rollingstone

rollingstone reviewed Pylon by beabadoobee 1d

8.0

On her excellent fourth album, the young star pumps all her doubts and fears into righteous guitar noise — Pylon is Beatrice Laus’ fourth album, after growing up in public as Beabadoobee, going from the teenage bedroom-pop whiz kid du jour to bona fide rock star. But she’s at her nastiest here, with a fresh sound full of raw guitar aggression, which fits how she’s feeling in these righteously pissed-off tunes. At 26, Beabadoobee’s taking stock of the emotional wreckage of her twenties — as in “Write Me a Letter,” where she sighs, “You’re older/I’m bipolar/The weather’s getting colder.” All over Pylon, she comes on like the grown-up version of the clever teen misfit she played on early records like Space Cadet, full of indie-rock sass. She was just 17 when she blew up worldwide, going viral with “Coffee.” Yet she was no novelty, as she proved in homemade gems like “She Plays Bass” and her Pavement fan letter “I Wish I Was Stephen Malkmus.” But she grows up with a bang on Pylon. She’s never conjured up so much guitar rage, and it suits her, since she’s in a fighting mood. She sets the tone with the bruising single “Sun Has Set,” snarling in her deceptively sweet voice, “When I say we’ll never be friends/I mean we’ll never pretend/Fuck that, you can never run back to me now.” Her last album, 2024’s This Is How Tomorrow Moves, was laid-back and whimsical, striving for maturity with producer Rick Rubin, but in a way that hinted she was mellowing out before her time. But fortunately, she gets meaner on Pylon. You can definitely hear how deep she’s been listening to legendary indie guitar bands like Sonic Youth, Helium, and Dinosaur Jr., with her feedback blazing away. Her songwriting is sharper than ever in emotionally charged tunes like “Write Me a Lettter,” “Radio,” and “Switchblade,” where she laments, “Growing up just means to fuck everything up again.” She’s always had a jones for Nineties rock, an era when the radio was ruled by rude female voices and loud guitars — just her kind of combo. But she really takes her Nineties obsessions to the bank on Pylon, mixing up grunge thunder and pop melody, Midwest emo melancholy and bratty mall-punk, with a touch of Lilith Fair in ballads like “Satellite.” (The first song she ever learned to play on guitar was Sixpence None the Richer’s “Kiss Me,” which makes sense.) Laus gets a boost from some of her high-profile admirers, like Hayley Williams of Paramore, who sounds right at home singing on the unrepentant kiss-off “Nothing to Prove.” Williams helps her taunt her ex (“You want it, I got it, I flaunt it, you need it”) with a playground nyah-nyah chant. “Powerlines” is a duet with Brendan Yates of Turnstile, with two long-distance lovers craving each other across the miles — as she sings, “I’m talking nonsense and it’s 4 a.m./So are you awake?” She also gets contributions from the Deftones’ Chino Moreno, Pinegrove’s Evan Stephens Hall, Title Fight’s Shane Moran, and Basement’s Andrew Fisher, as well as her longtime mentors from the 1975, Matty Healy and George Daniel. She races from one emotional extreme to another — love, hate, insecurity, on-the-road loneliness, more hate, all caught up in the feedback-friendly sizzle of the guitars. In “Radio,” you’ve burned her for the last time, to the point where she’s not even going to bother telling you off — she’ll just turn her pain into music, so “you’ll listen to this song on the radio.” On the other end of the emotional spectrum, “It’s Alright” is her most openhearted romance. “Take the wheel,” she sighs over J. Mascis-style guitar. “Drive me out to somewhere I’ve never seen/Kiss me like someone you’ve never been with.” Beabadoobee doesn’t figure out any solutions to her problems in these songs — that wouldn’t be very Nineties of her, would it? But even at her most confused, she still bristles with confidence, which gives the album such a distinctive rock kick. She’s got plenty of time to come up with answers — but for now, she just wants to pump all her doubts and fears into guitar noise. And Pylon makes it sound like she’s just getting started.

rollingstone reviewed Day and Night by Carly Rae Jepsen 3d

8.0

Across 24 tracks, the prolific pop star traverses styles and continents while tracing the dazzling highs and devastating lows romance can bring — In certain corners of the internet, Carly Rae Jepsen is not just the woman behind the immortal 2011 hit “Call Me Maybe,” but a bard of pop excellence. Her fans will say she has penned at least five of the century’s best pop songs (though no one can agree on which). She is considered the Canadian equivalent to the Down Under disco queen Kylie Minogue by some, and recalls a young Taylor Swift for her unabashed earnestness. Across her vast discography, she writes, almost exclusively, about this crazy little thing called love, delivering endearing declarations of running away together and bold breakup anthems in her syrupy-sweet voice. Jepsen’s instinct to follow her heart, whether it’s toward new love or to experiment with an untouched genre, has always been her greatest asset. Her latest record Day and Night isn’t just a double album; it’s also a travelogue — musically and lyrically — of love, some of which is inspired by her romance with producer Cole M.G.N., whom she married last year. From cotton-candy afternoons flecked with Balearic influence to two-stepping sunset soirees and blissed-out bossa-nova confessionals under a twilight sky, it’s Jepsen’s most experimental and exhilarating work, and she makes falling in love feel brand-new all over again. The Day side of the album draws from silky genres like dream pop and folk pop, where she sounds like she’s on cloud nine. The nu-disco “Habits of Creatures” establishes Jepsen’s desire for stability (“Gimme some more of the same,” she sighs as the synths, which mimic a familiar Todd Terje track, pirouette toward the heavens), and on “Soft,” she lets her guard down and twirls into her lover’s arms. Night jets off to clubs across the globe, where she gets more direct with her desires. There’s the deep house “Near or Far,” the sexy, sample-heavy “Never Let a Good Thing Die,” and a whole lot of disco (this is a Carly Rae Jepsen album, after all). “Don’t Leave Me on the Dance Floor” is a sing-so-hard-you-cry proclamation, where each repeat of the song’s title, from sky-high shouts to cellophane-thin coos, feels like the difference between life and death. “Don’t leave me in the dark to face another song alone,” she beckons to her lover on the metallic chorus, concurrently recalling French touch and ABBA. Day and Night is a never-ending honeymoon as she saunters through a variety of serene tableaus, like the beach sway of “Blue Skies” or the opulent bacchanal that is “Versailles.” The latter track takes overt inspiration from Sofia Coppola’s 2006 film Marie Antoinette, as Jepsen beckons her love to engage in life’s vices with her, like marring bedsheets with fruit stains and dashing nude through the garden. The record was chiefly produced by Jepsen mainstay Kyle Shearer, who provides Day and Night‘s most danceable tracks, while Bullion, CJ Baran, Magnus Lidehäll, and more, make appearances too. Most notably, M.G.N. co-wrote and produced several songs, including the bubbly ode to family “Motivation” and “Just a Little Walk on the Moon,” which dabbles in bossa nova and acts as a fairytale closer to Day and Night’s first side. With Jepsen, it’s all about love, all the time, from the dazzling highs to the devastating lows. To her, there’s no shame in airing out your baggage and confessing your feelings in a single song. Night closer “Super Sage” starts with Jepsen nervously pacing, worried she’s driving her lover to the brink as synths pile and pan like spiraling anxieties. Then suddenly, ­“Super Sage” rockets to the psychedelic-pop cosmos. The tempo picks up, synths undulate like a sine wave, and it all mimics that rush of heat one feels when they’re about to confess everything. Despite the Edenic imagery painted throughout Day and Night, Jepsen’s repeated gasps of “I love you” make for the album’s most romantic and vulnerable moment, full of stark intensity. Seven years ago, on Dedicated‘s “Real Love,” Jepsen screamed to the clouds about wanting genuine connection. On Day and Night, it sounds like she’s found it.

rollingstone reviewed PRIMA by ADÉLA 1w

7.0

The pop phenom wraps stories of sacrifice and surrender with bold confidence on her maximalist debut — Adéla is missing home on “Therapy,” the penultimate song on her debut album, Prima. The quiet, almost distorted ballad shows a different side of the 22-year-old pop phenom: On the nine songs that precede “Therapy,” she is hungry for pop success. “KGB,” the rattling dance note on which she opens the album, is defined by its tenacity — the late nights she worked to learn English, the pop giants she studied while growing up in Slovakia, her plan to leave a bold mark on the genre. But “Therapy” is just sad. Midway through the song, Adéla sounds deflated as she sings about her younger sister, who she’s been away from during her global journey to cement herself in pop. “When I left home, she was so tiny/Now I come back, and she is my size,” she says, “And that’s awful ’cause she’s my baby/And she grew up, grew up without me.” Her delivery is even more devastating than lines about not being able to afford to move her mom out to where she is, or having to smile in the faces of annoying old white men — her words — who “hold the keys to my future.” Adéla surrenders (however reluctantly) to sacrifice and struggle because she knows how much she has already given up. She made the move to Los Angeles four years ago, then became one of the first girls eliminated from Pop Star Academy, the Netflix series that formed the girl group Katseye. Maybe she dodged a bullet — at least she isn’t selling Tic Tacs, candy bars, and car insurance. But she still has a long road ahead, and she has to make it all count. Prima is an ambitious debut fueled by determination, pop potential, and a quick-witted perspective. As the album’s lead single, “KGB” tries too hard to be convincing about something that comes far more naturally across the rest of the record. “You want a pop star with a big bra for them big hits/I wanna pop off so these big mouths can’t say shit,” she sings. It fizzles out fast, and the elaborate dance break she performs in the accompanying music video does little to save it. Adéla hits her stride when she stops telling you she wants to be a big star and starts showing you exactly why she should be one. In some instances, it feels as though she already is. Anyone hoping to introduce Adéla to someone new should reach for “Nicole Kidman” before anything else. She delivers one of her most compelling vocal performances on the track over skittering, bass-heavy production courtesy of Blake Slatkin and Dylan Brady. “When I talk my shit, don’t interrupt me,” she sings in a soft tone that contrasts sweetly with the authority she commands across the song. It’s an ode to prominence and luxury (“Should I wear Louboutins or Jimmy Choos?”), but also her carefully timed humor. “My bra should probably be a bigger size, maybe that’s why they can’t look me in my eyes,” she considers, adding, “They’re up here.” Adéla delivers these kinds of lyrics not with a wink, but with unwavering eye contact. “Always like to have the upper hand/It’s true, I like my boys a little feminine,” she sings on “I’m the Man,” later offering, “Why don’t you come and sit on my lap? Slap on your ass.” She leans in more on the animated and racy “Fantasize.” They’re both dance floor-ready, but don’t come close to the entrancing pull of “Boys.” Adéla draws from the Britney Spears playbook on the track and ends up with a riotous song destined for Top 40 dominance. Prima is careful not to venture too deeply into referential territory, but sometimes, she can’t seem to help it. She goes back to peak 2015 hyperpop on “Marijuana” with drudging lyrics like “Playin’ Nirvana, ride you in your Honda/I like how you look at me like I’m the next Madonna,” and could have left “Starving Artist” off the record entirely — it’s way too soon to feel like we’re listening to Tate McRae throwaways. The song might have worked fine for someone who doesn’t have as much to say. Adéla titled the break-up piano ballad “Hitachi” after a vibrator brand and rhymed “dirty shoes” with “dad issues” on the standout “Red Bottoms.” Predictable doesn’t really work for her. “I’d rather be a nobody than to be like everyone,” Adéla sings on “Ain’t in LA,” the final song on Prima, which is on track to become the defining song of her career thus far. There’s no better option on the album. While the record drew early comparisons to the aesthetics that flooded the internet in 2016, “Ain’t in LA” is more spiritually connected to 2013 — and not just because it features bass-flooded vocals from Theron Thomas, who also appeared on Miley Cyrus’ “We Can’t Stop” that year. There’s an optimism to “Ain’t in LA” that has landed a bit corny and theatrical over the past decade. Self-consciousness has embedded itself too deeply in our collective culture, replacing the abandon needed to strive without embarrassment, or take a chance on the choice that doesn’t feel the safest. Adéla can’t afford to not take the chance. Her confidence and attitude are essential to who she is as an artist, and there’s more waiting out there. Even when she seems weighed down by the pressure of proving herself, Adéla makes it easy to root for her. As she shakes off the doubt and sharpens her perspective, it all starts to click.

rollingstone reviewed Before The World Blows by Erykah Badu 2w

8.0

Their long-promised collaboration, which is also Badu’s first proper album in 16 years, plays to both of their strengths and delivers exactly what fans have been waiting for — Erykah Badu albums are like fanciful piñatas. The draw is that you never know what you’re going to get. It’s a given that Erykah’s offbeat treats will be healthy and spirit-saving. Her inability to stay in one place, artistically speaking, all but ensures that each new project will give you life in new and emphatic ways. The Texan artist’s last proper album, 2010’s incredible New Amerykah Part Two (Return of the Ankh), flaunted the subversive single “Window Seat,” a respect-my-space sound-off that felt like self-care. Her only major release since then was a mixtape: 2015’s delirious But You Caint Use My Phone, which brimmed with affirmative heaters that wonderfully interrogated screen-staring. In her long interim between releases, Erykah’s guest spots furthered that provocative tradition, adding some earthy energetics (and an aside about veganism) to Teyana Taylor’s 2020 slow-burner “Lowkey,” and an enticing hook championing humanism on South Korean rapper RM’s inventive 2022 hit “Yun.” Unsurprisingly, fans were ecstatic about the prospect of a new Erykah Badu album that she co-produced with the underground savant the Alchemist. When the L.A.-based boom-bap emissary posted Instagram pictures of himself with Erykah in the studio in December 2024, his comments were flooded with a litany of fire-emoji salutes. A few months after that, in March 2025, anticipatory headlines circulated when the 55-year-old singer told Billboard that a new album was in the works. That summer, she and the Alchemist embarked on a North American tour, performing new songs to dumbstruck fans who had to deposit their phones in locked Yondr pouches as if it were a tricked-out Dave Chappelle special. Now, more than a year later, Before the World Blows: The Abi & Alan Experiment is finally here. And it’s definitely worth the delay. These 16 slaps are lucid and adventurous, featuring random Jay Electronica warblings, DJ Quik rhythms, and a couple of surprisingly appropriate Westside Gunn vignettes. This is Erykah’s best full-length since 2008’s capacious New Amerykah Part One (4th World War), showcasing the Alchemist’s strongest productions since his 2022 collabo with Roc Marciano, The Elephant Man’s Bones. Alluringly, Before the World Blows is a jolt of pure sprezzatura from two of the game’s most consummate analog devotees. It’s a surly trip that’s all about enjoying the messy moments of life before everything goes to shit. Anyone could guess going into this album that Erykah’s sticking points are groupthink, conformity, and phone obsession. But far from being a joy-killer, she’s guided by inventiveness and levity. While A.I. is an exasperating boogeyman, the video for the stellar single “Next 2 U” features A.I.-enhanced art. That artistic gambit feels playfully tongue-in-cheek when tons of folks would rather use A.I. to find out how to store cut carrots in the fridge. If anything, Erykah’s project is relatably of the moment. That her art is grounded in an all-too-human space has been clear since her insightful 1997 debut, Baduizm, which alerted the mainstream to the epochal, incense-and-headwrap preferences she’d developed years earlier amid Brooklyn’s grassroots, open-mic milieu. And it wouldn’t be surprising if the healing-centered lyrics to Before the World Blows’ buoyant single “Witch Doctor” inherit their piquancy from Erykah’s real-life practices as a chakra reader. In any case, her confident claim that “I know how to break that curse,” over the Alchemist’s booming, lo-fi canvas, feels like a mighty soul cleanse, while making it clear that the media’s 24/7 barrage of skullduggery is essentially witchcraft. But the life-comes-at-you-fast aspect of having your nose wide open also registers here. The Steve Lacy-assisted “To the Moon (Plan C)” finds Erykah cooing, “Fly with me beyond the ocean/That is what I’m hoping, hoping, hoping, hoping.” Her voice is full of eager glee, and the panting, easy way in which she repeats “hoping” over the Alchemist’s floor-cracking snares feels like infatuation amplified by breezy uncertainty. The courtship-to-wake-up-call dynamic hits later in the first verse, when Erykah croons, “Now I think my period’s late,” before declaring that “What I say is what I create,” suggesting that her head-over-heels chatter invoked a straight-up grown-folks situation. It’s a whip-smart take on Adulting 101, and one of the best songs on the album. Other gems include the crystalline “They Ain’t You,” with its smoky refrains recalling peak Badu anthems like “Orange Moon” and “Next Lifetime,” and the unquenchable “Crossfade.” The latter’s folky, DJ Quik-enhanced palette somehow invokes both Outkast and Pink Moon-era Nick Drake, making way for her diffident Chaka moans and squirmy vulnerability. “Breezy” — all spiffy pianos and Liverpool charm — is decidedly different from anything in Erykah’s or the Alchemist’s oeuvres. And “No I.D.,” named after the Chicago producer behind Jay-Z’s 4:44 and more, is a trenchant ode to boom-bap, wherein Erykah spazzes out and puts her bid in for funky new beats: “If Alchemist don’t come through for me/I’ma get a beat from No I.D.” It’s refreshing not only to hear Erykah Badu revive that velvet, Billie Holiday-inspired affectation here, but also pop all manner of cash shit over a ready barrage of Westside Gunn ad-libs — all while acknowledging the reverent aesthetic that’s instrumental to her choicest songs. While “Black Box,” a croon-less jeremiad against smartphones, feels like a letdown, the moving “I Know That Man” is a bona fide heart-puller. Here, Badu follows a canny Earl Sweatshirt verse with a soul-soothing proclamation that “I wanna be seen as good/In the eyes of that which created us,” immediately inspiring goosebumps. Before the World Blows provides the kind of ambitious surprises you can savor for a plethora of lifetimes.