RnB

Frank Ocean is a great artist, but not a particularly gifted vocalist, at least not in the traditional sense. His range is rather limited, his phrasing is straightforward and voice is somewhat generic. His power lies in the risks he takes, as a musician, songwriter, and as a personality. There are few albums of the past decade as adventurous as Channel Orange, and there have been few celebrities who’ve navigated the media machine as seamlessly and eloquently as Ocean. Stripped of the context of his own music, his guest turns work best when he’s allowed to be himself; either in the prickly politics of “Church in the Wild” or on the laconic, SoCal anthem “Sunday.”

Click here to add to Spotify playlist!When The Get Down premiered on Netflix last August, it won plaudits for its smart evocation of New York music in the 1970s. But with the second half of its first season debuting on April 7, it’s a good time to revisit its meticulously curated soundtrack—and what aspects of the era it overlooks.The Get Down is structured around the rise of hip-hop culture in the Bronx, with Ed Koch’s mayoral campaign and the citywide blackout on July 13, 1977 as key events. On the one hand, the music supervision values precise period authenticity—the lack of anything from Saturday Night Fever initially seems like a major omission, but the film was released at the end of 1977 and its soundtrack didn’t dominate the airwaves until 1978. But at other points, that logic goes out the window: The show features Machine’s “There But for the Grace of God Go I,” released in 1979.At any rate, The Get Down is a historical fantasy. At best, it completely dispenses with reality, whether it’s the kung fu sequences that mark the first episode, or the discotheque shootout that ensnares drug dealer and budding DJ Shaolin Fantastic, a fictional protégé of real-life hip-hop pioneer Grandmaster Flash who is recruiting MCs into the group The Get Down. Besides, why use sappy soft pop tracks like Chicago’s “Hard To Say I’m Sorry” and bland quiet-storm ballads like The Manhattans’ “Kiss and Say Goodbye” when you can cherry-pick the funkiest disco and soul of the early to mid-’70s?Perhaps the second half of The Get Down will broaden beyond the South Bronx park jams, community rec centers, and grungy neighborhood discos to include settings and music from different parts of New York in the late 70s. Maybe Marcus “Dizzee” Kipling, the graffiti artist who drops ecstasy and almost experiments with same-sex romance at a gloriously overcooked loft party, will stumble into a Manhattan bathhouse or check out a screening of The Rocky Horror Picture Show; it’s possible that Ezekial “Zeke” Figuero, the teenage poet whose halted attempts at rapping to his would-be disco-queen girlfriend set the story in motion, will journey down to CBGB and check out a Ramones set; or maybe Marcus’ knuckleheaded kid brother Boo-Boo channels his anger into a KISS Army fan club.We’ll find out what The Get Down kids get into next when the series returns. For now, enjoy our selection of ’70s pop chestnuts that didn’t make it into the first half of the inaugural season—and hopefully will make the cut for the second.

The rise of Hiatus Kaiyote, the Melbourne-based ensemble whose blend of jazz fusion and downtempo earned a 2016 Grammy nomination for Best R&B Performance, has drawn attention toward the Down Under’s unlikely hotbed of post-millennial soul. Some of the acts on our survey hail from Australia, while others come from nearby New Zealand. But all hew to the kind of cool, urbane, and hip-hop inflected beats that have thrived in underground music circles since the early ‘00s. Onetime Disclosure collaborator Jordan Rakei is earning acclaim for his Cloak debut, New Zealand duo Electric Wire Hustle is a familiar Okayplayer and Soulection favorite, and Ngaiire just released an album on Sony Music Australia.

In terms of persona, Miguels is poised somewhere between Frank Oceans headcase auteur and Lana Del Reys sun-damaged SoCAl rock-star shtick. Its a bit strained, and his deceleration on Wildheart that hes "speeding through all those red lights...dreaming of a beautiful exit" ("a beautiful exit") or his desire to "fuck like were filming in the valley" ("the valley") feel a little edgy-by-the-numbers, but he generally has a great ears for songs ("coffee") that complement his airy falsetto, and he seems to understand how to reconcile his R&B roots with his more the more experimental sonic motifs of future soul. This playlist, part of Apples ongoing "guests" series, looks his guest appearances. Its great to hear the early collaborations with aughts LA indie rapper Blu.

The hot weather has melted our otherwise highly analytical, somewhat elitist brains, leaving us lounging on rooftops with a cold beer and humming the latest Future jam. Please join us in this blissful state of non-sentience with this handpicked selection of summery jams from SZA, GoldLink, Kendrick, Chronixx (pictured), Kamaiyah, and more.

Mary J. Blige burst on the scene in the early ‘90s as the “Queen of Hip-Hop Soul.” She sung beautifully over gritty breakbeats and traded rhymes with Grand Puba on the title track to 1992’s What’s The 411? In the decades since, Blige has collaborated with dozens of rappers, including hits by Ludacris and Common. And 1995’s “I’ll Be There For You/You’re All I Need To Get By” with Method Man stands as one of the most beloved duets by a rapper and an R&B singer of all time. And she’s even created a rapping alter ego, Brook Lynn, to flow on remixes of tracks by Cassidy and Busta Rhymes.

I first met Janelle Monàe when she was 22 years-old and opening up for the Oakland neo-soul legend Raphael Saadiq at the San Francisco venue Bimbos, a mid-size club on the outskirts of that city’s North Beach neighborhood. A few months before, she’d released her debut EP, Metropolis: Suite I (The Chase). It was an exciting, groundbreaking collection. It combined the wild, post-rap funk of Outkast and afrofuturism of George Clinton with the tech dystopianism of William Gibson and a more formalalistic, Brechtian remove. For a kid weaned on semiotics and Gang Starr, this collision was enthralling, if a bit messy. Janelle’s voice was captivating, but the songs sometimes couldn’t keep up with her energy -- the backing vocals blurred together, and the choruses weren’t always memorable. In short, I liked the idea more than her music.Regardless, she was a dynamic personality, and I was excited for the interview. About a half hour before she took the stage, her manager took me backstage, where Janelle was cloistered inside of small changing room -- more of a closet than a suite. She was already outfitted in her signature white tuxedo shirt, with her hair was bunched up into its beehive coif. She was nervous, but friendly. She offered me a water, which was nice of her. I spent the first 10 minutes of the interview trying to place her in the lineage of afrofuturism, discussing Octavia Paz and Parliament. In retrospect, it was a dumb move -- I assumed that her reading of herself was the same as mine, and didn’t allow her to speak for herself -- and the strategy bit me in the ass when, with five minutes left in my appointed interview window, she, annoyed and maybe embarrassed, declared that she didn’t know much about afrofuturism, she’d barely even heard of it. I felt shitty and a little bit disappointed. I hated that I had put her in a foul mood, and, more selfishly, I had no idea if anything in the interview was usable.But her live show that night was rapturious, a prolonged ecstatic release of energy that found her bouncing, jerking, and bounding across the stage in barely controlled dance patterns. You couldn’t take your eyes off her. And though she doesn’t make dance music, you couldn’t help but move. It didn’t matter that here hooks weren’t quite there, or that she hadn’t yet been able to name her own style, the performance was special, even singular. Since then, she’s made some jaw-dropping tracks that’ve shown immense growth and refinement, but the music, though oftentimes very very good, has never quite escaped her heavy conceptual framework. Luckily, she’s entirely catches up with herself on Dirty Computer. The album largely, though not entirely, loses the funkified Android conceit of her earlier work. It’s both more personal and more self-assured. It glides where her other music tends to churn, and the hooks are immediately catchy, and stick in your head. It’s still occasionally directive of other people’s work -- “Make Me Feel” sounds remarkably like Dirty Mind-era Prince, for example -- but she entirely makes it her own here; the sums of her influence coalesce into something much more personal and singular. It’s the best work of her career, and may end up being both the most fun and important album of 2018.The album’s two opening tracks are among the most memorable one-two punch in recent memory. Brian Wilson’s vocal remain pop’s greatest invocation, and amidst his lilting, layered , the lead-off title resurrects Janelle’s dreamy, sensual landscape. She invites us to “look closer” at the “text message caught up in the sky.” Once again, she’s identifying with hardware (a dirty computer, in this case), but the vocals are warm and human, and, soon, we hear MLK reciting the Declaration of Independence. We’re onto “Crazy, Classic, Life” now -- one of the neat tricks the front half of the album pulls off is blurring the space between songs, so that it all sounds like one, long jam -- and Janelle quickly asserts a theme that will run through the album. It’s 2018 now, and her and people like her are no longer on the margins; they’re now the “rulers” and “kings.” “Im not Americas nightmare,” she coos on the song’s pre-chorus, “Im the American dream.”In that way, it resembles Frank Ocean’s Blonde, another coronation of a queer America that was curtailed by Trump’s election a few months later. Monàe’s work contains little of Ocean’s melancholy or ambience; Dirty Computer is pure pop music, euphoric and uncluttered. “PYNK,” which features Montreal steam pop producer Grimes, is a technicolor march down the broadest boulevards of American culture. The song hems together and subverts lyrical archetypes. Witness the pre-chorus:“So, here we are in the carLeavin traces of us down the boulevardI wanna fall through the starsGetting lost in the dark is my favorite partLets count the ways we could make this last forever"Taken out of context, this could be sung by Tom Petty, Britney Spears, or any number of chroniclers of main street adolescence. That Janelle is using this in the service of an anthem to pansexuality should be subversive, but, in 2018, it seems perfectly normal. This is a victory for all of us.Monàe’s previous music has always seemed to exist in a different time. The revved-up guitar riffs and funky drummer breakdowns place her in the ‘60s, while the lyrics’ runaway-Android lover motif put her firmly in the (20)40s. But Dirty Computer feels necessarily of this time. The world caught up with her. The techno-dystopian daydream of her earlier work has become a crippling reality, and, yes, that’s unfortunate. But the sheer, self-conscious otherness of Janelle, which ten years ago was a commercial liability, is not only permissible, but is celebrated, and this album is funky testament to this new freedom.

Prince may have owned the 80s, but his former collaborators Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis owned R&B in the 80s (and early 90s). They first rose to prominence as members of The Time, but theyre probably best known as the go-to producers for Janet Jackson. Though, really, diminishing their contributions to one band or one singer does them a disservice. Check out Soulbounces succinct retrospective of their best hits.

Fitting for someone who was born in New Zealand but currently calls London home, Jordan Rakei covers a lot of ground. His recently released sophomore album, Wallflower (Ninja Tune) is a mesmerizing melange of after-hours R&B, experimental indie-pop, and soul-jazz grooves. To help you get in a suitably nocturnal mood, he made us this playlist of his favorite chillout soundtracks. “To me, these are some of the most beautiful songs in the world. Very sparse. Very relaxing. All have such an amazing energy that keeps bringing me back to them.”—Jordan Rakei

For fans of R&B ballads, the supersized emotions, frequent vocal gymnastics, and production maximalism can seem to be the most direct window to the artists’ inner life, revealing some deeper vulnerability or emotional longings that the more uptempo tracks generally ignore. Beyoncé, being Beyoncé, does this better than most. This Spotify playlist, from KH Bionic Chiu, is one in a series of pop star ballad playlists. The track selection is solid, even if there’s very real rhythm to the selections and the inclusion of the Luther Vandross so close to the top of the list is a curveball. Usually these type of playlist front-load the hits and get around to the collaborations, and, here, a track like “Best Thing I Never Had” doesn’t appear until we’re over a dozen tracks into the playlist. -- Sam Chennault