forget about Drake as Travis takes center stage with some of the best rapping of his career. But by , he was reduced to guesting on anonymous Max Martin and will. But instead of conveying intense feelings with a chilly shrug, Usher is clearly pained as he eulogizes a failing relationship in a lonely falsetto.
Agonizingly, Burial never gave us a proper follow-up to his classic album Untrue this decade, instead resorting to intermittent singles and EPs. When the full song finally arrived, the instrumentation was pretty much just those four bars over and over, and it was still engrossing.
Daft Punk take the right parts of this song either incredibly seriously or not seriously at all. Really, the record was a deeply accomplished inquiry into the possibility of a feminine sound that gravitated towards the grotesque. Williams has never sounded more monumental or self-possessed. They may have made their name on rollercoaster hooks fit for Warped Tour—influencing the likes of Snail Mail, Princess Nokia, and Lil Uzi Vert in the process—but here they grew into themselves, anticipating the influence of blown-up Hot Topic emo in the unlikeliest of places.
Brooklyn synth-pop aesthetes Chairlift were a sneakily influential act right up until their split in What comes through is the giddy sensation of falling so deeply in love that nothing quite makes sense except a warm embrace. Giving so much of yourself to someone else is always a risky proposition, but for three and a half minutes, Chairlift make the act of devotion sound worth it. Its delicate notes are pierced by a prickly guitar before Tividad and Tucker launch in, singing in tandem.
Together, they reminisce about how easy life felt when they were childhood friends, when reality confined itself to the surrounding neighborhood and the complexities of life had not yet made themselves known. Together, they stand on the precipice of adulthood and eulogize a time when the future was just another question waiting to be answered. But like Roger Troutman of Zapp and other funk pioneers of the past, Fetty used effects not to sanitize or correct his voice, but to inject even more emotion into it.
And when the synths in the verses lurch like warm blood rushes of adrenaline, or arousal, Chris conveys a real-time sense of being overcome by acceptance for the first time. In this way, Kendrick Lamar is an anomaly: As dense as his lyrics can be, he zooms out onto big ideas that are resonant and impactful to the masses.
In the face of a growing, grinning wave of genocidal hate-speech delivered with the presidential seal of approval, Lamar shouts forth the steely confidence of a people ready to bark and bite back, standing on roots that run centuries deep.
Those big West Coast waves that Dora surfed half a century ago are rendered endless in the mesmerizing rhythm of the song. She coos sweet salutations into the receiver, he untangles verses about the terrors of opening up—be it the digital fear of unlocking your phone for a snoopy lover or the analog fear of sitting by, waiting, and having to bear your soul when the phone is finally answered.
It feels like two people figuring things out. No pyrotechnic breasts , psychedelic candy landscapes , or glow-in-the-dark alien abductions : just Katy, her ripped beau, and some similarly photogenic pals on a sepia-toned drive along the beach. At the time Perry recorded it, she was attempting to become more than a pop novelty. Meanwhile, she was midway through her 20s, about to get married, and entering a decade where her propensity for unsubtle gestures of positivity would fall in and out of fashion.
The popularity of the track led its makers to recoil from the spotlight and quietly switch off the TNGHT signal, which is fair enough. Who knew the shy producer from whispery indie rock trio the xx could also throw a great party? Young Thug and Popcaan]. A heartfelt tribute to a notoriously terrible brand of cigarettes became a career-making moment for Mac DeMarco.
With his inaugural solo mini-album Rock and Roll Night Club , the Canadian singer established himself as a weirdo skeez with a shit-eating grin—a guy whose songs showed tons of promise if you pierced through the thick coats of deep-voiced, slow-motion gimmickry. The unlikely love song ends with the sound of him lighting up, inhaling, and collapsing into a fit of echoing coughs. It sounds off at first, but as the strings quiver and the unquantized drums tick along, every instance of the word becomes a knowing wink, a flash of intimacy.
The song includes a spoken word intro in Spanish, along with violin, viola, contrabass, sitar, multiple guitars, horns, synths—even a Curtis Mayfield sample. With these words, Jordan builds a scarecrow outline of her relationship just to torch it all to the ground.
For a virtuoso whose music explores the outer reaches of funk, yacht rock, and astral jazz, Thundercat has always shown a sensitive undercurrent. In his first two solo albums, he slowed down a George Duke love anthem, sang adoringly about his cat, and composed a heart-wrenching tribute to a late friend. Then, in an interlude, his trusty bass falls away and he sings some ethereal oooohs , pinpointing a sweet spot between boldness and fragility.
This was the music video that launched a thousand pearl-clutching critiques, along with about as many think pieces about its radical significance. In it, Rihanna nonchalantly threatens her accountant with a phrase often wielded by men. In the process, she kidnaps and tortures his wife, before taking a chainsaw to his neck.
There are umteen ways to read into the politics of this video: What kind of violence are we sensitized to, and what makes us squirm? What does it look like for a woman to be powerful and angry while also being feminine? How are white women complicit in and benefitting from the bad behavior of white men? But ultimately, determining whether this video is Good and Feminist or Bad and Cancelled is futile; what freedom looks like for any woman cannot be simplified into one set of rules.
Since the storm hit, Segarra continuously tried to find her way back to her ravaged ancestral homeland in a way that would allow her to give without taking. She finally made it in December But Yorke never abandoned the studio version, eventually forgoing the experimental synthesizers and Rhodes piano he kept trying to make work in favor of soft piano chords.
May the gods protect the DJ who cut away from the weepy grand pianos before the beat change—that switch-up is the point, the gas pedal. Then, for extra horror-core effect, he adds a blood-curdling scream every few bars. The three-part, minute hyperspace cruise through time, styles, and cool-eyed character observations offered monumental proof that he was capable of miracles.
Egyptian pharaohs, Las Vegas sex workers, uncredited John Mayer guitar solos—somehow, he made all of it sound like it belonged. When Japandroids frontman Brian King graduated college, he watched his friends from small town British Columbia, Canada quickly settle into normalcy—weddings, mortgages, babies—and thought, Well, fuck that.
So he started a band with drummer Dave Prowse and dreamed up a song about teenage abandon, blooming lust, and jumping out of bed to grab a beer with your best friend. But the alliance that had seemed to foreshadow many more seasons of Cash Money primacy instead dissolved rather quickly, and all three artists have feuded with each other on and off ever since.
Charli XCX is sonic science fiction. At her best, which she is here, Charli XCX cracks a key pop music code: doing as much with as little language as possible. Kelela was an easy sell as an underground icon: Her vocals flexed with all the acrobatic skill her generation had learned from Janet, Brandy, and Mariah, while her style whet the palates of the ultramodern Opening Ceremony devotees who run the fashion world.
The beats did the rest: The handclaps that drive the track forward are a call-to-action for hips and tongues across genres, from Miami bass to baile-funk to house, drenched in a synth-bed that sounds like a sunrise let-out from a Bed-Stuy afterhours club. On the other end are pencil-sharp female rappers dragging the genre to new edges from behind cat-eye makeup.
They aren't concerned with celebrating femininity, or anything else for that matter—they simply grab for your throat, no matter how you identify. Carefree nights have been poisoned by the constant threat of nuclear warfare; her beloved Malibu is ravaged by monstrous wildfires; nothing feels like it used to, and holding onto hope no longer seems plausible.
The end of the world has never felt so assured. For four heavenly minutes, the song suspends gravity, accompanying Jeremih with production as weightless as his voice: plinking pianos, gentle swooshes, and helium-infused trap drums that float toward blue sky like a bouquet of heart-shaped balloons. But the Life of Pablo opener is a group effort: an imperiled Kelly Price, an ecstatic Chance the Rapper, a reverential Kirk Franklin, a gale-force choir.
West seems to say. I know when to shut up. And yet Kanye is there, his friends are there, he fucks up and asks forgiveness, the seasons turn. What a difference a perfect pop song can make. For a moment, he was the most hated man-child on Earth. Then came this song, and everything changed.
It started off as an affectingly whiny Bieber demo before the vocals were sent to Diplo and Skrillex, who tweaked and distorted and pitch-shifted them to match their future-pop dreams. The result was discombobulating to the point of deliriousness—a reimagining of what Justin Bieber could be, and what a Top 10 hit could sound like. Justin Bieber].
A full year before the Supreme Court legalized gay marriage across the U. It begins abruptly with its sickly, skittish beat that sticks like a broken delete key. Just as swiftly, the rapper starts dropping names of then-mysterious figures— Anwar , Jasper , Syd —as he inverts rap cliches into menacing quips.
You just want to follow this guy wherever he goes, even when he eats a cockroach in the video. Singing with hoarse gravity, Adele holds every note like a steely challenge to move forward even as she looks back, rarely flickering into melisma as the piano arpeggios churn below. There are all these elongated sounds—slowly arching snares, spilt treacle synths, vocals that stretch into the horizon—that act as lines of tension, gently bracing themselves for the inevitable.
But midway, after the introduction of a drumbeat and bassline, it takes on shades of trip-hop, as though filtering Patsy Cline through a Portishead prism. Rather than leaving country behind, the songwriter has chosen to explore the limits of its territory, and to expand them. He was just 15 years old when he posted the clip, but his weathered warble suggested someone several decades older—as do the lyrics, which had Marshall pulling from his adolescence while also transcending the simple angst typical of such an age.
But the original version, rough and raw and bracing, stands up best. In , we were introduced to Tough Drake. When you have everything, do you stay on your worst behavior forever? New York needed something fresh. But for a moment, his energy and personality brought New York hip-hop back into the spotlight.
Hopelessness is not a common thing to find in a pop song. Of course. Lately, Rihanna has used her platform to speak out for a number of prominent causes: for reproductive rights , for Colin Kaepernick , against the president. Calvin Harris]. Especially at the time, this rang very true. The Atlanta rapper had an enormous year in , with the release of his Drake collaboration What a Time to Be Alive along with one of his best albums, Dirty Sprite 2.
Having reinvented himself so many times, his last musical effort was to bid farewell with that same grace and eternal curiosity. Then all that remains is the man, staring straight into the unfathomable and having the wisdom to offer no answers. He cartwheeled through the track, singing in swooning howls, and in the process coining an inimitable sound that bottled the sensation of ecstatic liberation: whawp!
Swift tells a big story by freezing time and honing in on small details, the kind that could seem like background noise to others: the scarf that her ex reportedly, Jake Gyllenhaal kept as a memento, the refrigerator light that illuminated midnight dance parties. As Staples slides from parties to shootouts, danger is courted and eluded. Death is defied and embraced. Gangster rap is disparaged; gangsters endure. Though every detail is in 4K, the screen flickers.
The bass quakes and smolders; the synths blare and pulse; the claps tingle. Because he sees his city so clearly, he has no illusions: No one can run forever. Only Natasha Khan remains by her side, and in her sweetest and deadliest ballad, she dedicates every ounce of her formidable self herself to propping up her lost friend. As the song slowly made its way toward ubiquity, eventually peaking at No.
As a refreshing alternative, Guy and Howard Lawrence created a track bound to an indestructible house beat and filled with the types of chord extensions more commonly found in jazz or Steely Dan albums than standard chart fare, allowing for Sam Smith to unleash their jaw-dropping vocals. Today, the song remains a testament to a brave new world of democratized production, one where two brothers, a laptop, and an unknown superstar can move the world. Sam Smith]. The song was released between two pivotal projects: four years after her album Sol-Angel and the Hadley Street Dreams , an almost quaint love letter to Motown, and four years before her culture-shifting political purge, A Seat at the Table.
Disoriented by the end of something irreconcilable, she sees her relationship devolve from all-night makeout sessions to total static. Since the dawn of time, women have been fed up with the patronizing antics of men in music. In , newfound fame was weighing on Kendrick Lamar.
He delivered the message that Compton—and everyone else—could put their faith in him. It is almost unfair how irresistibly danceable this song is, how it articulates a desire for closeness while laid over the kind of sparse but infectious beat that practically demands bodies shifting together. Navigating romance publicly comes with being a public figure—which can be good when it is good, and agonizing when it is agonizing. Ariana Grande has had to do this through several iterations of her career, in ways that have sometimes felt unfair.
All this came to a head in the fall of , when she was mourning both the death of her ex-boyfriend Mac Miller and a broken-off engagement to Pete Davidson. The song itself works against the somewhat dismissive sentiment of the title: The twinkling chorus is steeped in a kind of corny but joyful gratitude, for the past but also for the present self.
Crooning angelically, Grande reminds the masses that we choose to love people for a reason, even if that love is brief. No more trivial accusations of retrofetishism or John Lennon idol worship; with this heavy slab of space disco, Parker decidedly broke free of any preconceived notions about his abilities. The riff—a simple, octave-leaping groove—stands alone, but the punchy drums and elaborate synth arrangements throughout cleared the stage for Tame Impala to claim their place as true psych-rock originals.
But in our actual reality, Karin and Olof Dreijer got dark with their classic Silent Shout before making their grand return seven years later by inhaling radical theory and fully metamorphosing into their namesake—something steely, cutting, dangerous when necessary. It primes you to leave it all on the dancefloor before waking up ready to throw a brick through the patriarchy. But her character shows no bitterness for the girlfriend in question.
Instead, she gently coaches her lover through breaking up with the other woman, urging him to spare her feelings. Over a reassuring backdrop of organ and piano, her voice gathers strength as she is swept away in a flood of images, words so vivid you can feel them beating in your hand like small, frightened birds.
It is a nostalgic song, shot through with a sense of loss, but it is ecstatic in its synesthetic rush, its sublime sense of everything coming on at once. As the song begins, she could be working out a sketch in her childhood bedroom, her voice just above a whisper and hung over rumbling, muted chords.
An intensely physical connection settles into something deeper, and you can hear her fighting off love until her facade starts to crack. When she drops her guard to embrace love in all of its supernatural glory, it feels as bracing as a dip in a frozen lake. SZA baited a new lovestruck generation by presenting herself as a work-in-progress, shamelessly hooked on rash decisions.
The song that made Courtney Barnett an indie rock star involves a startlingly detailed narrative about the tension of literally being unable to breathe. In it, she sets out to garden, and after some small talk about vegetables with a neighbor, she pulls her first weed and quickly has an asthmatic episode. Someone calls an ambulance, and her first thought is about how much this shit is going to cost. It begins with him singing over sunny guitars about an ex-lover, taking bitter swipes at their character.
As the track switches into a woozy trap beat, Frank plunges back into the past. Over yawning synths and brusque, almost-industrial bass, these hip-hop hellions offer a quick peek into the vulnerabilities of the super rich and famous while allowing us to ride the wave of their incomprehensibly lofty egos. Consider our brains eaten. The proposal is simple and familiar: escape, hand-in-hand, from reality. Fueled by a yearning saxophone riff and colossal drums, Jepsen gleefully repeats her heartfelt invitation until the rest of the world melts away.
Propelled to No. Gucci Mane]. Years before their network television debut, Future Islands earned a reputation for playing raucous shows at small clubs. Channeling the bravado of a Broadway actor, Herring sang to the studio audience as if it were his last chance. Even without the visual, the song is still a triumph. After seven years away, Fiona Apple returned to a world that better understood her, and she did it with music that seemed to better understand itself, too.
On her fourth album, The Idler Wheel You can hear clenched teeth, whitened knuckles, and a throat about to be shred. So she went to work and came back with a hit that made thoughtful use of its key elements: action-movie intensity, a proven flow courtesy of Florida rapper Kodak Black, and a bottomless array of bars that were easy to parrot and pre-baked for captions.
By July, it was in radio rotation. By August, all kinds of fans knew the words. And in September, it was a verified smash, unseating Taylor Swift at No. Her victory was genuinely ground-up and people-driven. That it was possible—or inevitable, and a precursor for more success to come—still feels triumphant.
Then the drive exposes a second, inner tale, of a relationship paved with good intentions but now fraught with misgivings and anxieties. With her lover behind the wheel, Newsom addresses some regrets that haunt the romance, namely her own confusion. This is an effusive ode to her broken-in, ride-or-die, monogamous romance and a swaggy reminder of exactly what will happen to him if he ever messes around.
In the decade since M. Listen: M. How can this guy be this seriously existential—reflecting on magnificence and the hallways of his life—when he hardly seems to be saying anything at all? In , after three years without a major release, FKA twigs shared a note on her absence: six fibroid tumors had grown in her uterus, causing massive swelling and excruciating pain.
For a performer whose force lies in mastery of the self, the medical crisis posed an existential threat: Where to go when the body becomes a site of conflict? Beneath her vocal acrobatics, the lullaby piano warps and degrades without ever changing key, and its three-and-a-half minutes occupy and stretch out the brief tremor we experience when something cherished threatens to break.
I have what you want , the elastic bassline promises. But you need to come a little closer. He preserves the air of cocktail-bar elegance until the last moment, when a distant siren whooshes into the periphery. Some bliss-out tunes adapt easily to your surroundings, scaling down to soundtrack housework or a morning commute. The horror of drone warfare is that it has no constraints.
Operated remotely, designed for stealth, and unburdened by national borders or human rights, drones can deliver war at any time, to any place. Lost within those body counts, mission logs, and intelligence reports are real people. Before that, though, there was Aubrey Graham at the horizon, hungry and eager to prove his prowess.
In the fall of , Drake released Nothing Was the Same , which found him at the summit of his powers. Majid Jordan]. It's the most desperately human Koenig has ever sounded, as he clings to the only thing he can still believe in. In , Kanye West was just starting to lean into his heel turn. Its second single was a self-aware, if not quite repentant, exploration of what it means to be a chronic dickhead. His unbridled, unapologetic id became the governing force of not only his increasingly dodgy career decisions but of the nation, too, so steadily we barely even noticed.
Pusha T]. Jamie, like many of his listeners, was barely walking in that era, much less raving. Over gigantic drums and gleaming synthesizers, he unleashes a torrent of horrors pulled straight from the headlines, including but not limited to: police brutality against black people, fake news, the Syrian refugee crisis, the prison industrial complex, and the opioid epidemic.
Had he delivered these realities as a long, sober list, the track would have been too grim, too exhausting. In the early s, Chief Keef was a True Religion jeans-wearing teenager whose main concern was escaping house arrest. With its harsh, gut-wrenching street talk over a Young Chop production that incorporated thudding drums, tinny chimes, and horror-film melodies, the song established drill music as a legitimate hip-hop subgenre.
Kanye West would even tap Keef for a remix of the track, which landed on G. Lil Reese]. There is no more perfect way to describe life than as embarrassing. But embarrassing? What could be more mortifying than living earnestly in a world determined to make a joke out of everything?
Ferreira, an L. At one point, he describes the final exchange between a longing crowd and a reticent performer. Later, he finds himself on a hotel bed, tuned in to a muted television. Even the instrumental, which producer TM88 recorded using an old computer and a Beats Pill, is irresistible. For a while, few took Uzi seriously as a hitmaker.
When Lana Del Rey first arrived, she was bored and glamorous, looking by turns like a queen of Old Hollywood and like she was too young to be smoking. Tolling church bells, harp arpeggios, and chilly gasps of electric air swirl around submerged hits, as Lana, low and smooth, sounds self-assured or desperate or even sarcastic.
It was outright depressing, and she made it look good. It will be played endlessly, hopefully in less toxic times—not during rallies, or when a candidate walks onstage, but in quiet moments when we need to reflect, recharge, and rediscover our own beauty.
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