FLOOD

Angus Andrew has stepped off alone with his group, and returned to Australia in the process. And if you’re still looking for a theme, he’ll be glad to explain it to you.  

With his eighth solo album, Kanye West has finally asked too much of us.

With a beloved music festival now in its fourth year, and a surprise EP setting the stage for a highly anticipated new LP, the trio are firmly inside the machine of the industry. Or so you might think. 

From Evanston to Grant Park.

All eyes are on the first-time actor who was born to play the part of Tupac Shakur.

“Starboy” is rapt with the same sad-sack bullshit, asinine stabs at humility, and total lack of self-awareness that has plagued The Weeknd since his first tape.

To love “Big Baby D.R.A.M.” is not the same as thinking it’s actually any good.

Spending fifty minutes rubbing up against this, Knxwledge and Anderson .Paak’s lavish debut tape as NxWorries, is to luxuriate in smoothness as an end unto itself.

Hyper-awareness and gnarled wordplay—that which defined Atmosphere and its ilk’s brand of hip-hop—is now, on the duo’s seventh studio LP, that which makes it merely fine.

The Compton rapper’s new album is several shades of moral gray darker than 2014’s “My Krazy Life.”

The Chicago rapper is ready to join his Save Money cohort in the spotlight with his official debut mixtape, “iiiDrops.”

To make “Lemonade” all about her potential marital troubles is to once again yoke Beyoncé’s success to her husband—and to stay mired in the madness that this album was built to expose and transcend.

And then it simply—as simply as the most respected, volatile voice in rap could have it be—existed.

Yes, we know you’re asking us, Macklemore. But this isn’t about you.

Kanye West’s God Complex is finally complete.

Is Pusha T the greatest rapper alive?

Wracked with pain and pride, sadness and grossness, Kendrick Lamar’s third album doesn’t just sound vital—it takes his entrepreneurial spirit, spits it with a dowel, and lets it turn over and over, for eighty minutes over some quietly building fire.

Matt Flegel discusses the band’s beginnings with last year’s “Cassette”, avoiding the post-punk pigeonhole, and the deconstructed bleakness of their new self-titled record.

And so, 36 Seasons chronicles Ghost’s return to Staten Island, where he must take on the role of vigilante to save his ’hood from corruption.

It’s been twenty-one years since 36 Chambers, and the Wu-Tang Clan are still catching up.