If Low's 2018's devastating Double Negative was about static, a distorted last broadcast of a dying civilization, Hey What seems to be more about silence. Opening tracks "White Horses" and "I Can Wait" take the "How Soon Is Now" guitar effect and render it even more staccato, more absence than sound, and song after song delivers epic moments of grandeur only to cut them off abruptly, reverberating into space. I hate to say it, as it sounds like clickbait, but there's a whiff of hyperpop here in these awkward silences. Whatever it is, there's no one else making sounds like this, corroded and epic, to say nothing of the still soaring, still fragile voices of Alan and Mimi. 27 years and 13 albums in, Low are the band of our time.

A monument to focus and clarity of purpose, Isles reminds me of nothing so much as Orbital's now-legendary 1996 album In Sides, whose skittering, broken beats served as frameworks for extended examinations of melody. On Isles, Bicep keep track times under 6 minutes, but achieve epic moments of grandeur, with a straightforward toolkit of buzzing, trilling synths and obscured, distorted vocals.

Burial certainly threw down the gauntlet for crackling, heartbroken, rain-soaked electronica with 2007's Untrue, but Space Afrika expand the sonic palette into cinematic strings ("LV"), spoken word ("Preparing the Perfect Response~"), and spacey ambient meets bass-guitar-led post-goth I-don't-even-know-what ("Girl Scout Cookies"). The kitchen-sink eclecticism evokes classic found-sound work like the KLF's The White Room, but Honest Labour's vibe is less awestruck stoned road-trippers and more humane, a collection of deeply personal and even painful moments, the record of which feels somehow healing.

Of the 2021 albums which meld what appear to be deeply personal real-life recordings with glitchy, skittering interpretations of a variety of electronic tempos and traditions as if reflecting on soundtracks of their lives (whew!), I'll give the edge to L'Rain over Joy Orbison (see below) by a hair. I admit it's not entirely a fair comparison: Fatigue comes in at a brisk 29 minutes (nearly 20 minutes shorter than Still Sipping Vol. 1) but its emotional intensity is profound, and its textures both accessible and defiantly experimental. This is work that's both honest and refracted, distilled into symbol: on "Find It," over a wandering bass and chugging, reversed percussion, L'Rain repeats like a mantra: "My mother told me / Make a way out of no way."

There's a lot about Mr. Vynehall around these fun lists here on the Party Ben Information Systems family of websites: from my surprise at the out-of-nowhere hypnotic house masterpiece "House of Dupree" in 2014, to my thrill over the high-concept ballroom-house-tribute Rojus in 2016, to my awe at Nothing is Still in 2018, on which Vynehall abandoned house tempos entirely for a retelling of the story of his grandparents' emigration. What would the rapidly evolving Vynehall have up his sleeve this time? Well, it turns out, I'm still not sure. It's not high-concept or aligned on a theme or anything, it's just Vynehall being Vynehall, joining up his experimental and groove-oriented instincts. Liquid deep house basslines throb under washes of classical strings, chugging acid loops swirl around distorted voicemail messages. It's all gorgeous and constantly surprising, and it all hones in on a mood that's been Vynehall's since "Dupree," a kind of soaring, tear-stained ecstasy.

The Nigerien musician already seems almost timeless, like he's been around forever, but of course he's only 35, and in what seems like a boyish turn, studied videos of Eddy Van Halen and Black Flag in preparation for this album. I'm not sure I hear that, except perhaps in the effortless speed of the solos, but the hypnotic triple-time rhythms and Algerian scale (I think?) render this firmly African. As a fan of the wistful melodies of Malians Amadou & Mariam and the jangly blues of fellow Tuareg Bombino, I'm already on board with these haunting scales, but something about Victime is both more strident and more psychedelic, like on the title track, which melds veering, flanging tempos with a group-sung lament: "Africa is a victim of so many crimes/If we stay silent it will be the end of us."

It's hard to overestimate the impact "Hyph Mngo" had back in 2009: out of nowhere, a then-mysterious producer creates a blast of towering chords and blips of Janet Jackson, ecstatic and yet confounding with its syncopated, lurching kick. 12 years later, the still-youthful artist has released his debut full-length, and rather than an earth-shaking musical bombshell, it's a deeply personal revelation, humble in the best sense of the word. The album fizzes and sputters across its genre traditions, from glacial hip hop to Kaytra-esque disco to jittery drum 'n' bass. Track titles feel like diary shorthand ("swag w/ kav," "runnerzs," etc.) and family members' voices play a central role, but it couldn't be further from cloying sentimentality: this is a life laid bare, warts and all.

It wasn't that long ago that the Odd Future crew felt like the unkempt rebels lobbing grenades at the establishment, and as with a lot of outsider artists, it was sometimes hard to tell if they were being groundbreaking through sheer genius or just because they had no idea how to do it "right" (if such a distinction is even valid). And now, here's Tyler, at the Grammy-winning center of contemporary hip hop. Still breaking ground, and still doing things wrong and making them right. Lost (an album title that feels stolen from Low, doesn't it?) is kaleidoscopic, impossible to pin down, sprawling and self-contradictory, romantic and strident, experimental and traditionalist. Bass-heavy, snappy-snared hip hop is here ("JUGGERNAUT"), but so is Dilla-esque jazzy loops for a Dilla-esque quick two minutes ("WUSYANAME") and, er, yacht rock, noodling around like Thundercat ("SWEET/I THOUGHT YOU WANTED TO DANCE"). Just when it's all about to veer off track, "MANIFESTO" lays bare an honest examination of the Black Lives Matter movement, and how we, imperfect souls, can fit within it.

Brooklyn-based, Caribbean-hailing Rubinos has created an undefinable but profoundly affecting swirl of electronics and Latin sounds, exemplified by the opening track's mashup of a traditional Puerto Rican flute melody with insistent bass tones and glittering synth pads. There are nods to a variety of traditions, rhythms that approach reggaeton or cumbia, but overall Una Rosa reminds me of nothing so much as tUnE-yArDs, the wildly inventive yet always accessible warped-pop of Oakland's Merrill Garbas. Like Garbas, Rubinos places her voice out front, often layered in multi-part harmony, and with a kind of hard-won politics of protest that feels essential and elemental.

J Dilla looms large, nearly 16 years after the release of the towering Donuts and his untimely death, and artists from Flying Lotus to Robert Glasper to (ugh) [insert random lo-fi hip hop name here] have explored aspects of his inimitable style. But no album has so effortlessly embodied Donuts' brash ignorance of traditional song structure or even steady beats than Madlib's 2021 deep dive into musical history, from classic soul to reggae to rock (with some assistance from Four Tet). Opener "The Call" exemplifies this audaciousness: we're dropped right into a chorus from The Twilights' 1969 "Bargain Day," but immediately veer into a loop of the bass and guitar groove, which indulges itself long enough you just want to cheer at its sheer chutzpah. While Donuts seemed both steeped in nostalgia and outside of time, Ancestors' explicitness about its "tribute" nature sets it apart, a remixed, rearranged, deeply personal history lesson.