Cocaine empowers the dealer, but it insulates him, too. That’s why Scarface translated so easily to Xbox: A video game is the perfect venue for a narrative about a paranoid, hermetically sealed existence. Clipse knows the kingpin’s predicament, and the Virginia duo’s latest dissects it without passing judgment. And then there are the beats: Stark, cold, and among the Neptunes’ finest, they artfully pimp the claustrophobia.

—Joe Warminsky

Squat-dwelling postpunks aren’t supposed to become glossy R&B stars. Glossy R&B stars aren’t supposed to develop stage fright and become eccentric recluses. Eccentric recluses aren’t supposed to make genius pop albums—oh, wait, yes, they are. That’s exactly what Green Gartside did with White Bread Black Beer, and the slippery, sparkling result is the best work of his bizarre career.

—Chris Richards

Thirty-something lead singer Craig Finn focuses on teenage folly to suggest that we never grow up—we just get old. Behind tales of hooking up at the Party Pit and doing mushrooms in the chill-out tent, the band detours down E Street in a way that’s retro but not outdated. The result is ample affirmation that a good story told over a crunchy riff never goes out of style.

—Mark Richardson

The most popular mainstream rap album of the year will probably be conspicuously absent from most reviewers’ best-of lists. Could it be that trained ears don’t appreciate ferocious synth lines, Crystal Waters samples, or the springiest flow ever? Or is it that, when Tip says he’s “got that get it,” they don’t get what he’s getting at? No matter—critics mean nothing to the Southern rap monarchy anyway.

—Sarah Godfrey

The “no-guitars” record has become the concept album of our age. With Kid A, Radiohead used one to reinvent itself. With Drum’s Not Dead, New York’s Liars take on the whole genre of postpostpunk. So what does ditching the wiry skree get them? Tribal rhythms and lysergic textures that are refreshingly closer to Silver Apples than to Gang of Four.

—Aaron Leitko

The frenetic falsetto has been a disco-singer standby since the Bee Gees. But at least one dance-pop duo is challenging the genre’s annoyingly effervescent vocal style. On their third album, Bath’s clubbiest kids bring frothy synth lines and light-as-air lyrics down to earth with Alison Goldfrapp’s alto purr. Once you hear her breathe, “Switch me on/Turn me up,” you’ll never look at Kylie again.

—Sadie Dingfelder

What a strange song of the summer this turned out to be—an apt soundtrack for carnage in Iraq, birds threatening apocalypse, and David Spade hooking up with Heather Locklear. With its wistful lyrics and sampled strings menaced by underlying white noise, this was as likely to wreck a wedding reception as make you cry on the subway. Does that make us crazy for loving it? Possibly.

—Andrew Beaujon

“Minimalistic” is the wrong word to describe Brightblack Morning Light, because minimalism makes you ask questions such as “What’s missing?” and “Why is it missing?” The band’s hushed, breathy, and surprisingly soulful songs don’t appeal to such logic. Instead, they hover at the edge of the Memphis sound, conjuring gritty, fully formed little narratives. This is exactly what the Cat Power record should have sounded like.

—Joe Warminsky

Got a reggae jones—and a taco-sized joint—but can’t stand the sorry state of mainstream dub? You’re probably who Fat Freddys Drop had in mind when it put together the sound on its debut studio LP. The Wellington, New Zealand, septet drops the drummer, adds a DJ, and dials the tempos down past geologic, all while holding on to a Wailers-deep pocket. Consider yourself glazed.

—Ian Martinez

From trip-hoppers to indie poppers, most shoegaze revivalists focus on the blissful bits, forgetting that the genre’s best songs were equal parts sweet dream and head-fucking nightmare. What makes Justin Broadrick such a successful ’gaze resuscitator must be his metal pedigree: Leave it to a guy who was in Godflesh to remind us that My Bloody Valentine copped its name from a slasher flick.

—David Dunlap Jr.

There’s no getting around it: Comets on Fire pine for a past that’s not their own. But on Avatar, the best jam record since the Grateful Dead turned into Crosby, Stills & Nash, the California quintet makes up in charisma what it lacks in modernity. Here, more than on any other release, the Comets prove they can sell what’s already been sold.

—Brent Burton