Ab-Soul, These Days . . . (Top Dawg Entertainment) Backed by a squealing jazz saxophone, Herbert Anthony “Ab-Soul” Stevens throws out a quick line on “Kendrick Lamar’s Interlude” about his most famous labelmate and fellow Black Hippy crew member: “If I ain’t better than Kendrick, then no one is then.” This California MC is hardly the only rapper eager to knock Lamar off his throne, but on his guest-jammed album These Days . . . , Stevens sounds so eccentric—with all his strange wordplay and odd references—that I’m pretty sure he’s about more than hip-hop one-upmanship. He’s at his best when he follows his least predictable impulses—on “Feelin’ Us” he switches his flow midstream from his usual sturdy rhythms and powerfully articulated syllables to a sort of manic, bouncy half-singing that borrows heavily from the chorus of Chief Keef’s “Love Sosa.” Comparing Stevens to Lamar just makes it more likely that you’ll miss the idiosyncrasies that These Days . . . continues to reveal on play after play. —Leor Galil
Luluc, Passerby (Sub Pop) Zoe Randell’s enchanting alto has historically drifted into frosty waters, a la Nico, but on Luluc’s sophomore LP her singing sometimes radiates warmth—and the best tracks, “Small Window” and “Tangled Heart,” combine this newfound glow with the captivating, perfectly executed vocal harmonies of the band’s other member, Steve Hassett. On Passerby the Brooklyn-by-way-of-Melbourne duo sometimes manage lush instrumental arrangements that would make for first-rate tributes to their idols, evoking Nick Drake’s melancholic incandescence or the emotional crescendo of Simon & Garfunkel’s “The Only Living Boy in New York.” But elsewhere the album sounds thin, particularly when Randell goes it alone—given how heavily her lyrics lean on couplets, she needs more than just an acoustic guitar. Passerby arrives nearly six years after Luluc’s debut, Dear Hamlyn, and the duo rerecorded it completely (working with the National’s Aaron Dessner) when they weren’t happy with their initial work in Melbourne. The extra studio hours might’ve helped, but the album definitely would’ve benefited from more time spent fleshing out its stripped-down singer-songwriter turns. —Erin Osmon
Rise Against, The Black Market (Interscope) Chicago punk lifers Rise Against were already gravitating toward an arena-ready sound, but with their seventh album, The Black Market, they approximate the postgrunge radio fodder that passed for butt rock in the aughts. But while the huge “Tragedy + Time” could fit into an AOR rotation between Nickelback and Seether, the grit in Tim McIlrath’s powerful, soaring vocals lend it a punk bite. The album’s best tunes aren’t overtly political, but Rise Against can still deliver the supercharged agitprop ragers that helped make their name (here the best example is “The Eco-Terrorist in Me”), and these guys still unflinchingly embrace dissent and transgression; McIlrath compares drug addiction to an all-consuming love on “Methadone,” in the process inviting listeners to think about how society marginalizes addicts. —Leor Galil
Trap Them, Blissfucker (Prosthetic) Incoming biased opinion: Trap Them can do no wrong. Ever since their sophomore release, 2008’s Seizures in Barren Praise, they’ve been one of the most reliable bands in the subgenre of relentlessly heavy and wildly pissed off. It’s three long years since their third album, the titanic Darker Handcraft—thanks in part to more lineup changes around vocalist Ryan McKenney and guitarist Brian Izzi, the two remaining original members—but Trap Them’s incendiary blend of grind, hardcore, and punk is risen again. Engineered by Kurt Ballou, Blissfucker sounds like a tank ablaze; Izzi’s guitar tone is still as thick as a chorus of buzz saws, and the rock-solid, battering-ram drumming of Brad Fickeisen (the Red Chord) replaces the flailing style of Chris Maggio. The spasms of blastbeaten all-out grind when McKenney’s vocals hit their most maniacal (“Former Linings Wide the Walls”) are hold-your-breath intense, but what propels the album are the “slow jams” where you can feel the subterranean depth of the guitar in your gut (“Gift and Gift Unsteady”). —Kevin Warwick
