For a year in which a single that’s been popular for nearly four decades was inarguably the biggest song, it’s a little hard to diagnose the state of pop music in 2022. In lieu of the recent universal appeal of new tracks like “Old Town Road,” this year we’ve begun looking into how hits from previous generations can be recycled for a new audience via the soundtracks (or trailers) for nostalgia-sourced TV series—even yester-decade’s under-the-radar indie bangers are getting a jolt through massive amounts of exposure on viral TikTok trends.
Yet there remains plenty to look forward to in pop music and beyond, with the dated influence of these revived hits bleeding into the DNA of new ones, either as a source of comparison or contrast. While the 10 songs that make up our yearly list of favorites mostly have nothing in common, there seems to be a throughline of reverence for past moments in music dragged into the unmistakable present, whether that’s through a gleeful look at the newly post-gender world of country music, a bleak analysis of a national housing crisis, or simply a return to form for a band leaning into a newfound sense of unease.
Touched-up classics fit for the Stranger Things OST aside, here are our picks for the best songs of 2022. — Mike LeSuer
10. Chat Pile, “Why”
It wasn’t just the nightmarish riffs or the spine-chilling vocal performances by singer Raygun Busch that made Oklahoma City’s Chat Pile one of noise-rock’s biggest breakout stars in 2022. Hidden within their Flenser debut God’s Country is an acute sense of empathy for those on the fringe of our society, paralyzed and weighed down by the evils of American greed and capitalism that swing the door open for few and slam it shut for most. On the album’s standout second track “Why,” Busch eschews any sense of poetry to rub our noses in perhaps the biggest injustice facing our country: our unwillingness as the world’s richest nation to solve our own unignorable homelessness situation.
“Why do people have to live outside,” Busch belts out over the course of the song, until all of the naive connotations of such a simplistic question are flipped to the point of being an unavoidable indictment on our collective apathy. As the song’s crushing instrumental picks up momentum like an avalanche sweeping up snow grooming vehicles from the slopes and using them as tools of destruction, Busch keeps the pressure on until the song’s final moments: “Real American horror story,” he snarls in disgust, “It’s a fucking tragedy.” With “Why,” Chat Pile remind us that we don’t deserve to be let off the hook. — Pat King
9. The 1975, “About You”
Being Funny in a Foreign Language is the moment when The 1975 stopped being difficult and started being real. There’s still dick jokes, lore building, and hyperbolic self-flagellation (this is The 1975, after all), but their shortest album yet is also their most focused. Reigning in the kitchen-sink approach of the last three efforts, the band instead zeroes in on the sounds and motifs they do best, with Matty Healy in turn delivering his sharpest writing yet about that most profound of all topics: love.
These two guiding principles are best met on the album’s heart-wrenching centerpiece, “About You.” A duet of sorts with guitarist Adam Hann’s wife Carly Holt, Healy sets up “About You” as a tender, if somewhat navel-gazey “one that got away” ballad. The band matches him with lush strings and tasteful restraint, drawing every bit of emotion out of his simple phrasing. But it’s Holt’s show-stopping turn on the bridge that truly fleshes this story out. Playing the sorely missed other half to Healy’s solipsistic tale of woe, she confirms the true impact of their uncoupling, breathing new life into a stale convention. The one-dimensional breakup jam is dead; long live The 1975. — Dillon Riley
8. Pusha T feat. JAY-Z & Pharell Williams, “Neck & Wrist”
In a world where rappers find endless ways to imaginatively demean adversaries real and imagined, where they regularly blur the lines between promoting their purported drug-dealing prowess and pumping out street-centered rap, Pusha T and JAY-Z stand at the peak of this proverbial snow mound. The occasional collaborators reunite on “Neck & Wrist,” a standout selection from Pusha’s latest album It’s Almost Dry. Over a murky, brooding beat from regular production partner Pharrell Williams, the rappers take turns delivering potent verses littered with rhymes full of double and triple entendres centered around drugs and lavish living.
Pusha T starts off with a wry Game of Thrones reference, comparing himself to the Night King, and ends his verse with a brutal line about the tragic, real-life, drug-fueled turn of one of entertainment’s great comics: “Richard Pryor’s flame gave birth to pipe dreams.” In his song-ending verse, JAY-Z displays impeccable lyricism and extreme arrogance throughout his immaculately crafted rhymes. “I blew bird money, y’all talkin’ Twitter feed,” he raps dismissively. “Got different sob stories, save your soliloquies”—“sob” here alternatively referring to the defunct line of Swedish luxury vehicles the rapper can be seen driving in the video for his 2001 single “Song Cry.” Either way, it’s a brutally harsh passage in a song filled with them. It all adds up to an irresistibly eerie celebration of drugs, rhymes, and excess. — Soren Baker
7. Yves Tumor, “God Is a Circle”
They say you have to love yourself before you can love someone else—a fool’s errand masquerading as common sense. Not even a lifetime is long enough to truly know—let alone fully accept—oneself, as avant-rock visionary Yves Tumor’s only track of 2022 understands. “Sometimes, it feels like there’s pieces of my heart that I can’t show / There’s parts of me I still don’t even know yet,” they murmur over the bass thrum and guitar shards of “God Is a Circle,” whose drumbeat aligns with labored breathing, accentuating the fraught human struggle at its center.
As on last year’s The Asymptotical World EP, Yves laces nervy guitar rock with a dark electro-pop pulse here, embedding existential songwriting in uncompromising, yet unerringly accessible instrumentation. This is further elevated by GRAMMY-winner Noah Goldstein’s seamless production and background vocals from Ecco2K and Thoom, lost souls swirling in the maelstrom Yves and their collaborators have conjured. From its inceptive scream to the doomed triumph of its cacophonic climax—“Same old dance,” Yves chants as guitars scream and drums thunder—“God Is a Circle” fearlessly plumbs the gulf between the mortal and the divine. — Scott Russell
6. Remi Wolf, “Michael”
A technicolor-pop nightmare that veers into screeching indie-rock while somehow remaining infinitely hummable, Remi Wolf’s “Michael” is a wonderfully warped addition to her 2021 debut LP Juno. Deluxe editions can dilute a previously stellar body of work, but “Michael” injects the project with a frenzied energy that not only complements the existing songs, but also hints at the vast sonic horizons to come on her next offering. There’s a thematic and sonic build-up to the track—co-written with Jack DeMeo and Porches’ Aaron Maine—that makes it a singular listening experience.
While desperation and need permeate the entire song, there’s a coyness to the first few verses that suggests she’s keeping a lid on the crazy—at least, somewhat. “Michael, lick the poison apple,” Wolf sings poutily over zippy synths, “Drag me to the chapel, pullin’ out my centerfold.” It doesn’t take long, however, for her to completely unravel. “You know, I fuckin’ hate her,” Wolf accuses, before pleading: “Why don’t you just cut her off?” From that point on, the songwriter descends into madness, calling for the police and literally screaming at one point. Crunchy guitars enter the equation and “Michael” turns into an irresistible and brutally honest snapshot of lovesickness-turned-hysteria. Love hurts, and Wolf knows it. — Mike Wass
5. Spoon, “The Hardest Cut”
Spoon’s Lucifer on the Sofa represented a muscular return to rock after the Austin-based band’s predecessor, 2017’s Hot Thoughts, which garnished the band’s lean indie rock with glitchy electronic flourishes. Nothing on Lucifer distilled the band’s pivot quite as lucidly as lead single “The Hardest Cut,” which lead singer Britt Daniel has said was inspired in part by ZZ Top. Daniel told us earlier this year that when the song’s menacing central riff emerged early on in the recording process, the band initially referred to it as “the Texas riff”; they’d selected Austin as the location to record the album, and “The Hardest Part” instantly captured the sound they were chasing.
The riff in question shares DNA with canonical Spoon singles like “Rent I Pay,” and yet its edge still suggests a disruption of some kind; it’s grimier, more serrated, and its underlying gloom extends to Daniel, who spends the song looking over his shoulder, warning of something ominous looming: “Oh, it’s coming down, the hardest cut…world wars in my mind.” — Alex Swhear
4. Caroline Polachek, “Billions”
When Caroline Polachek dropped her first single of 2022, she delivered a feast. “Billions” is as opulent as its title suggests, slowly unveiling Polachek’s new romantic world with a lush mosaic of percussion that recalls Imogen Heap. As with all of her best work, Polachek’s vocals act as a siren song, luring us into her surreal avant-pop creations—like pulling back a beaded curtain and entering into a hidden bohemian paradise. The lyricism here is like a tarot card reading, decadent images carrying heavy cryptic meaning: “Headless angel / Body upgraded / But it’s dead on arrival.”
Later, the angelic voices of the London’s Trinity Choir emphasize her calls for connection in a culture marred by excess. “The overabundance of this world overwhelms me,” Polachek said upon the song’s release. “Sometimes it seems like ultimate tragedy, the earth being pillaged and destroyed for it. Sometimes it seems pre-human, beyond morality, sublime.” Reuniting with her frequent collaborator Danny L Harle, “Billions” is a cornucopia of sound that never feels overwhelming, but consistently thrilling in its shape-shifting production. It’s a turning point for Caroline Polachek, further proving her ability to take us to an unexplored dimension. — Margaret Farrell
3. Bad Bunny feat. Bomba Estéreo, “Ojitos Lindos”
Of all of the sound and fury to come from this year’s longest charting album, the electro-hop skronking Un Verano Sin Ti, it’s “Ojitos Lindos”—recorded together with the iconic Bomba Estéreo and Bunny producer Tainy—that is Bad Bunny’s most provocative track. Bogota’s psychedelic cumbia ensemble has been at the top of this writer’s listening lists (at least since the days of Elegancia Tropical 10 years ago) for their twin senses of experimentation with lush and lovely Colombian music, and for their blurred lines when it comes to rhythm. Bomba Estéreo always throw out convention while hanging onto sweet and luscious melody to guide new albums.
For “Ojitos Lindos,” Bad Bunny, Bomba’s vocalist Li Saumet, Tainy, and the Estéreo ensemble team for the purpose of something lovely, lilting, and harmonious, without the hallmarks of clamor and clutter that mark other corners of Un Verano Sin Ti. As for its heart-wrenching lyrics, Bunny and Saumet touch on the smells, sense, and presents that make love fun (“I want to gift you with sunflowers / To go to the beach and find snails for you”), while crafting gently humorous metaphors linking romance to driving (“Before the sun comes up, step on the gas / Even if you go without a brake and lose control”). After “Ojitos Lindos,” love is nothing without snails and the smell of gasoline. — AD Amorosi
2. MUNA, “Kind of Girl”
LA alt-pop trio MUNA dropped a comment on Taylor James’ single-shot music video for “Kind of Girl” noting that the mountain-scraping country breakup song is “about accepting yourself as you are and admitting that you still want to grow and change.” This is one of those vibrant tracks you flip on when you want to pump yourself up before venturing outside again. It’s got a presence that can’t be denied: Dust-devil swirls of pedal steel and a desert trudge of acoustic guitar strumming slowly pick up speed as the gale of a chorus lifts the whole thing up and away. When Katie Gavin belts out the chorus—“Go out and meet somebody / Who actually likes me for me”—it’s like she’s already halfway out the front door with keys in hand.
This windswept and sumptuous heartland track was overshadowed by the ’90s alt-pop jam “Silk Chiffon” (featuring friend and labelhead Phoebe Bridgers) and the other flirtatious offerings on MUNA’s self-titled album. The trio served as a de facto lightning rod for several queer culture think-piece articles this year, but “Kind of Girl” is a masterful bit of sleight of hand in the middle of an otherwise very modern third album. Country music is a symbol of traditional values, but here it’s atomized by an invigorating queer vision of pop music. Gavin, Josette Maskin, and Naomi McPherson are the kind of songwriters who tell stories, but not in ink, because they can still change the ending. Enjoy blowing on a dandelion today, traditionalists, because the winds of pop are changing soon, and MUNA are one of the main catalysts for that shift. — Kyle Lemmon
1. Steve Lacy, “Bad Habit”
Steve Lacy knows how to write good songs about bad experiences. On his 2017 breakthrough hit “Dark Red,” Lacy’s immediately charming guitar hooks swirled around worries about his relationship heading south. Pushing together emo, neo-soul, and psych-funk, he made being romantically doomed sound entrancing. Five years later, the wunderkind has his first chart-topping single with “Bad Habit,” which similarly makes an ill-fated relationship sound so comforting and cool, while capturing the frustrating inner dialogue of someone held back by shyness. “I wish I knew you wanted me,” Lacy sings regretfully over a simple kick drum–heavy beat, paisley guitars, and eely synths. “Could’ve made a move / If I knew I’d be with you / Is it too late to pursue?” His bad habit isn’t your typical vice; it’s one that goes literally unspoken. “I bite my tongue / It’s a bad habit.”
In under a minute, Lacy conveys sundry emotions—timidity, regret, stubbornness, desire—all while the hypnotic drum/guitar combo stomps onward. He continues to throw curve balls in his vocal delivery as his emotions become more complex. A couplet in the chorus accuses his heart’s desire of arrogance; then, in the following couplet, Lacy’s pitch and tone change completely. “It’s OK, things happen for reasons that I can’t ignore,” he sings in an uneven falsetto, dropping his voice briefly every few words. Is he singing from the other person’s perspective? Is he doing that thing where someone’s voice gets higher when they lie? This brief moment is one of many on “Bad Habit” where Lacy surprises us past the song’s earworminess.
“I never make my mind up too fast,” he said in an interview earlier this year. “I can be impulsive. I have a very fluid relationship to change.” If that’s not being a gemini (his astrological sign which inspired the album title) in a nutshell, then I don’t know what is. It’s there in the twist that rears its head in the second pass at the chorus: “Can I bite your tongue like my bad habit?” It’s there during the bridge when he goes a cappella. It’s there in the romantic beat-boxing outro, and when he offers up: “Let's fuck in the back of the mall, lose control.” It’s funny how a song titled “Bad Habit” showcases so many of Lacy’s phenomenal ones. — Margaret Farrell
