17. ka - the night's gambit//busta rhymes - "thank you feat. q-tip, kanye west & lil wayne (prod. busta rhymes)"

Over the last twenty days of December (and obviously 2013), I’ll be writing about my favorite twenty albums and songs of the year, one a day.  Not best. Not most influential.  Not most likely to land on a Complex slideshow.  Just my favorite, ranked in order.

Today’s a triple post, because unforeseen (and very happy) circumstances prevented me from keeping up on my list. But the hustle never ends.

17. ka - the night’s gambit

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It’s easy to draw lazy comparisons between Brownsville's Ka and Long Island's Roc Marciano – they’re both top-tier word artists, remarkably adept at scrawling lyrical pictures of New York ghettoes, and they’ve clearly got close to zero need for the spotlight.  But while you can practically see Roc spraying his words from side-to-side like one of his song’s AKs, dealing out rapid-fire rhymes like a deck of cards, Ka moves much more deliberately.  Each line’s almost whispered, nearly obscured by the halting guitar loops that he relies on for his production, and while Roc drags you right into the action, Ka’s the one sitting across the table from you in the aftermath, telling you what he saw.  The Night’s Gambit isn’t driven by aggression, but it’s just as cinematic and gripping as the work of his frequent collaborator.  I could go on and on about how haunting Ka’s music is, how his lyrics dig themselves into your brain, how his declarations that “if this ain’t meant for me, nothing is” seem to be vacillating between defiance and resignation.  It’s hard to tell whether Ka’s stories are brags or confessions, and indeed, he seems to flip between the two depending on the song.  But whatever it is, it’s powerful.

17. busta rhymes - “thank you feat. q-tip, kanye west & lil wayne (prod. busta rhymes)”

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While Kanye West and Lil Wayne don’t actually kick any lines, instead being relegated to hype man duties, “Thank You" might actually benefit from the lack of 21st century star power.  By letting Busta and Q-Tip take the spotlight, the two get to kick up the charisma and chemistry that made Busta such a frequent collaborator with A Tribe Called Quest.  The jazzy, high-tempo instrumental’s the perfect soundscape for the two rappers to drop a couple decades, flowing like it’s 1993 all over again.  I’m a sucker for any song that discards hooks in favor of eight-bar cypher trade-offs, but it works truly to perfection here.  It really is like they’re having tons of fun – Busta even sinks into his Jamaican accent for his third verse.  Maybe it’s the perfectly-timed usage of Alicia Myers‘ "I Wanna Thank You" as a sample mid-song, but it’s impossible not to let the song’s infectiousness roll you along.  Shake ya hips.

16. tree - sunday school ii: when church lets out//joey bada$$ - "unorthodox (prod. dj premier)"

Over the last twenty days of December (and obviously 2013), I’ll be writing about my favorite twenty albums and songs of the year, one a day.  Not best. Not most influential.  Not most likely to land on a Complex slideshow.  Just my favorite, ranked in order.

Today’s a triple post, because unforeseen (and very happy) circumstances prevented me from keeping up on my list. But the hustle never ends.

16. tree - sunday school ii: when church lets out

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Tree’s one of those unique rappers who’ve coined the perfect term to describe their music: soul trap.  It’d be easy enough to just drop that on you and step away, because it really is exactly what he makes.  Sunday School II’s lower end is dominated by booming drums and machine-gun hi-hats, but he’s also dragging soul samples into almost uncomfortable shaking pitches like a grizzled master.  But that’d be lazy.  It’s clear that Tree hails from Chicago (the influences are everywhere), but the old head’s also firmly displaced from the Chicago scene that’s cropped up in the last couple years.  It took Kanye West to drag out a few Auto-tuned murmurs from  Chief Keef, but that drawling wail is exactly what makes Tree so gripping (like on “So Bad”).  It takes a specific skill-set to pull off the type of music that Tree’s carved out his own niche for – the dual types of production that Tree juxtaposes so perfectly, the knack for indelible lines (“I’m probably not the grandchild that my grandma raised/But I’m something like the son that my momma had in mind”).  He’ll rattle off a couple lines, draaaaaag out the last couplet’s word, then snarl the next few.  Tree’s rough voice sounds like it has its own echo (maybe that’s where he draws his presence from), and it’s hard to imagine any other voice behind Sunday School II.  Oh, and his hook game is absolutely impeccable.

16. joey bada$$ - “unorthodox (prod. dj premier)”

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Ever since the ‘90s-Nas comparisons first started snowballing up, this collaboration was inevitable – possibly the most iconic producer of the 1990s, DJ Premier, linking up with the figurehead of the New York revival movement, Joey Bada$$.  Joey’s a very flawed lyricist; you’ve only got to look to the likes of Vince Staples or Earl Sweatshirt to see how simplistic Joey lets his lyrics get.  But on “Unorthodox”, it’s just pitch perfect.  He’s in this vintage Premo with gusto, slinging around boasts like he’s young Hova.  It’s worth noting that this was perhaps as he was reaching the apex of his popularity and hype – this isn’t a Joey Bada$$ humbled by the relative flop of Summer Knights, this is a Joey Bada$$ coasting off the spotlight and major label rumors.  And it’s absolutely infectious in a way that no other Joey song is.  “Waves" is a perfect vignette of his life, and "Enter the Void" sees Bada$$ taking up Soulo’s conspiratorial tone without skipping a step, but there’s nothing quite as thrilling as this in his catalog – halfway through writing this, I had to stop to rap along with the rest.  I could talk about how Joey’s framing racism better than he does in any of his other songs, or how his swagger is more convincing here than anywhere else, or I could just tell you that this is far and away the best song he’s ever made.

18. statik selektah - extended play//flatbush zombies - "bliss (prod. erick arc elliot)"

Over the last twenty days of December (and obviously 2013), I’ll be writing about my favorite twenty albums and songs of the year, one a day.  Not best. Not most influential.  Not most likely to land on a Complex slideshow.  Just my favorite, ranked in order.
Today’s a triple post, because unforeseen (and very happy) circumstances prevented me from keeping up on my list. But the hustle never ends.

18. statik selektah - extended play

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See, this is the type of project you call flawless.  It’s hard to grab any truly great album and call it flawless, because there’s always just one verse that’s missing or one punchline too much or one dramatic instrumental interlude that should have been trashed.  But Extended Play, the most recent and most accomplished studio album from Bostonian producer Statik Selektah, doesn’t have such artistic concerns.  Statik puts together the ‘90s East Coast boom-bap homages, and turns it over to some of the underground’s most accomplished rappers.  You’ve got Pain in da Ass reprising his Goodfellas-interpolation for the intro to the album, Statik crafting a wailing, crashing scape for Hit-Boy to kick a career-making verse in front of the mic, and Prodigy topping his entire album with one song.  Mac Miller trading bars more than capably with Sean PriceMike Posner lending his scratchy soul for the hook between Action Bronson and Joey Bada$$, and Reks snagging and recontextualizing Common’s famous lines for “The Light” as the hook for “My Hoe”.  It’s hard to say that stacking rappers this talented is really taking away from anything - would this album really benefit from less guest appearances, when it’s a “fuck it all” maximalist celebration of the East Coast circa 1995?  It’s infectious and impossible not to be engaged in.  How can you not love listening to an eighteen-track barrage of impeccable scratch hooks (Statik might be the producer most poised to take up Premo’s art if he ever hangs up his MPC) and slick verses?  Not a falter.

18. flatbush zombies - “bliss (prod. erick arc elliott)”

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I won’t present myself as a huge fan of the Flatbush Zombies – I’m of the opinion that they’re a flawed group that relies too much on hating things as opposed to digging a little deeper into that emotion, and that attitude gets grating over nineteen-track projects.  But in one song doses, like the detached, spacy, unnerving “Bliss”, it’s capable of hitting all the right notes.  What other group would be able to just devolve into a chant of “fuck"s mid-song without it being a gimmick?  Maybe it’s not totally genuine, but the one hundred and thirty-three fucks that Juice, Meechy, and Erick Arc Elliott give us don’t read as weak.  When it’s not in the context of eighteen other tracks devoted to essentially identical topics of hatred, it’s dulled.  But as a standalone mantra, it’s just a collection of furious flip-offs at various aspects of the system – a generic phrase, but it’s hard to group the things in this song together any other way.  It’s just one massive "fuck you”, and it’s a better musical expression of fury than any other song in hip-hop this year.

19. drake - nothing was the same//j. cole - cole summer

Over the last twenty days of December (and obviously 2013), I’ll be writing about my favorite twenty albums and songs of the year, one a day.  Not best. Not most influential.  Not most likely to land on a Complex slideshow.  Just my favorite, ranked in order.

19. drake - nothing was the same

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I have a theory that in a decade, we’ll point to this album as Drake’s real turning point (provided that he keeps up his pace).  It’s pretty clear that this isn’t Drake’s best work – most notably, he’s dropped the melancholy atmosphere and cohesiveness that made Take Care so excellent in favor of a sharp dose of bitterness and aggression. But this is the first project from Drake that’s made me comfortable calling him a very good rapper, as opposed to a very good musician (an overwrought distinction, but still a relevant one).  On Nothing was the Same, Drake is legitimately gripping when he cedes the singing interludes to his raps; they’re not just cameo appearances to bide the time between R&B joints.  He carries “Tuscan Leather’s three beats without any trouble right off the bat, and it’s only about three minutes in album time before he segues into some smooth bars over Jake One’s outro to “Furthest Thing.”  Take Care was an imperfect album that bridged “good” to “great” because of Drake’s ability to evoke emotion; it was easy enough to tune out the slightly off-beat, slightly awkward rapping when he could envelope you into his life.  Nothing was the Same isn’t as involved in terms of weaving you into Drake’s emotions, but it’s the first time Drake’s become convincing as an elite dual threat.  Once you can hold your own against Jay-Z, you’re worth a shout as a rapper.  And what this album loses in its disjointedness, it manages to gain back through its one-offs and singles - “Hold On, We’re Going Homehas a shout as one of the best major singles of the summer.  And most crucially, it’s not that Drake’s lost his knack for atmosphere, "Too Much" is as slow and piano-ey and melodic and vaguely sad as anything Drake’s ever made.  It’s just a matter of putting it together for a full album.  I’m willing to be that that project comes sooner than later, and Nothing was the Same is the real changing point.  It’s listenable and accessible in a way that none of Drake’s works have been until now, and that’s a barrier he had to cross sooner or later.  Thankfully, it’s the former.

19. j. cole - "cole summer (prod. j. cole)”

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Spoiler alert: Born Sinner isn’t on this top 20 list.  Why? Because no matter how good that album was, ultimately it was just a slightly depressing reminder of how little of his potential J. Cole was reaching.  Occasionally on the album he jumped on the type of mellow, quietly snapping beat that suits him best (“Mo Money (Interlude)”), but more often, it’s as if he’s actively trying to make music that directs the listener’s attention to his shortcomings.  Sometimes it’s because Cole’s stuffing his beats to the point of overflow (“Trouble”), or because he decides he wants to be angry and forceful and menacing, which inevitably ends poorly/embarrassingly (like when he got into an argument with himself over the word “faggot” on “Villuminati”).  Essentially, Cole’s developed a decidedly unsavory habit of dropping off jazzy, well-paced, let-me-tell-you-about-my-life-and-make-you-care-without-being-Diet-Drake projects and then dropping albums that show he’s learned, well, nothing.  “Cole Summer" is the painful headline of this career-long story.  The immediate reaction might be to call this song classic Kanye fare circa-Late Registration, but that’s doing Cole a disservice, because he’s riffing off the standard pallet of wailing vocals and crisp, jerking drums in a distinctly "Cole” manner.  He’s dropping wry lines (“Throwing thousands in the strip club with Drizzy/Difference is, I’m throwing four, he throwing fifty”) that slide his state of mind over to you far more smoothly than the usual “I DO THIS FOR THE VILLE” and “ME AND MY VILLE NIGGAS ONLY” proclamations that he unapologetically scatters across his music.  Born Sinner’s sixteen songs don’t get as much across as Cole pleading, “This sample was yelling ‘loop me,’ Ms. Hill, please don’t sue me.”  

20. roc marciano - marci beaucoup//freddie gibbs - "freddie soprano"

Over the last twenty days of December (and obviously 2013), I’ll be writing about my favorite twenty albums and songs of the year, one a day.  Not best. Not most influential.  Not most likely to land on a Complex slideshow.  Just my favorite, ranked in order.

20. roc marciano - marci beaucoup

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I could go on and on about how incredible Roc is about crafting his own universe within his music, or how he might be one of the best technical rappers of all time.  There’s that approach to discussing his third studio album.  But that’s not why it’s one of my favorite projects of the year.  There’s something familiar and comforting about listening to Roc Marciano’s music.  It’s the same collection of grimy, crackling loops and soul samples, glued together by his impeccably strung-together stacks of rhymes.  Even after just a couple listens, there’s something irresistible about Roc’s beats (I’d swear I’ve heard the beats to “456” or “Dollar Bitch” if I didn’t know better): Roc has a remarkable ear for when to let his loops ride out for a measure or two as his filtered sample vocalist lets  out a couple wails, just before jerking it back to the tight rhythm that gives Marci Beaucoup its skeleton.  But Roc didn’t land a spot on this list off of perfecting a formula (Curren$y and Young Roddy just missed this list for that very reason).  Roc knows how to give his style a little nudge, grabbing jarring features (like the excellent turn given to British rapper S.A.S. on “Willie Manchester”) or playing with odd sounds and twisting them to fit into his trademark (It sounds like he sampled an ice cream truck on “Didn’t Know”).  It’s not the best project Roc’s ever released – it’s not even his best of the year (hint hint).  But it’s the very definition of “solid”, and at times it’s just smack-you-in-the-face New York rap at its absolute best.

20. freddie gibbs - “freddie soprano (prod. i.d. labs productions)”

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At this point I’m willing to go as far as to say that on a one-verse basis, Freddie Gibbs might be a top five rapper alive.  By his standards, 2013 was hardly his best year: ESGN, his version of Jay-Z‘s The Dynasty: Roc La Familia (“Jay-Z and Friends”) album, was probably his weakest project in years, while his long-awaited collaborative work with MadlibPinata, managed to get itself pushed back yet again.  But even in a year jarringly lacking in murderous Gibbs verses, on an album full of chanting trap songs that play down Gibbs’ abilities on the mic, he’s capable of dropping songs like this one.  It’s not just that Gibbs can string together rapid rhymes with the Andre 3000s and Kendrick Lamars of the world – there’s a little more to it than that.  I still can’t put my finger on it exactly, but a lot of it is his rhythm, the subtle voice inflections and tone shifts that transform mundane strings of lyrical threats into breathless, menacing lines.  The barrage here is overwhelming (I’ve listened to this song at least forty times and I’m still hearing new lines).  And it’s all over an airy, flutey beat that’s only brought down to Gibbs’ street level for him to rip by pounding bass and snares.  "I’m the coldest nigga to spit this gangsta shit since Jadakiss,“ indeed.

The comparisons to Justin Timberlake were always going to be raining in, to be fair.  It all fits – their teenage heartbreaker years, their controversies, even their first names – and now, the musical changes.  And while it’s yet to be seen whether Bieber will ever drop an album as distinctive and era-representative as FutureSex/LoveSounds, it’s clear that he’s certainly gunning for that type of recognition.  

As it stands, he’s well on his way.  The last couple months, he’s been releasing outstanding songs that are probably better than anything Timberlake’s released this year in either of his albums (with the possible exceptions of “Mirrors” and “TKO”).  It’s not exactly that he’s lyrically improved (it’s relatively generic fare), or that he’s pushing the envelope (he’s dealing with typical pop/R&B material).  But whatever he’s doing, he sounds more confident, more smooth, more slick.  The music he’s making isn’t just the music of a pop star.  And what better way to display that transition than to grab 2013’s biggest breakout rapper, Chance the Rapper?  It’s not the best song to emerge from Bieber this year (that distinction probably goes to “Heartbreaker” or “All That Matters”), but it flirts with synths that dart dangerously close to G-funk territory, and any Chance verse is always welcomed.  In any case: what a year for both of them.

While Blu hasn’t been quite as bad post-Below the Heavens as many might like to gleefully claim, it’s essentially a given that Blu doesn’t seem like he’s on the verge of dropping a working-class hip-hop classic on the level of his first brilliant work.  On Below the Heavens, Blu conducted a master class on capturing sorrow and spinning it into optimism, on grasping the most abstract of emotions and painting it with his words.  Since then, the majority of his career has been inexplicable.  Recording entire albums through what sounds like a cat litter box, drunkenly stumbling off stages mid-set after forgetting entire songs, discarding the sound that made him one of hip-hop’s brightest stars in favor of darting electronic instrumentals.  Not that it’s all been bad – his followup to Below the Heavens with ExileGive Me My Flowers While I Can Smell Them, was brilliant – but Blu’s become a sad story of wasted talent.

But occasionally he’ll drop something like this.  The Knxledge-produced “DraginBreff” lives on Sweeney Kovar‘s Classic Drug References Vol. 1 compilation, wedged between Ras_G and Mike Chav.  While Knx lets a melancholic trumpet murmur its notes above piano riffs on the type of jazzy beat that Blu’s flashed his greatness on before (L'Orange’s “Alone”), the real show comes from the best lines Blu’s rapped in years.  I could go on how “technically brilliant” the Los Angeles rapper is, how he’ll accelerate and brake his delivery to reflect his words, how he’ll stagger rhymes and suspend words.  But that’s not why this song is so good.  Blu’s got a remarkable knack for framing universal emotions in small vignettes (“When I was six, I thought that I would be the president/Now I’m twenty-seven, staring at perception and present tense), drawling out indelible quips (“Never tell never to a kid with a pigment problem) and posing wry philosophical queries (“How can a rapper be demoted to preacher?”).  It’s been all too long since Blu has scrawled his lyrical paintings across a laid-back, jazzy soundscape as deftly (and audibly) as he does here. Maybe we’ll never get another classic from Blu.  But I guess I’d settle for more of these ninety-second illustrations.

I almost exclusively listen to hip-hop and virtually never write about any other genres of music.  But sometimes a song is just too good not to post.

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laurasnapes:

When I, the over-zealous editor, commissioned Liz Pelly to write about Speedy Ortiz, Krill, Fat History Month and the rest of the literate, engaged, awesome bands in the Massachusetts scene, I wasn’t thinking about advertisers or brands or credibility or - god forbid - content. I was thinking…