Top 100 Music Albums of the 2010s by 
FlorianJones 
Anything with a write-up was in my top 50 at the end of the decade, in December of 2019.
As of today (June 14, 2022), 6 of those original top 50 have dropped into 51-100. None of them have dropped off the list entirely.
- Chart updated: 06/14/2022 23:15
- (Created: 11/26/2014 05:57).
- Chart size: 100 albums.
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Top Tracks: Ivy, Solo, Nights
While not technically at the top of this list, Blonde is the album I’m likely to look back on the most nostalgically in future decades. In large part that’s because Frank knows nostalgia better than anyone. Frank sings about it, sure. His debut mixtape had nostalgia in the title, and on Blonde’s standout track Ivy, he croons wistfully of a past relationship. But the topic is just the tip of the iceberg. Frank’s ability to evoke the feeling of nostalgia is where he really shines. Maybe it’s the haziness of the instrumentals, enveloping the listener in the cloud of a half-forgotten memory, or it could be the sweet moments of clarity afforded by his incomparable vocals. Whatever it is that makes the music tick, this man could make someone nostalgic for a couple hours ago. Maybe he doesn’t know any other way. While not quite a child star, Ocean did have to grow up fast. All the Odd Future guys did. The media doesn’t tend to shine the kindest spotlight on the young. As such, Frank had an almost immediate nostalgia for days not long gone. Nowhere is that felt more deeply than on Futura Free – a soothing collage of some of the first interviews these guys ever gave. They were just kids, unable to focus, unable to take anything seriously. You can feel the longing for that simplicity. At a time where many of Frank’s peers were tackling big, nation encompassing struggles, he opted to go more personal than ever before.
Almost by default, audiences were quick to tag Blonde as R&B. While that was Frank’s starting point, the genre hardly applies anymore. On the aforementioned Ivy, Frank’s voice glides over the top of two interweaving guitar lines of ephemeral dream pop. No other instruments are present. How often do we hear R&B completely forego percussion? For that matter, how often do we hear a voice like Frank’s in dream pop? On Solo, the only accompaniment to Frank’s (in this case rap inflected singing) is the calm swell of an organ and an occasional whistle. All of Blonde makes similar choices with most songs foregoing the expected in favor of stripping back for a minimalist approach like no other. Every choice is beautifully considered. Blonde’s back half plays out more as a medley than as distinct songs, and it’s exactly what the album needs. I couldn’t begin to consider better sequencing here. Such attention to the whole is captivating. One of the album’s greatest moments comes part way into Nights, when the song slowly collapses, then in an instant, builds back up as something entirely new. This beat switch happens exactly thirty minutes into a sixty-minute album. Frank considered everything. [First added to this chart: 06/22/2017]
While not technically at the top of this list, Blonde is the album I’m likely to look back on the most nostalgically in future decades. In large part that’s because Frank knows nostalgia better than anyone. Frank sings about it, sure. His debut mixtape had nostalgia in the title, and on Blonde’s standout track Ivy, he croons wistfully of a past relationship. But the topic is just the tip of the iceberg. Frank’s ability to evoke the feeling of nostalgia is where he really shines. Maybe it’s the haziness of the instrumentals, enveloping the listener in the cloud of a half-forgotten memory, or it could be the sweet moments of clarity afforded by his incomparable vocals. Whatever it is that makes the music tick, this man could make someone nostalgic for a couple hours ago. Maybe he doesn’t know any other way. While not quite a child star, Ocean did have to grow up fast. All the Odd Future guys did. The media doesn’t tend to shine the kindest spotlight on the young. As such, Frank had an almost immediate nostalgia for days not long gone. Nowhere is that felt more deeply than on Futura Free – a soothing collage of some of the first interviews these guys ever gave. They were just kids, unable to focus, unable to take anything seriously. You can feel the longing for that simplicity. At a time where many of Frank’s peers were tackling big, nation encompassing struggles, he opted to go more personal than ever before.
Almost by default, audiences were quick to tag Blonde as R&B. While that was Frank’s starting point, the genre hardly applies anymore. On the aforementioned Ivy, Frank’s voice glides over the top of two interweaving guitar lines of ephemeral dream pop. No other instruments are present. How often do we hear R&B completely forego percussion? For that matter, how often do we hear a voice like Frank’s in dream pop? On Solo, the only accompaniment to Frank’s (in this case rap inflected singing) is the calm swell of an organ and an occasional whistle. All of Blonde makes similar choices with most songs foregoing the expected in favor of stripping back for a minimalist approach like no other. Every choice is beautifully considered. Blonde’s back half plays out more as a medley than as distinct songs, and it’s exactly what the album needs. I couldn’t begin to consider better sequencing here. Such attention to the whole is captivating. One of the album’s greatest moments comes part way into Nights, when the song slowly collapses, then in an instant, builds back up as something entirely new. This beat switch happens exactly thirty minutes into a sixty-minute album. Frank considered everything. [First added to this chart: 06/22/2017]
Year of Release:
2016
Appears in:
Rank Score:
14,446
Rank in 2016:
Rank in 2010s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
912. (5) 
3
3
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Top Tracks: Every Single Night, Werewolf, Anything We Want
The lyrical content of The Idler Wheel (full name The idler wheel is wiser than the driver of the screw and whipping cords will serve you more than ropes will ever do) is appropriately eloquent and verbose for an album penned by a woman using short poems as album titles. Take as an example “my cheeks were reflecting the longest wavelength” from Anything We Want, a line which strikes me as the most roundabout yet elegant possible way of saying “I blushed.” Fiona’s graceful lyricism is only one piece of The Idler Wheel’s whole. Also striking is how raw and confrontational The Idler Wheel feels – each song sung with an invigorating first take energy. Fiona manages to turn on a dime from an angelic whisper to a guttural howl. These vocal takes lack refinement, but that’s crucial to how brightly they shine. There are separate sets of traits that make great singers and great vocalists. A great singer can hit the notes, but a great vocalist can imbue each note with passion. Fiona Apple is that special breed capable of both. She sings with the best of them, but she also hones in on moments where embracing imperfection yields wondrous returns.
In instrumental terms, the ten compositions comprising The Idler Wheel are sparse, but each is formulated with precision. Fiona plays the piano with an authoritative hammering that lends the instrument a clamorous percussive feel. Throughout, Fiona leans into music that is considerably more rhythmic than standard singer-songwriter fare. Many of those tendencies are willfully abstract. Jonathan and Regret each open with chugging mechanical beats that feel instantly familiar, yet difficult to identify. Fiona welcomes nontraditional elements such as the gentle pitter-patter underscoring Daredevil billed in the liner notes as thighs, or the torn paper of Periphery. Every inch of The Idler Wheel, down to the smallest minutiae, shines with unbridled passion. Lyrics, vocals, instrumentation: regardless of the avenue in which one chooses to assess it, The Idler Wheel excels. [First added to this chart: 04/15/2015]
The lyrical content of The Idler Wheel (full name The idler wheel is wiser than the driver of the screw and whipping cords will serve you more than ropes will ever do) is appropriately eloquent and verbose for an album penned by a woman using short poems as album titles. Take as an example “my cheeks were reflecting the longest wavelength” from Anything We Want, a line which strikes me as the most roundabout yet elegant possible way of saying “I blushed.” Fiona’s graceful lyricism is only one piece of The Idler Wheel’s whole. Also striking is how raw and confrontational The Idler Wheel feels – each song sung with an invigorating first take energy. Fiona manages to turn on a dime from an angelic whisper to a guttural howl. These vocal takes lack refinement, but that’s crucial to how brightly they shine. There are separate sets of traits that make great singers and great vocalists. A great singer can hit the notes, but a great vocalist can imbue each note with passion. Fiona Apple is that special breed capable of both. She sings with the best of them, but she also hones in on moments where embracing imperfection yields wondrous returns.
In instrumental terms, the ten compositions comprising The Idler Wheel are sparse, but each is formulated with precision. Fiona plays the piano with an authoritative hammering that lends the instrument a clamorous percussive feel. Throughout, Fiona leans into music that is considerably more rhythmic than standard singer-songwriter fare. Many of those tendencies are willfully abstract. Jonathan and Regret each open with chugging mechanical beats that feel instantly familiar, yet difficult to identify. Fiona welcomes nontraditional elements such as the gentle pitter-patter underscoring Daredevil billed in the liner notes as thighs, or the torn paper of Periphery. Every inch of The Idler Wheel, down to the smallest minutiae, shines with unbridled passion. Lyrics, vocals, instrumentation: regardless of the avenue in which one chooses to assess it, The Idler Wheel excels. [First added to this chart: 04/15/2015]
Year of Release:
2012
Appears in:
Rank Score:
5,697
Rank in 2012:
Rank in 2010s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
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Top Tracks: These Walls, u, The Blacker the Berry
Every artist strives for excellence. The desire to leave an impact on the world is part of human nature. People want to be remembered. People want to be praised. People want to succeed. Most artists know to temper their expectations. If they can bring joy to themselves and garner an audience large enough to keep a positive balance in their checking account they’ve done enough. With Good Kid M.A.A.D City, Kendrick Lamar achieved more than many ever dream of. That album was a lyrically heady examination of Lamar’s own experience of youth in the often glamorized world of Compton gang life. It landed itself on numerous publications’ year end lists. It debuted at number two on the Billboard 200. It has since gone triple platinum. In every regard, Good Kid M.A.A.D City was a success. Kendrick would be remembered regardless of his follow up, but more than possibly anyone else in music, Kendrick Lamar has ambition. To Pimp a Butterfly is about as blatant a bid for masterpiece status as an album can be. Ideologically dense, with narrative complexity guided by multiple through lines, diverse live instrumentation culled from the whole of African American history, and a seventy-nine-minute runtime, this album wasn’t just meant to be listened to – To Pimp a Butterfly was meant to be analyzed. It’s the kind of album that could have been an overreaching and overzealous embarrassment if Kendrick hadn’t found success in everything he pursued here.
For the instrumentals on To Pimp a Butterfly, Kendrick Lamar has surrounded himself with some of the best talents currently around. We’ve got silky smooth bass from Thundercat and vibrant, technically astounding saxophone from Kamasi Washington. Hearkening back to the classics, To Pimp a Butterfly is rich with jazz, soul, funk, and R&B. Lamar himself floats over it all with ease, deploying a vast array of flows all tailor suited to a specific mood. Even on the distinctly off-kilter and organic jazz of For Free? he spits his verse with incomparable dexterity. This man was born to rap.
Kendrick’s lyricism here is right on the money. This is the kind of work that the word zeitgeist exists to describe. On an individual level, there were albums this decade that spoke more succinctly to my experiences, but no one understood the struggles of the nation as a whole better than Lamar. It was a tempestuous decade of widespread discontentment. The decade’s two U.S. presidents could not have been more fundamentally opposite. Civil unrest is as high as it’s been in decades. Ideologically speaking, the solutions are simple. Care about your fellow man. Treat strangers with respect and understanding. In application, there’s a lot more to it. There are systemic problems holding the nation back – problems that could yet take decades to solve. Lamar examines it all. He tackles these problems with nuance, understanding that often concessions need to be made on both sides of an argument. Nowhere does Kendrick do this better than on pre-release single The Blacker the Berry, in which, after tearing white America a new one, he turns and harps on the hypocrisy of his own community. He knows the legitimacy of African American struggles as much as anyone, but he also knows that for things to improve, everyone is going to have to work for it. With this knowledge, Lamar looks inward. He starts with himself on songs like u, opening up his internal dialogue, struggling with grief and depression as he philosophizes on his own failings as not just a man, but a famous one. His own faults become magnified by the millions of young fans looking to him for guidance. That song is complemented later on by the triumphant and self-confident i, which concludes a redemptive arc carried through the album. Kendrick sets up these kinds of payoffs throughout his work, showcasing a deft understanding of the art of storytelling. [First added to this chart: 03/19/2015]
Every artist strives for excellence. The desire to leave an impact on the world is part of human nature. People want to be remembered. People want to be praised. People want to succeed. Most artists know to temper their expectations. If they can bring joy to themselves and garner an audience large enough to keep a positive balance in their checking account they’ve done enough. With Good Kid M.A.A.D City, Kendrick Lamar achieved more than many ever dream of. That album was a lyrically heady examination of Lamar’s own experience of youth in the often glamorized world of Compton gang life. It landed itself on numerous publications’ year end lists. It debuted at number two on the Billboard 200. It has since gone triple platinum. In every regard, Good Kid M.A.A.D City was a success. Kendrick would be remembered regardless of his follow up, but more than possibly anyone else in music, Kendrick Lamar has ambition. To Pimp a Butterfly is about as blatant a bid for masterpiece status as an album can be. Ideologically dense, with narrative complexity guided by multiple through lines, diverse live instrumentation culled from the whole of African American history, and a seventy-nine-minute runtime, this album wasn’t just meant to be listened to – To Pimp a Butterfly was meant to be analyzed. It’s the kind of album that could have been an overreaching and overzealous embarrassment if Kendrick hadn’t found success in everything he pursued here.
For the instrumentals on To Pimp a Butterfly, Kendrick Lamar has surrounded himself with some of the best talents currently around. We’ve got silky smooth bass from Thundercat and vibrant, technically astounding saxophone from Kamasi Washington. Hearkening back to the classics, To Pimp a Butterfly is rich with jazz, soul, funk, and R&B. Lamar himself floats over it all with ease, deploying a vast array of flows all tailor suited to a specific mood. Even on the distinctly off-kilter and organic jazz of For Free? he spits his verse with incomparable dexterity. This man was born to rap.
Kendrick’s lyricism here is right on the money. This is the kind of work that the word zeitgeist exists to describe. On an individual level, there were albums this decade that spoke more succinctly to my experiences, but no one understood the struggles of the nation as a whole better than Lamar. It was a tempestuous decade of widespread discontentment. The decade’s two U.S. presidents could not have been more fundamentally opposite. Civil unrest is as high as it’s been in decades. Ideologically speaking, the solutions are simple. Care about your fellow man. Treat strangers with respect and understanding. In application, there’s a lot more to it. There are systemic problems holding the nation back – problems that could yet take decades to solve. Lamar examines it all. He tackles these problems with nuance, understanding that often concessions need to be made on both sides of an argument. Nowhere does Kendrick do this better than on pre-release single The Blacker the Berry, in which, after tearing white America a new one, he turns and harps on the hypocrisy of his own community. He knows the legitimacy of African American struggles as much as anyone, but he also knows that for things to improve, everyone is going to have to work for it. With this knowledge, Lamar looks inward. He starts with himself on songs like u, opening up his internal dialogue, struggling with grief and depression as he philosophizes on his own failings as not just a man, but a famous one. His own faults become magnified by the millions of young fans looking to him for guidance. That song is complemented later on by the triumphant and self-confident i, which concludes a redemptive arc carried through the album. Kendrick sets up these kinds of payoffs throughout his work, showcasing a deft understanding of the art of storytelling. [First added to this chart: 03/19/2015]
Year of Release:
2015
Appears in:
Rank Score:
37,227
Rank in 2015:
Rank in 2010s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
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Top Tracks: The Suburbs, We Used to Wait, Sprawl II
I was born in 1995. The aughts were my formative years – the years from before my memories to the start of high school – but they are only one half of the formative years. Too young to have any clue what I was doing, and too naive to even care that I was clueless. Those were the years in which my surroundings were impressed upon me. The twenty-tens are the years in which I started consciously deciding who I am and impressing myself upon my surroundings. I formed my own tastes in the arts. I entered the workforce. I got a college diploma. I got married. I hardly feel I qualify as an adult, but broadly speaking, I grew up.
I grew up with The Suburbs at my side. Since I own four physical copies of this album (long story), I mean that quite literally, but The Suburbs isn’t just an album I grew up with. This album is about growing up. It’s about being an average kid in your average North American suburb. It’s about learning who you are. It’s about having goals and aspirations. It’s about failing at some of those goals and succeeding at others. It’s about struggling to find your footing as an adult. It’s about looking past what other people think and focusing on what matters to you. It’s about looking to the future with equal parts optimism and pessimism. It’s about feeling nostalgic for your youth. It’s about living with regrets of missed opportunities and forgotten relationships. It’s about how, even with all that you know now, you wouldn’t change a thing about your past. The Suburbs is also a gorgeously constructed piece of music. This album was created with pacing and atmosphere in mind. It isn’t a short album, but it never overstays its welcome. Arcade Fire finds the perfect balance between moments as disparate as the anthemic chorus of Sprawl II and the melancholic balladry of Wasted Hours. The orchestration is full-bodied, sweeping, and cinematic without ever feeling overwrought. The Suburbs is a perfect album, and a crowning achievement not just for the band, but for this era of independent music. [First added to this chart: 01/20/2015]
I was born in 1995. The aughts were my formative years – the years from before my memories to the start of high school – but they are only one half of the formative years. Too young to have any clue what I was doing, and too naive to even care that I was clueless. Those were the years in which my surroundings were impressed upon me. The twenty-tens are the years in which I started consciously deciding who I am and impressing myself upon my surroundings. I formed my own tastes in the arts. I entered the workforce. I got a college diploma. I got married. I hardly feel I qualify as an adult, but broadly speaking, I grew up.
I grew up with The Suburbs at my side. Since I own four physical copies of this album (long story), I mean that quite literally, but The Suburbs isn’t just an album I grew up with. This album is about growing up. It’s about being an average kid in your average North American suburb. It’s about learning who you are. It’s about having goals and aspirations. It’s about failing at some of those goals and succeeding at others. It’s about struggling to find your footing as an adult. It’s about looking past what other people think and focusing on what matters to you. It’s about looking to the future with equal parts optimism and pessimism. It’s about feeling nostalgic for your youth. It’s about living with regrets of missed opportunities and forgotten relationships. It’s about how, even with all that you know now, you wouldn’t change a thing about your past. The Suburbs is also a gorgeously constructed piece of music. This album was created with pacing and atmosphere in mind. It isn’t a short album, but it never overstays its welcome. Arcade Fire finds the perfect balance between moments as disparate as the anthemic chorus of Sprawl II and the melancholic balladry of Wasted Hours. The orchestration is full-bodied, sweeping, and cinematic without ever feeling overwrought. The Suburbs is a perfect album, and a crowning achievement not just for the band, but for this era of independent music. [First added to this chart: 01/20/2015]
Year of Release:
2010
Appears in:
Rank Score:
22,200
Rank in 2010:
Rank in 2010s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
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Top Tracks: Ain’t That Easy, The Charade, Betray My Heart
D’Angelo doesn’t want anything overshadowing his music, not even himself. For some artists that’s exactly what they want. People like Bowie or Prince built careers on their star power. Don’t get me wrong here, those guys had tunes, but they also found a way to heighten their work through their personalities. They built entire mythologies around alter egos and world conquering star power. D’Angelo had everything he needed to do the same. Coming up as an R&B star (a genre often glamourized for sex appeal) with a voice and a body like his, it seemed inevitable that people would flock to him more for who he was than for what he created. So, after his sophomore effort Voodoo, he went on a fourteen-year hiatus. Then, in a year where returning from hiatus was apparently grounds for flying self-branded blimps over major metropolitan areas, D’Angelo dropped Black Messiah completely out of the blue. It was a smart move. If journalists were given any advance, you can bet your ass they’d be writing thinkpieces. Now, there’s nothing inherently wrong with a well-articulated thinkpiece, but without new music to discuss, the spotlight would be on D’Angelo one hundred percent. That’s not what he wanted. The music comes first, and he delivered it first. Not only that, but Black Messiah came out on December 15th, and as is tradition, music journalists had jumped the shark; listmas was already over. There was no need to compare it to everything else. Black Messiah was left to stand entirely alone. All that mattered was the music.
So let’s discuss the music. From the rollicking revolt of 1000 Deaths to the suave flamenco of Really Love, D’Angelo covers a lot of ground here without ever straying too far from his roots. Every note on Black Messiah is beautiful and lush. The liner notes read… “No digital ‘plug-ins’ of any kind were used in this recording. All of the recording, processing, effects, and mixing was done in the analog domain using tape and mostly vintage equipment.” As elitist as that statement sounds, it’s not misguided. The analog treatment provides a warmth and intimacy to the recording that digital struggles to replicate. Stylistically, Black Messiah is lost in time. It would be equally at place in the archives of 1960s Motown as it is in the modern era – another trait bolstered by analog. Even lyrically, D’Angelo keeps things topical while expertly skirting around any specificity that could tether him to 2014. It’s a protest album on par with Gaye’s What’s Goin’ On that speaks to then as well as it does to now. It’s frightening that this is where we’re at. In a better timeline we wouldn’t be dealing with the same struggles for the better part of a century. But here we are, and we couldn’t ask for a better musician on the frontlines. [First added to this chart: 02/04/2015]
D’Angelo doesn’t want anything overshadowing his music, not even himself. For some artists that’s exactly what they want. People like Bowie or Prince built careers on their star power. Don’t get me wrong here, those guys had tunes, but they also found a way to heighten their work through their personalities. They built entire mythologies around alter egos and world conquering star power. D’Angelo had everything he needed to do the same. Coming up as an R&B star (a genre often glamourized for sex appeal) with a voice and a body like his, it seemed inevitable that people would flock to him more for who he was than for what he created. So, after his sophomore effort Voodoo, he went on a fourteen-year hiatus. Then, in a year where returning from hiatus was apparently grounds for flying self-branded blimps over major metropolitan areas, D’Angelo dropped Black Messiah completely out of the blue. It was a smart move. If journalists were given any advance, you can bet your ass they’d be writing thinkpieces. Now, there’s nothing inherently wrong with a well-articulated thinkpiece, but without new music to discuss, the spotlight would be on D’Angelo one hundred percent. That’s not what he wanted. The music comes first, and he delivered it first. Not only that, but Black Messiah came out on December 15th, and as is tradition, music journalists had jumped the shark; listmas was already over. There was no need to compare it to everything else. Black Messiah was left to stand entirely alone. All that mattered was the music.
So let’s discuss the music. From the rollicking revolt of 1000 Deaths to the suave flamenco of Really Love, D’Angelo covers a lot of ground here without ever straying too far from his roots. Every note on Black Messiah is beautiful and lush. The liner notes read… “No digital ‘plug-ins’ of any kind were used in this recording. All of the recording, processing, effects, and mixing was done in the analog domain using tape and mostly vintage equipment.” As elitist as that statement sounds, it’s not misguided. The analog treatment provides a warmth and intimacy to the recording that digital struggles to replicate. Stylistically, Black Messiah is lost in time. It would be equally at place in the archives of 1960s Motown as it is in the modern era – another trait bolstered by analog. Even lyrically, D’Angelo keeps things topical while expertly skirting around any specificity that could tether him to 2014. It’s a protest album on par with Gaye’s What’s Goin’ On that speaks to then as well as it does to now. It’s frightening that this is where we’re at. In a better timeline we wouldn’t be dealing with the same struggles for the better part of a century. But here we are, and we couldn’t ask for a better musician on the frontlines. [First added to this chart: 02/04/2015]
Year of Release:
2014
Appears in:
Rank Score:
3,516
Rank in 2014:
Rank in 2010s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
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Top Tracks: Endors Toi, Music To Walk Home By, Nothing That Has Happened So Far Has Been Anything We Could Control
It only takes a quick look at the liner notes for Lonerism to make perfect sense. “All songs written, produced, & recorded by Kevin Parker”…“All vocals & instruments performed by Kevin Parker”…“Recorded at home between 2010 & 2012”…“Cover photo by KP.” None of this should come as a surprise from the man whose debut album standout bore the title Solitude is Bliss. Kevin took what worked best from Innerspeaker, and he expanded upon it, delving deep into the reality of a loner. Crucial to this sentiment is that, while others might run with a title like loneliness, this album is Lonerism. There is loneliness here to be sure, but it’s more multifaceted than that, because surely the author of Solitude is Bliss knows there’s more to being alone than pure self-pity.
Lonerism finds Parker coming to grips with the effects of his self-isolating tendencies. He touches on his romantic struggles in the penultimate Nothing That Has Happened So Far Has Been Anything We Could Control by referring to his fighting and eventual split from then girlfriend Melody Prochet. On Why Won’t They Talk To Me Kevin vacillates between longing for social engagement and deciding he’s better alone as he falls prey to his own self-aggrandizing ego. These are the lyrics of a man realizing that he possibly oversimplified things a couple years back. This isn’t merely a lyrical realization either, because Lonerism also expands on the sound of debut album Innerspeaker. Innerspeaker thrived on Kevin’s ear for tight traditional verse chorus verse song structures. Lonerism hones in on those talents when necessary as on the commercially ubiquitous Elephant, but it also finds Kevin expanding Tame Impala’s sound outward. Instead of riveting the listener with concision, Lonerism opts to envelop the listener with grandeur. It’s an album replete with bombastic breaks and indulgent outros. Kevin loosens the structure, but he never loses sight of the meticulous planning that made his debut great. [First added to this chart: 01/20/2015]
It only takes a quick look at the liner notes for Lonerism to make perfect sense. “All songs written, produced, & recorded by Kevin Parker”…“All vocals & instruments performed by Kevin Parker”…“Recorded at home between 2010 & 2012”…“Cover photo by KP.” None of this should come as a surprise from the man whose debut album standout bore the title Solitude is Bliss. Kevin took what worked best from Innerspeaker, and he expanded upon it, delving deep into the reality of a loner. Crucial to this sentiment is that, while others might run with a title like loneliness, this album is Lonerism. There is loneliness here to be sure, but it’s more multifaceted than that, because surely the author of Solitude is Bliss knows there’s more to being alone than pure self-pity.
Lonerism finds Parker coming to grips with the effects of his self-isolating tendencies. He touches on his romantic struggles in the penultimate Nothing That Has Happened So Far Has Been Anything We Could Control by referring to his fighting and eventual split from then girlfriend Melody Prochet. On Why Won’t They Talk To Me Kevin vacillates between longing for social engagement and deciding he’s better alone as he falls prey to his own self-aggrandizing ego. These are the lyrics of a man realizing that he possibly oversimplified things a couple years back. This isn’t merely a lyrical realization either, because Lonerism also expands on the sound of debut album Innerspeaker. Innerspeaker thrived on Kevin’s ear for tight traditional verse chorus verse song structures. Lonerism hones in on those talents when necessary as on the commercially ubiquitous Elephant, but it also finds Kevin expanding Tame Impala’s sound outward. Instead of riveting the listener with concision, Lonerism opts to envelop the listener with grandeur. It’s an album replete with bombastic breaks and indulgent outros. Kevin loosens the structure, but he never loses sight of the meticulous planning that made his debut great. [First added to this chart: 01/20/2015]
Year of Release:
2012
Appears in:
Rank Score:
16,831
Rank in 2012:
Rank in 2010s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
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Top Tracks: Biscuit Town, Dum Surfer, The Ooz
It’s become something of a theme in my musings on music that if an album defies my preconceived notions of genre, I’m likely to love it. It has been long thought that no one ever does anything new. We build on what exists. We twist things in new ways. But something entirely new: It doesn’t happen. It seems the best artists of the decade took that as a challenge. You may say the same of past decades, and it’s true, the story of roughly the last century of popular music has been one of forward momentum. We tear down the past as we push into the future, but this decade was different. In July of 2011 Spotify launched in the United States.
To be clear, Spotify is a blight on the music industry in a lot of ways. Endless skippability has led to reduced attention spans, musicians are drastically underpaid, and in an attempt to game billboard’s streaming calculations, several of the decade’s biggest stars joined in an arms race to see who could make the most bloated unsightly Frankenstein of an album all in the name of popularity. Yet, Spotify and its competitors also created a new economy where everything rests on an equal playing field of accessibility. In previous decades, artists lived and died by how hard their label pushed their music because to be known, your music had to be in as many places as possible. Now everyone’s music is in everyone else’s pocket. I can play the new Taylor Swift song just as easily as I can play a half century old Miles Davis album. With this one innovation, everyone has the immediate capacity for musical omnivourity. Looking back, this is the decade where genre designations collapsed. Enter Archie Marshall.
Generally speaking, The Ooz might be described as a rock album. But more specifically it exists in all the spaces between. Recycling the past and looking to the future, it’s an album with neither time nor genre. Standout single Dum Surfer finds Marshall dueting with himself. Simultaneously showcasing the voice of a nineties britpop frontman, and the growling snarl of the town drunk on karaoke night. Subsequent tracks showcase similar versatility, from the listless balladry of Slush Puppy, to the bossa nova beat of Logos. Whatever musical coin you flip, you’ll find The Ooz on both sides of it. Look to tracks Bermondsey Bosom (right) and Bermondsey Bosom (Left), each one resting in the center of their respective sides of the album. They exist as two sides of one coin – identical songs, altered only by the gender of the vocalist, and the language in which they speak. The lyrics to the song mirror the idea that even minor shifts can create a world of difference with the repeated “parasite, paradise, parasito, paraiso.” It’s equal parts progressive and regressive. It’s a decidedly odd album for a decidedly odd decade. [First added to this chart: 09/24/2018]
It’s become something of a theme in my musings on music that if an album defies my preconceived notions of genre, I’m likely to love it. It has been long thought that no one ever does anything new. We build on what exists. We twist things in new ways. But something entirely new: It doesn’t happen. It seems the best artists of the decade took that as a challenge. You may say the same of past decades, and it’s true, the story of roughly the last century of popular music has been one of forward momentum. We tear down the past as we push into the future, but this decade was different. In July of 2011 Spotify launched in the United States.
To be clear, Spotify is a blight on the music industry in a lot of ways. Endless skippability has led to reduced attention spans, musicians are drastically underpaid, and in an attempt to game billboard’s streaming calculations, several of the decade’s biggest stars joined in an arms race to see who could make the most bloated unsightly Frankenstein of an album all in the name of popularity. Yet, Spotify and its competitors also created a new economy where everything rests on an equal playing field of accessibility. In previous decades, artists lived and died by how hard their label pushed their music because to be known, your music had to be in as many places as possible. Now everyone’s music is in everyone else’s pocket. I can play the new Taylor Swift song just as easily as I can play a half century old Miles Davis album. With this one innovation, everyone has the immediate capacity for musical omnivourity. Looking back, this is the decade where genre designations collapsed. Enter Archie Marshall.
Generally speaking, The Ooz might be described as a rock album. But more specifically it exists in all the spaces between. Recycling the past and looking to the future, it’s an album with neither time nor genre. Standout single Dum Surfer finds Marshall dueting with himself. Simultaneously showcasing the voice of a nineties britpop frontman, and the growling snarl of the town drunk on karaoke night. Subsequent tracks showcase similar versatility, from the listless balladry of Slush Puppy, to the bossa nova beat of Logos. Whatever musical coin you flip, you’ll find The Ooz on both sides of it. Look to tracks Bermondsey Bosom (right) and Bermondsey Bosom (Left), each one resting in the center of their respective sides of the album. They exist as two sides of one coin – identical songs, altered only by the gender of the vocalist, and the language in which they speak. The lyrics to the song mirror the idea that even minor shifts can create a world of difference with the repeated “parasite, paradise, parasito, paraiso.” It’s equal parts progressive and regressive. It’s a decidedly odd album for a decidedly odd decade. [First added to this chart: 09/24/2018]
Year of Release:
2017
Appears in:
Rank Score:
1,229
Rank in 2017:
Rank in 2010s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
Buy album
- #Sponsored
Top Tracks: Sailing, Coronado, He Would Have Laughed.
There’s a lot to discuss regarding Deerhunter’s constant yet subtle evolution. At this point in their career they’ve navigated vast sonic terrain without ever losing sight of what sets them apart. Now, they haven’t altered their sound simply to maintain appearances. Experimentation for its own sake is a worthwhile endeavor, but Deerhunter’s artistic development serves a greater purpose: to seamlessly marry musical content with lyrical concept. Halcyon Digest is a journalistic examination of the halcyon days (the blissful and serene days of one’s youth). Deerhunter takes this opportunity to deliver a hazy, ephemeral album. Opener Earthquake is one prolonged swell crashing down like a wave. Sailing is listless and loose, washing over the listener with nostalgic warmth.
The subject of Halcyon Digest is a double-edged sword. The past is never recalled correctly. So, while accepting the desire to reminisce on days long gone, we are confronted with our tendency to retrospectively idealize events that were uglier than we care to admit. That too finds integration into the music of Halcyon Digest. Turn your attention to Desire Lines. On the 2008 single Nothing Ever Happened Deerhunter fought against their pop sensibilities with an outro that slowly decayed into aggressive distortion. Here they embrace their saccharine songwriting, riding through a similarly structured track with a soothing outro that gently dissipates until there’s nothing left. They’re taking the lyrical tendency for idealization and applying it to the music, going as far as to include a wonderfully exuberant saxophone accompaniment on the penultimate Coronado for one of their biggest hooks to date. Unfortunately, the halcyon days never last, which brings us to closing track He Would Have Laughed, dedicated to punk rock savant Jay Reatard. At the age of twenty-nine, Jay passed away in his sleep. Like many endings in life, his came completely out of the blue. In symmetrical fashion, He Would Have Laughed concludes without notice – mid-note. It leaves the listener feeling hollow and it begs you to revisit just once more. [First added to this chart: 01/20/2015]
There’s a lot to discuss regarding Deerhunter’s constant yet subtle evolution. At this point in their career they’ve navigated vast sonic terrain without ever losing sight of what sets them apart. Now, they haven’t altered their sound simply to maintain appearances. Experimentation for its own sake is a worthwhile endeavor, but Deerhunter’s artistic development serves a greater purpose: to seamlessly marry musical content with lyrical concept. Halcyon Digest is a journalistic examination of the halcyon days (the blissful and serene days of one’s youth). Deerhunter takes this opportunity to deliver a hazy, ephemeral album. Opener Earthquake is one prolonged swell crashing down like a wave. Sailing is listless and loose, washing over the listener with nostalgic warmth.
The subject of Halcyon Digest is a double-edged sword. The past is never recalled correctly. So, while accepting the desire to reminisce on days long gone, we are confronted with our tendency to retrospectively idealize events that were uglier than we care to admit. That too finds integration into the music of Halcyon Digest. Turn your attention to Desire Lines. On the 2008 single Nothing Ever Happened Deerhunter fought against their pop sensibilities with an outro that slowly decayed into aggressive distortion. Here they embrace their saccharine songwriting, riding through a similarly structured track with a soothing outro that gently dissipates until there’s nothing left. They’re taking the lyrical tendency for idealization and applying it to the music, going as far as to include a wonderfully exuberant saxophone accompaniment on the penultimate Coronado for one of their biggest hooks to date. Unfortunately, the halcyon days never last, which brings us to closing track He Would Have Laughed, dedicated to punk rock savant Jay Reatard. At the age of twenty-nine, Jay passed away in his sleep. Like many endings in life, his came completely out of the blue. In symmetrical fashion, He Would Have Laughed concludes without notice – mid-note. It leaves the listener feeling hollow and it begs you to revisit just once more. [First added to this chart: 01/20/2015]
Year of Release:
2010
Appears in:
Rank Score:
6,660
Rank in 2010:
Rank in 2010s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
Buy album
- #Sponsored
Top Tracks: Today More Than Any Other Day, Habit, Around Again
Ought exemplifies everything punk rock does best. The rhythm section drives the songs along with a propulsive vigor. Guitars crunch and shimmer with clever interplay and searing riffs. The music is energetic and bright, but they know exactly how and when to undercut it with violinist Tim Keen’s dissonant drone. They build from a crawl to an anthem on Today More Than Any Other Day. They lose the song to noise entirely only to snap back into place in an instant on Pleasant Heart. On Around Again they abruptly hit the brakes for a trademark vocal aside then dive back in to an entirely different groove. It’s this energy that keeps the audience perpetually on their toes, and perhaps nothing carries this impact as well as vocalist Tim Darcy’s lyrics. Equal parts humorous, profound, and mundane, Darcy is always bringing something fresh to the table. Pseudo-title track Today More Than Any Other Day, culminates in a conclusion that we’re all the same. As defeatist as that sounds, it’s quite the opposite in the hands of Ought. The statement is a celebration of equality. We all deal with the same shit. We run errands, we struggle with choosing which milk to buy, and we get excited by the small victories. It’s typical of Darcy to present even these little things in a way that’s empowering. No matter how strange and abysmal things can be, he places us in control. We steer our own lives. It’s the way punk should be. We’re not rebelling against the system because they’ve ruined everything. We’re rebelling because we won’t let them. [First added to this chart: 09/11/2015]
Ought exemplifies everything punk rock does best. The rhythm section drives the songs along with a propulsive vigor. Guitars crunch and shimmer with clever interplay and searing riffs. The music is energetic and bright, but they know exactly how and when to undercut it with violinist Tim Keen’s dissonant drone. They build from a crawl to an anthem on Today More Than Any Other Day. They lose the song to noise entirely only to snap back into place in an instant on Pleasant Heart. On Around Again they abruptly hit the brakes for a trademark vocal aside then dive back in to an entirely different groove. It’s this energy that keeps the audience perpetually on their toes, and perhaps nothing carries this impact as well as vocalist Tim Darcy’s lyrics. Equal parts humorous, profound, and mundane, Darcy is always bringing something fresh to the table. Pseudo-title track Today More Than Any Other Day, culminates in a conclusion that we’re all the same. As defeatist as that sounds, it’s quite the opposite in the hands of Ought. The statement is a celebration of equality. We all deal with the same shit. We run errands, we struggle with choosing which milk to buy, and we get excited by the small victories. It’s typical of Darcy to present even these little things in a way that’s empowering. No matter how strange and abysmal things can be, he places us in control. We steer our own lives. It’s the way punk should be. We’re not rebelling against the system because they’ve ruined everything. We’re rebelling because we won’t let them. [First added to this chart: 09/11/2015]
Year of Release:
2014
Appears in:
Rank Score:
896
Rank in 2014:
Rank in 2010s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
Buy album
- #Sponsored
Top Tracks: Montezuma, Helplessness Blues, The Shrine / An Argument
After Fleet Foxes’ debut in 2008, audiences (as they are wont to do) were quick to draw comparisons to predecessors. Being a debut that drew heavily on previous decades, yet displayed an excess of talent, the comparisons were both numerous and flattering. Sophomore effort Helplessness Blues makes good on any expectations that came from the debut while also expanding the richness of their sound. These songs are fuller, and more extravagantly orchestrated, yet they maintain a balance that gives the more intimate moments ample space to breathe. As much as I admire the progression, the most striking aspect of Helplessness Blues is not musical. This album (as wonderful as it sounds) would be similarly accomplished if it had no instruments at all. Frontman Robin Pecknold’s work here leads to a new comparison. No longer a sonic comparison, but a lyrical one, he evokes the work of Bob Dylan. Much like Dylan, Pecknold alludes to universal experience through intimate personal detail, and in many regards takes on the voice of his generation. Conveying the sensibilities of one’s own generation through music is hardly unique – In this collection of musings I praise Car Seat Headrest’s Will Toledo for the same thing, but not since Dylan has someone filled the role with such poetic grace as Pecknold. The album opens straight away to the following lines…
So now I am older than my mother and father when they had their daughter. Now what does that say about me? Oh, how could I dream of such a selfless and true love. Could I wash my hands of just looking out for me?
There is clarity to those lines. Like most of his generation, he’s reached a tipping point. He lives with the impression that past generations got their shit together younger than he possibly can. Where some of his contemporaries may have blamed their elders, or the ever enigmatic “system”, Robin looks inward. He struggles with self-doubt. He blames himself while also longing for an ideal that is constantly out of reach for many individuals. It may be a less satisfying route, but it’s more grounded, and it’s honest. Helplessness Blues, as the title implies has many similar lamentations, but it is not without hope. On the title track he sings…
I was raised up believing I was somehow unique – like a snowflake, distinct among snowflakes, unique in each way you’d conceive. And now after some thinking I’d say I’d rather be a functioning cog in some great machinery serving something beyond me.
Again, Pecknold delves into society’s often unrealistic ideals, revealing to the audience his own realistic approach. Interspersed in moments like this, I also find that Robin excels at littering his speech with concise imagist details that bring life and color to the world of the album. A line from The Shrine reads “In the morning waking up to terrible sunlight, all diffuse, like skin abused, the sun is half its size.” It’s a palpable form of description. Each and every one of these twelve tracks is rich with similarly evocative and textural verse. It is sure to be interpreted differently by each listener, but with that, Helplessness Blues finds its staying power. To the extent that it doesn’t land with the same impact to each listener, it won’t land the same with an individual over time. Poetic interpretation will vary with experience. In twenty years I’ll still be listening, but I won’t be hearing the same words. [First added to this chart: 01/20/2015]
After Fleet Foxes’ debut in 2008, audiences (as they are wont to do) were quick to draw comparisons to predecessors. Being a debut that drew heavily on previous decades, yet displayed an excess of talent, the comparisons were both numerous and flattering. Sophomore effort Helplessness Blues makes good on any expectations that came from the debut while also expanding the richness of their sound. These songs are fuller, and more extravagantly orchestrated, yet they maintain a balance that gives the more intimate moments ample space to breathe. As much as I admire the progression, the most striking aspect of Helplessness Blues is not musical. This album (as wonderful as it sounds) would be similarly accomplished if it had no instruments at all. Frontman Robin Pecknold’s work here leads to a new comparison. No longer a sonic comparison, but a lyrical one, he evokes the work of Bob Dylan. Much like Dylan, Pecknold alludes to universal experience through intimate personal detail, and in many regards takes on the voice of his generation. Conveying the sensibilities of one’s own generation through music is hardly unique – In this collection of musings I praise Car Seat Headrest’s Will Toledo for the same thing, but not since Dylan has someone filled the role with such poetic grace as Pecknold. The album opens straight away to the following lines…
So now I am older than my mother and father when they had their daughter. Now what does that say about me? Oh, how could I dream of such a selfless and true love. Could I wash my hands of just looking out for me?
There is clarity to those lines. Like most of his generation, he’s reached a tipping point. He lives with the impression that past generations got their shit together younger than he possibly can. Where some of his contemporaries may have blamed their elders, or the ever enigmatic “system”, Robin looks inward. He struggles with self-doubt. He blames himself while also longing for an ideal that is constantly out of reach for many individuals. It may be a less satisfying route, but it’s more grounded, and it’s honest. Helplessness Blues, as the title implies has many similar lamentations, but it is not without hope. On the title track he sings…
I was raised up believing I was somehow unique – like a snowflake, distinct among snowflakes, unique in each way you’d conceive. And now after some thinking I’d say I’d rather be a functioning cog in some great machinery serving something beyond me.
Again, Pecknold delves into society’s often unrealistic ideals, revealing to the audience his own realistic approach. Interspersed in moments like this, I also find that Robin excels at littering his speech with concise imagist details that bring life and color to the world of the album. A line from The Shrine reads “In the morning waking up to terrible sunlight, all diffuse, like skin abused, the sun is half its size.” It’s a palpable form of description. Each and every one of these twelve tracks is rich with similarly evocative and textural verse. It is sure to be interpreted differently by each listener, but with that, Helplessness Blues finds its staying power. To the extent that it doesn’t land with the same impact to each listener, it won’t land the same with an individual over time. Poetic interpretation will vary with experience. In twenty years I’ll still be listening, but I won’t be hearing the same words. [First added to this chart: 01/20/2015]
Year of Release:
2011
Appears in:
Rank Score:
9,463
Rank in 2011:
Rank in 2010s:
Overall Rank:
Average Rating:
Comments:
Total albums: 100. Page 1 of 10
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Top 100 Music Albums of the 2010s composition
| Year | Albums | % | |
|---|---|---|---|
|
|
 |
|
|
| 2010 | 11 | 11% | |
| 2011 | 6 | 6% | |
| 2012 | 7 | 7% | |
| 2013 | 5 | 5% | |
| 2014 | 9 | 9% | |
| 2015 | 15 | 15% | |
| 2016 | 13 | 13% | |
| 2017 | 12 | 12% | |
| 2018 | 7 | 7% | |
| 2019 | 15 | 15% |
| Artist | Albums | % | |
|---|---|---|---|
|
|
 |
|
|
| Kendrick Lamar | 4 | 4% | |
| Tame Impala | 3 | 3% | |
| Frank Ocean | 3 | 3% | |
| Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds | 2 | 2% | |
| Vince Staples | 2 | 2% | |
| Earl Sweatshirt | 2 | 2% | |
| Angel Olsen | 2 | 2% | |
| Show all | |||
Top 100 Music Albums of the 2010s chart changes
| Biggest climbers |
|---|
| Up 41 from 52nd to 11th Black Up by Shabazz Palaces |
| Up 34 from 82nd to 48th Reflections by Hannah Diamond |
| Up 26 from 99th to 73rd Moth by Chairlift |
| Biggest fallers |
|---|
| Down 35 from 26th to 61st Pom Pom by Ariel Pink |
| Down 28 from 21st to 49th The Age Of Adz by Sufjan Stevens |
| Down 24 from 48th to 72nd Benji by Sun Kil Moon |
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FlorianJones (2020)Top 100 Music Albums of the 2010s ratings
87/100 (from 6 votes)
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Showing latest 5 ratings for this chart. | Show all 6 ratings for this chart.
| Rating | Date updated | Member | Chart ratings | Avg. chart rating |
|---|---|---|---|---|
 95/100  | 02/17/2018 15:30 |  Davy | | 87/100 |
| 85/100 | 06/28/2017 17:14 | weston | | 87/100 |
| 100/100 | 02/20/2017 19:20 | Seab | | 93/100 |
| 70/100 | 06/01/2015 22:53 |  Applerill | | 75/100 |
| 95/100 | 04/15/2015 13:21 |  andy_hunter | | 88/100 |
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85/100
From weston 06/28/2017 17:15
Nice! I agree 2015 was the strongest year so are. And I like the stuff you've thrown at the end.
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SaulCortes1992 04/02/2015 20:04
SaulCortes1992 04/02/2015 20:04
Excellent Chart!
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