Pop music is supposed to be popular, right? So we shouldn’t be surprised when the biggest artists actually do turn out to be the most interesting and acclaimed. But it doesn’t always work out that way, so when music from Beyoncé and Billie Eilish is lauded by critics, Taylor Swift has the biggest tour of all time, Charli XCX levels up to superstar status, Sabrina Carpenter, and Chappell Roan shoot into the stratosphere… well, at least it makes life easier for Grammy Award voters.
Speaking of the Grammys, you might recall that it was only a few years ago that their (since-dismissed) top honcho said that women needed to “step up” if they wanted to win the big prizes. We now live in a world where Spotify’s top five most-streamed albums of the year were all by women. Music may never have truly faced its #MeToo moment, but it’s pretty remarkable how dramatically the power has shifted.
Not that pop in the 2020s is all good times, as struggles with anxiety and racism and sexual identity ripple through so many of these mega-projects. And 2024 had plenty of extra-musical darkness, too, from the chilling and seemingly endless accusations of abuse against Sean “Diddy” Combs to Liam Payne’s gruesome death to the Kendrick Lamar-Drake beef, which definitely added some listening excitement but got creepy as it plunged deeper into the pedophilia allegations.
If the genre’s defining figures right now are Morgan Wallen, Zach Bryan, and Shaboozey, something bigger is going on. Other than a single from Billy Joel, his first new music in decades, the surviving boomer icons (the Rolling Stones, Paul McCartney, Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen) were all on the road but had no 2024 releases. Or maybe that territory is covered by biopics now; this year, we got Dylan and Bob Marley movies, with subjects from Springsteen to Michael Jackson to Linda Ronstadt currently in the works.
And out of that, somehow, it turned out to be a pretty great year. The albums that made it to the top represent a wide range of styles (sometimes impressively diverse on the same record) and the continual blurring of genres in a shuffle-and-playlist universe keeps pointing to a fascinating future. Trying to guess where it’s going? Good luck, babe.
She said it when she announced the project: “This ain’t a Country album. This is a Beyoncé album.” Still, the battles raged on, the Grammys said yes, the CMAs said no. But the category debate actually did matter, because what Ms Knowles pulled off with Cowboy Carter was something bigger than just a genre exercise; it’s a consideration and commentary on American music across a broad spectrum, a triumphant and far-reaching statement and a joy to listen to. Remember that it’s only part two of a trilogy examining and reclaiming Black musical traditions. I’m dying to know what comes next.
The surprise of the year. For those of us who kinda sorta knew Carpenter as a one-time Disney star and as the other woman in Olivia Rodrigo’s 2021 masterpiece “Driver’s License,” the range, humour, and sophistication of these twelve songs was a revelation. “Espresso” and “Please Please Please” were the irresistible smashes, but a song like “Juno,” simultaneously evoking ‘60s and ‘80s pop, is built like a tank, stuffed with hooks and one-liners (“God bless your dad’s genetics,” “I showed my friends and we high-fived/Sorry if you feel objectified”) and somehow turns getting knocked up into an irresistibly flirty metaphor.
One day in July, an unlabelled vinyl album was quietly slipped into the bags of all purchases made at Third Man Records’ stores in Nashville, Detroit, and London. It turned out to be Jack White’s sixth solo album, and online instructions to “Rip it!” and share soon followed. The album got a more proper release a few weeks later and rather than a toss-off, it was an unexpected triumph. White’s last few records have had their moments, but they’ve also suffered from trying a bit too hard; No Name places him firmly back in the scorching, sparse garage-blues territory he staked out with the White Stripes.
Robert Smith said that the Cure’s first album of new material in sixteen years would be the band’s “most intense, saddest, most dramatic and most emotional” ever. It’s a lot to live up to, but Songs of a Lost World doesn’t disappoint. The eight gorgeous, atmospheric, sprawling songs, most of them familiar from the Cure’s recent tours, are more melancholy than bleak, and while there’s not a lighthearted “Friday I’m in Love” or “The Lovecats” to be found, the deep sense of commitment and yearning in “A Fragile Thing” reveal the unwavering passion of a band that remains entirely true to itself.
I’m not sure if Johnny Blue Skies is an alter ego, a band name, or just a loophole that allows Sturgill Simpson to work around the retirement announcement that followed 2021’s The Ballad of Dood and Juanita. After moving to Paris in search of himself and watching his influence take over the country charts (Zach Bryan, Chris Stapleton), Simpson has emerged with a gorgeous, expansive set of self-reflective songs, revealing both humour (“Scooter Blues”) and deep introspection (“Who I Am”). He also reassembled his killer 2010s band, and the sound—dipping into ’70s country-rock and soul and tilting toward psychedelia—may be Simpson’s most alluring yet.
There’s only a glancing mention or two of Drake on GNX, but the year’s defining beef gave K.Dot the fire to fight for old-school rhyme skills, his hometown of Los Angeles, and his place in hip-hop history. (Shout-out to whoever out there said this is the first time someone followed up an album about going to therapy with an album that was even angrier.) Some were disappointed that this surprise release (apparently a surprise even to his label) didn’t have the thematic scope of To Pimp a Butterfly or Mr Morale & the Big Steppers, but the gunslinger mentality showed that comparisons to Tupac, who’s sampled on “Reincarnated,” are more apt than ever—Lamar has that same kaleidoscopic effect, encompassing poet, outlaw, activist, loudmouth, and introvert.
What’s immediately apparent on Billie Eilish’s third album is the sheer musicality. It’s the most range, stylistically and vocally, that she’s displayed so far. After the electro-goth of When We All Fall Asleep, Where Do We Go? and the intimacy of Happier Than Ever, she (and her increasingly impressive collaborator/producer/brother Finneas) leap from the acoustic ballad “Wildflower” to the explosive twist in “L’Amour de Ma Vie,” often shifting gears and genres mid-song. It’s a striking display of boldness from the two-time Oscar winner, whether that means more singing and less of her signature whispering or going with the queer anthem “Lunch” as the first single. Remember that Eilish is still only 22 years old; just think of the places she’ll go.
The latest indie-rock sensation lives up to the hype. After three albums and work with the bands Wednesday and Waxahatchee, North Carolina native Lenderman hits his stride with a record that wears its influences on its sleeve (Neil Young, early Wilco, Jason Molina’s Songs: Ohia) but creates something distinctive and affecting. With a sharp eye for character and detail—playing an Ozzy song on Guitar Hero gets turned into a moving metaphor—and impressively sharp guitar playing, Lenderman’s songs might feel raggedy, but everything is in its right place.
Is Niger’s Mdou Moctar the greatest living guitar hero? Quite possibly—the soaring, screaming, psychedelic solos on his seventh album are unlike anything rock ’n’ roll currently offers. During his 2023 North American tour, a military coup back home made it impossible for Moctar to return to his country, and he resorted to a GoFundMe to enable the band to stay in the United States. Out of this incident comes Funeral for Justice, his most political album yet, excoriating both the impact of colonialism on African nations and the corruption of the local governments. You don’t have to speak the language, though, to understand the rage and confrontation in Moctar’s hypnotic, blazing fretwork.
Coming barely a year after her impressive debut, Lucky, these 14 songs prove that Megan Moroney is for real. She blends classic country wordplay and twang with the language and details (and anxiety) of a young woman in the 2020s. A title like “No Caller ID” risks sounding dated fast, but instead Moroney creates a truly distinctive and specific point of view. The catch in her voice will slay you, and the closing “Hell of a Show”—just verse, chorus, and out, barely a minute and a half—seals the deal.
