Expressing my gratitude over some highlights. (And a brief ranking)
My approach to listening is entirely unsustainable. This year alone, I sprinted through a startling 700+ full-length albums and EPs. I found myself unable to fulfill my self-procured quotas. I fail to remember more than fleeting impressions of the songs I listened to. I can safely say that is not a sustainable way to digest music.
That being said, there are certain exceptions. Certain albums that have certain temptations that I love to splurge my precious free time on. For these, my listening is extemporaneous—I have neither a queue, nor an agenda, nor a sense of urgency to pursue. For these, I can recall the title and structure of each track with intimate fluency. Savory or sweet, their tastes have never belied flavor even after months of gluttony. Now that is a sign of a well-digested album.
I say this only to preface this brief list. This is my list. I read the top lists of all the major publications—Pitchfork, the Rolling Stone, etc. I wondered how I would ever compete. In the end, my conclusion was simple: I can’t. They are billion dollar industry moguls; I am a high school senior who nerds out to music. So I decided I might as well act like one. To hell with formalities and objectivity. I have let my biases shine with this list—and I'm happier for it.
Here are five choice picks I’ve elected to write about (plus a one word descriptor for each).
Nourished By Time - Erotic Probiotic 2
----- Daddy -----
The R&B maestro of 2023; the big daddy of modern hypnagogic artistry—Yet he sounds as if he doesn’t belong. Marcus Brown’s voice slurs and stumbles, the words spilling forth involuntarily as if overdosing on his own libidinous poison. It’s hard not to giggle at his awkward attempts at falsetto, or his orgasmic ad-libs (just listen to the second half of the opener). I am merely a voyeur to his own midlife crises, complete with fits of passion and misery alike.
But that’s what keeps Erotic Probiotic 2 human. There is an immediate trust between both artist and listener. His palms are outstretched, offering me to take the pills and join him—I willingly accept. Suddenly, I find myself performing emotional cartwheels—“But first, you gotta shed that fear of passin' away / In order to live your life every day,” he instructs me. “But I don’t want to die,” I respond. What? Where am I? Erotic Probiotic 2 has this intoxicating effect. Often, I lose track of time, wandering for upwards of half an hour before I snap back to reality. If this record isn't included in the definition of schmaltz, I don't know what would.
I digress to the music itself. “Soap Party” is an ideal demonstration of the Nourished By Time formula. We begin with a piano lick; we receive the cursory freestyle; we blitz the verse to the chorus, which induces our bodies to helplessly sway in rhythm. Meanwhile, the production is roughly 40 years out of touch with the current vogue. Chintzy, thrifted, and straight from Alex Cameron’s backpocket, the sample-based beat bounces with incessant enthusiasm. You have no choice but to sing along. Congratulations—you have successfully joined our cult.
Young Nudy - Gumbo
----- Supervillain -----
Since when did trap artists name their singles after vegetables? Since Young Nudy did. Since when did trap artists use peppy ad-libs as choruses? Since Young Nudy did. If Nudy were anyone else, we might be mocking him. If Nudy wasn’t the fastest growing trap artist of the decade, we might dismiss him as childish. But Nudy’s eminence dwarfs any criticism, and fortunately, I have nothing but praise.
You may have heard of Nudy through his on-the-pulse social media campaign that creatively used AI to market his single “Peaches & Eggplants (feat. 21 Savage).” Infamous for its inane “bwah bwah” chorus and throbbing, minimalist club production, this song split the hip-hop community down familiar divides. On one side, the self-proclaimed hip-hop connoisseurs; on the other, everybody else. Off the back of ~ 5 years of middling reception, the newfound controversy was both a curse and a blessing for Nudy. Personally, I care not for virtuosity: If it bumps it bumps—and “Peaches & Eggplants” definitely does.
To that end, the singles did not presage the tone Gumbo embraces. Goodbye to hype tracks; hello to tranqued-out hysteria. The quaint, fanciful piano that introduces “Brussel Sprout” is only betrayed by Nudy’s Atlantan drawl. It’s as if Nudy pregamed with chai tea and started spitting bars over a posh supper. In a mischievous twist, he doubles down on apathy during “Pancake,” which possesses a beat consistent with a black hole: full of space but devoid of color. My personal guilty pleasure, “Portabella,” is appropriately psychedelic (“Take your shrooomies!”). In its entirety, Gumbo conjures a masked costume party, where Nudy embodies an almost supervillain-esque persona. Pompous gloating and unadulterated Southern swag: Perfectly balanced, as all things should be.
Sofia Kourtesis - Madres
----- Vagabond -----
Don’t be fooled by the cover. This is not a brooding indie folk record. No. I was fooled too—it’s rare these albums come to pass. Microhouse is already a sparse genre. (How to even define microhouse?) Madres lends its diploma to a school of thought that artists such as Jamie xx, or James Holden, would certify. Even stranger is that Madres stems from a Peruvian producer based in Berlin, of all places, who has crafted many of her own stories, and many of others from her homeland, into a brutalist dance monolith.
During the composition stage of this album, Sofia Kourtesis's mother fell gravely ill with cancer. In a miracle of altruism, a specialist neurosurgeon—having heard the title track through Instagram—agreed to perform a delicate surgery that ultimately proved itself successful. As a token of her thanks, and by the grace of friendship, they toured Berlin's nightclubs together. "Vajkoczy" is a tribute to that man. It's stories like these that make Madres the album it is. Laced with Peruvian anti-homophobia slogans (Kourtesis is queer herself—a deciding factor of her immigration to Europe) and bowtied with effervescent jingles, Madres bestows a gift of vicarious familiarity within the listener. If you listen close enough, you can almost hear a silent plea: The desire to return to a country that she loves so, but is not prepared to accept her.
Head in hands; not in woe, but in bliss; staring up, not down. "How Music Makes You Feel Better" capitalizes on this sensation of weightlessness. You may imagine the sunlight peering through the cracks in your fingers. The warmth on your face. The music swirls, and swirls; the trees bend into a pastiche of Van Gogh, pointing in every which direction. No longer do you imagine—you are there, at Heaven's gates. Sprouting wings, and flying amongst the fallen. All in the span of a five minute fresco of microhouse finesse. Other tracks are more grounded, such as "Estación Esperanza," but are equal in congenial temperament. It's almost too easy to fall in love—a testament to Sofia Kourtesis's unabashed devotion to everyone she holds dear.
Fromjoy - Fromjoy
----- Demigod -----
There is assuredly an element of shock value on first listen of Fromjoy. Enough to do a double take more than once. First of all, barring any shapeshifting, the metalcore on display is no routine thrashing. Here is my attempt at describing most metalcore: “an attempt at being as heavy as possible.” The allure, I presume, is the pure viciousness of the breakdowns—common to all genres, but a distinct gimmick in metalcore—and a nuanced palate of clean and shrieked vocals. (This year, excepting this and Invent Animate’s Heavener, I am an ambivalent onlooker.) Inexplicably, Fromjoy is an extension of these precepts to comprise deathcore growls, blackgaze passages, and, disarmingly, breakcore.
Let’s be frank: This is not a breakcore record. The breakcore segments are each transient in purpose and tainted with subdued violence. Through and through, Fromjoy is out to claw, maim, kill, and consume. But metalcore records do well to include glimpses of divine beauty as an antithesis to their disfigurement—though Fromjoy is a rather extreme example. A Biblical cleansing, perhaps, or a misanthropic Aphrodite. Certainly no mortal rage. Unlike the other albums on this list, I have no impression of human empathy; if anything, I am the victim.
Oh Judgement Day. How I love to be held accountable for my sins by roaring guitars. And not just roaring, but unwieldy as well. “Seraph” swings its mighty hammer in elliptical orbits, crashing to Earth as if hewing out a new moon. Only to drift aimlessly through “Helios,” which features… a saxophone. Oh Fromjoy. You are too zealous for your own good. Are we Deafhaven? Are we Knocked Loose? Are we Lauren Bousfield? Or some kind of mutant. Not to mention the capricious vocalist boasting an identity crisis. If there is one thing that remains consistent, it is the thall-infested thornbush that each song inexorably plunges into. Maybe it’s time to offer a prayer: Dear Fromjoy, your album is too stunning for my ears to handle. Please, have mercy. Amen.
Leroy - Grave Robbing
----- Kleptomaniac -----
Finally, a plunderphonics album commensurate with the albums it pillages. If not stronger. A DJ mix with power beyond the club walls. A dariacore album that pays tribute to, and eulogizes, its own history. Would it really be a mashup album without a “Heads With Roll” nightcore remaster? Every trick of the trade, every permutation of hands played, all available for your gratification—If you can surmount the initial $12 sticker price, that is. More than worth it, I will convince you. (Basic math: 100 hours of listening / $12 = 5 minutes per cent.)
The exotic revelation that you may actually have to pay for your music aside, the plot continues to thicken—Leroy is a pseudonym of the one and only Jane Remover. “My God!” You breathlessly exclaim. “How has Jane Remover managed to release two world class albums, from two disparate genres, in just one year?” That is a wonderful question. Trust me, I do not engage in the pagan idolatry of musicians barely older than myself. But I do applaud Jane Remover for what I can only describe as a career-defining couple of months. Moreover, many of the “grave-robbed” albums are as recent as its own peers—featuring Kelela’s Raven, Caroline Polackek’s Desire, I Want To Turn Into You, etc. Silly fun for avid listeners such as myself, of course, but surely this isn't an album that requires an esoteric knowledge of each sample deployed? Of course not. Just dance.
Seriously, there isn’t a nanosecond of Grave Robbing that isn’t as ADHD-driven as the titles of the tracks themselves. Bloated to an ADHD-itching length that only a megalomaniac would have the guts to endeavor. With “Still into Ü, Ür happy endings, And Ür FAKE LÜV,” or even better, “BACK DOOR EXIT ---- IVE got a cr*sh on you,” even the drabbest, moldiest dungeon would metamorphosize into a rave. How we've migrated from this to the self-restraint, and poise, of Census Designated, remains a great mystery. But I’m more than happy to pick up the magnifying glass and investigate every last corner of both records. Over, and over, and over again.
And that’s it… Oh! How could I forget? Here are my top 15 albums of 2023, ranked:
15. BBY Goyard – 4THWALL PT. 2
14. Crisis Sigil – God Cum Poltergeist
13. Marina Herlop – Nekkuja
12. Billy Woods & Kenny Segal – Maps
11. Death’s Dynamic Shroud – After Angel
10. Nourished By Time – Erotic Probiotic 2
9. Young Nudy – Gumbo
8. Sofia Kourtesis – Madres
7. DJ RaMeMes – Sem Limites
6. Fromjoy – Fromjoy
5. 100 Gecs – 10000 Gecs
4. Tzusing – Green Hat
3. McKinley Dixon – Beloved? Paradise? Jazz!?
2. Leroy – Grave Robbing
1. Jane Remover – Census Designated
Thanks for reading!!!