What does a shrug sound like? On "Don't Know Why,” the opening track of her debut effort, Norah Jones suggests a few possibilities. The first time she sings the title phrase, she gives it a touch of indifference, the classic tossed-off movie-star shrug. Her tone shifts slightly when she hits the chorus, to convey twinges of sadness; here the casual phrasing could be an attempt to shake off a sharp memory. Later, she shrugs in a way that conveys resignation, possibly regret—she's replaying a scene, trying to understand what happened. Those shrugs and shadings, tools deployed by every jazz vocalist of the 1950s, are inescapable throughout Come Away With Me—in part because everything surrounding Jones' voice is so chill. There's room for her to emote, and room for gently cresting piano and organ chords. Unlike so many of her contemporaries, Jones knows instinctively how much (or how little!) singer the song needs. The secret of this record, which came out when Jones was 22, is its almost defiant approachability: It is calm, and open, and gentle, music for a lazy afternoon in a porch swing. As transfixing covers of Hank Williams' "Cold Cold Heart” and Hoagy Carmichael's "The Nearness of You” make clear, Jones thinks about contours and shadows when she sings; her storytelling depends as much on the scene and the atmosphere as the narrative. And Jones applies the same understatement to the original songs here, which weave together elements of country, pop, jazz and torch balladry in inventive ways. It's one thing to render an old tune with modern cleverness, a skill Jones had honed as a solo pianist/singer before she was discovered. It's quite another to transform an original tune, like Jesse Harris' "Don't Know Why,” into something that sounds ageless and eternal, like a standard. Jones does that, over and over, using just shrugs and implications, rarely raising her voice much above a whisper. © Tom Moon/Qobuz

Who better than Paul Simon to revisit one of the earliest sources of folk music? Because this album, composed of seven independent movements, is inspired by the Psalms of King David (already a source of inspiration for Arthur Honegger, in an alternative style, in 1921). Let’s not forget that the psalms are hymns intended to be sung rather than spoken. The very minimalist instrumental style of Art Garfunkel’s former accomplice agrees with this return to the song’s roots, since Simon only "chants" with his guitar and, of course, his inimitable voice. On occasion other acoustic instruments discreetly intervene ( percussion, flute, strings, harmonica…), as does the presence of his wife, Edie Brickell, as a chorister. The British vocal ensemble VOCES8 also took part in this extraordinary adventure: Simon used soprano voices to simply embellish the end of a guitar note. This fifteenth solo studio album by Paul Simon was born on the morning of 15th January 2019, after one of his dreams instructed him to write a piece called Seven Psalms. He then set to work with a ritual of writing two or three times a week between 3:30 AM and 5:00 AM. Produced by Paul Simon himself alongside Kyle Crusham, Seven Psalms is a moving and serene musical suite, just like the painting by famous landscape artist, Thomas Moran, which adorns the record cover. ©Nicolas Magenham/Qobuz

It’s important to remember that before becoming a gold-standard pop star, Taylor Swift grew up on Nashville country music. Music City's folklore now seems a long way off for the thirty-year-old singer. However, Taylor Swift has never stopped dipping her pen into the same ink as her cowgirl elders, perfectly handling romance, heartbreak, introspection, sociopolitical commentary and personal experiences, such as when she sang of her mother’s cancer on Soon You’ll Get Better… It was in lockdown, with restricted means and limited casting, that she put together Folklore, released in the heart of summer 2020. The first surprise here is Aaron Dessner on production. By choosing The National’s guitarist, whom she considers one of her idols, Swift has opted for a musician with sure-footed tastes and boosted her credibility among indie music fans. She hammers this home on Exile with Justin ‘Bon Iver’ Vernon (the album’s only duet), a close friend of Dessner's with whom he formed Big Red Machine.This surprising, even unusual album for Swift is by no means a calculated attempt to flirt with the hipsters. And it really is unusual for her! No pop bangers, nor the usual dig aimed at Kanye West; the album is free of supercharged beats and has delicate instrumentation (piano, acoustic guitar, Mellotron, mandolin, slides…). Folklore toes a perfect line between silky neo-folk and dreamy rock. It’s as if the star had tucked herself away in a cabin in the forest to dream up new ideas, much like Bon Iver did in his early days… By laying her music bare and relieving it of its usual chart music elements, Taylor Swift has added more substance to her discography. This is clear on August, which would never have resonated as well if it had been produced by a Max Martin type… Upon announcing the album, Swift wrote online: “Before this year I probably would’ve overthought when to release this music at the ‘perfect’ time, but the times we’re living in keep reminding me that nothing is guaranteed. My gut is telling me that if you make something you love, you should just put it out into the world.” A wise decision for a beautiful and mature record. © Marc Zisman/Qobuz

Faced with some unexpected free time due to a lockdown inspired by a global pandemic, Taylor Swift turned inward. The result of her introspection was folklore, an album whose hushed atmosphere belies the speed of its composition and recording. Once she started the project, Swift turned to her longtime colleague Jack Antonoff for some input, but she also contacted an unexpected new collaborator: Aaron Dessner, the driving force behind the acclaimed indie rock band the National. Dessner's presence is a signal that folklore represents a shift for Taylor Swift, moving her away from the glittering pop mainstream and into gloomier territory. All of this is true, if perhaps a bit overstated. The 16 songs on folklore are recognizably her work, bearing telltale melodic phrases and a reliance on finely honed narratives that turn on exquisitely rendered lyrical details. Still, the vibe of the album is notably different. Sweetness has ripened into bittersweet beauty, regret has mellowed into a wistful sigh, the melodies don't clamor for attention but seep their way into the subconscious. None of these are precisely new tricks for Swift but her writing from the explicit vantage of other characters, as on the epic story-song "the last great american dynasty," is. Combined, the moodier, contemplative tone and the emphasis on songs that can't be parsed as autobiography make folklore feel not like a momentary diversion inspired by isolation but rather the first chapter of Swift's mature second act.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

More than any of his BTS bandmates, Jung Kook has been primed for the greatest crossover potential with his debut solo album, Golden. Unlike the rap showcases of RM, Suga, and J-Hope or the focused genre forays from V, Jin, and Jimin, Golden takes aim at the mainstream sweet spot that swirls together funky beats, catchy melodies, and irresistible choruses. It doesn't hurt his prospects that everything is in English, either. Backed by producers such as BloodPop, Diplo, Andrew Watt, and Cirkut and songwriters like Shawn Mendes and Ed Sheeran, the LP also features rapper Jack Harlow on the bouncy, fun-loving "3D"; Major Lazer on the sensual, throbbing "Closer to You"; DJ Snake on the shimmering electronic dance anthem "Please Don't Change"; and Latto on the chart-conquering, record-breaking sex romp "Seven" (the edited version is also included). While the laundry list of A-list names attached to the project leaves little doubt that this has been custom-designed to make him an even bigger star, everything works so well because of Jung Kook's seasoned vocals and natural allure. Like Justin Timberlake and Harry Styles before him, it's quite clear that Jung Kook has been christened as his boy band's main breakout, and Golden makes a great case for that push.© Neil Z. Yeung /TiVo

The expectations of a son carrying on his deceased father's musical legacy are unenviable. That the son is carrying on his father's legacy under a similar—but not exactly identical—name, and in a similar—but not exactly identical—musical style, and with occasional—but not consistent—inclusions of his father's repertoire in live performances ... well, all that somehow manages to both scramble and increase those expectations. However, for the past 14 years, more than half as long as the original Penguin Cafe Orchestra performed under the leadership of Simon Jeffes, multi-instrumentalist Arthur Jeffes has been at the helm of Penguin Cafe, a group that not only includes no members of the Penguin Cafe Orchestra but also one that stakes its reputation on new, original material.Rain Before Seven is the sixth album of that original material and while Arthur Jeffes certainly doesn't shy away from evoking the multi-instrumental, quasi-folk/quasi-classical soundworld that his father pioneered in the 1970s, the younger Jeffes's approach leans much more heavily on the atmospheric soundscapes indulged in by many contemporary classical crossover artists. Although there's a raft of "real" instruments at work here—ranging from piano and strings to ukulele and (naturally) harmonium—there's a distinct sheen of digital architecture that undergirds the material on Rain Before Seven, giving it less of an organic sense of adventure and more like it's being optimized for music library placement or chill-vibes-playlist inclusion. Cuts like "Galahad" and "No One Really Leaves," are by no means unpleasant, but far less interesting than they could be, with rhythms that are pretty straightforward and undemanding, and arrangements that leave little to the imagination. Where Rain Before Seven really shines, however, is on the more complex and whimsical numbers, like "In Re Budd," which doesn't sound at all like a Harold Budd piano piece but does feature the balafon, a West African xylophone, making dense, circular rhythms and gentle, airborne melodies. Similarly, the album closer "Goldfinch" is both epic and intimate, with Jeffes & Co. pulling out all the instrumental stops, with strings pulling triple duty in quartet format, as well as wild violin solos and folksy fiddling. © Jason Ferguson/Qobuz

White Blood Cells may have been a reaction to the amount of fame the White Stripes had received up to the point of its release, but, paradoxically, it made full-fledged rock stars out of Jack and Meg White and sold over half a million copies in the process. Despite the White Stripes' ambivalence, fame nevertheless seems to suit them: They just become more accomplished as the attention paid to them increases. Elephant captures this contradiction within the Stripes and their music; it's the first album they've recorded for a major label, and it sounds even more pissed-off, paranoid, and stunning than its predecessor. Darker and more difficult than White Blood Cells, the album offers nothing as immediately crowd-pleasing or sweet as "Fell in Love With a Girl" or "We're Going to Be Friends," but it's more consistent, exploring disillusionment and rejection with razor-sharp focus. Chip-on-the-shoulder anthems like the breathtaking opener, "Seven Nation Army," which is driven by Meg White's explosively minimal drumming, and "The Hardest Button to Button," in which Jack White snarls "Now we're a family!" -- one of the best oblique threats since Black Francis sneered "It's educational!" all those years ago -- deliver some of the fiercest blues-punk of the White Stripes' career. "There's No Home for You Here" sets a girl's walking papers to a melody reminiscent of "Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground" (though the result is more sequel than rehash), driving the point home with a wall of layered, Queen-ly harmonies and piercing guitars, while the inspired version of "I Just Don't Know What to Do With Myself" goes from plaintive to angry in just over a minute, though the charging guitars at the end sound perversely triumphant. At its bruised heart, Elephant portrays love as a power struggle, with chivalry and innocence usually losing out to the power of seduction. "I Want to Be the Boy" tries, unsuccessfully, to charm a girl's mother; "You've Got Her in Your Pocket," a deceptively gentle ballad, reveals the darker side of the Stripes' vulnerability, blurring the line between caring for someone and owning them with some fittingly fluid songwriting. The battle for control reaches a fever pitch on the "Fell in Love With a Girl"-esque "Hypnotize," which suggests some slightly underhanded ways of winning a girl over before settling for just holding her hand, and on the show-stopping "Ball and Biscuit," seven flat-out seductive minutes of preening, boasting, and amazing guitar prowess that ranks as one the band's most traditionally bluesy (not to mention sexy) songs. Interestingly, Meg's star turn, "In the Cold, Cold Night," is the closest Elephant comes to a truce in this struggle, her kitten-ish voice balancing the song's slinky words and music. While the album is often dark, it's never despairing; moments of wry humor pop up throughout, particularly toward the end. "Little Acorns" begins with a sound clip of Detroit newscaster Mort Crim's Second Thoughts radio show, adding an authentic, if unusual, Motor City feel. It also suggests that Jack White is one of the few vocalists who could make a lyric like "Be like the squirrel" sound cool and even inspiring. Likewise, the showy "Girl, You Have No Faith in Medicine" -- on which White resembles a garage rock snake-oil salesman -- is probably the only song featuring the word "acetaminophen" in its chorus. "It's True That We Love One Another," which features vocals from Holly Golightly as well as Meg White, continues the Stripes' tradition of closing their albums on a lighthearted note. Almost as much fun to analyze as it is to listen to, Elephant overflows with quality -- it's full of tight songwriting, sharp, witty lyrics, and judiciously used basses and tumbling keyboard melodies that enhance the band's powerful simplicity (and the excellent "The Air Near My Fingers" features all of these). Crucially, the White Stripes know the difference between fame and success; while they may not be entirely comfortable with their fame, they've succeeded at mixing blues, punk, and garage rock in an electrifying and unique way ever since they were strictly a Detroit phenomenon. On these terms, Elephant is a phenomenal success.© Heather Phares /TiVo

Artistically and commercially, the Stevie Nicks/Lindsey Buckingham/Mick Fleetwood/Christine and John McVie edition of Fleetwood Mac had been on a roll for over a decade when Tango in the Night was released in early 1987. This would, unfortunately, be Buckingham's last album with the pop/rock supergroup -- and he definitely ended his association with the band on a creative high note. Serving as the album's main producer, Buckingham gives an edgy quality to everything from the haunting "Isn't It Midnight" to the poetic "Seven Wonders" to the dreamy "Everywhere." Though Buckingham doesn't over-produce, his thoughtful use of synthesizers is a major asset. Without question, "Family Man" and "Caroline" are among the best songs ever written by Buckingham, who consistently brings out the best in his colleagues on this superb album.© Alex Henderson /TiVo

Amidst the great and eclectic new wave family at the dawn of the 1980s, Echo & the Bunnymen imposed their own voice, which was different from those of the Cure, U2, Simple Minds or the Psychedelic Furs. It was a uniqueness which was in part due to the tortured voice of charismatic crooner Ian McCulloch. After a few fairly sombre first albums, the Bunnymen gradually gave in to a desire for big melodies and richer instrumentation. Ocean Rain is the height of this new turn. Throughout this fourth album, which came out in spring 1984, the ethereal rock of the Liverpool quartet owes as much to the grandiloquence of the great Scott Walker as to the poetry of the Doors or the Byrds, or the torment of Joy Division… Thanks to its mega-slick production and smooth arrangements, the talents of composer McCulloch and the impressionism of Will Sergeant's guitars are magnified all the more. The lyricism of Ocean Rain is, above all, never hackneyed. Draped in tasteful violins, the record reaches its zenith with The Killing Moon, a long and crepuscular ballad, one for putting on repeat… © Marc Zisman/Qobuz

Seven Steps to Heaven finds Miles Davis standing yet again on the fault line between stylistic epochs. In early 1963, pianist Wynton Kelly, bassist Paul Chambers, and drummer Jimmy Cobb left to form their own trio, and Davis was forced to form a new band, which included Memphis tenor player George Coleman and bassist Ron Carter. When Davis next entered the studio in Hollywood, he added local drummer Frank Butler and British studio ace Victor Feldman, who ultimately decided not to go on the road with Davis. It's easy to see why Davis liked Feldman, who contributed the dancing title tune and "Joshua" to the session. On three mellifluous standards -- particularly a cerebral "Basin Street Blues" and a broken-hearted "I Fall in Love Too Easily" -- the pianist plays with an elegant, refined touch, and the kind of rarefied voicings that suggest Ahmad Jamal. Davis responds with some of his most introspective, romantic ballad playing. When Davis returned to New York he finally succeeded in spiriting away a brilliantly gifted 17-year-old drummer from Jackie McLean: Tony Williams. On the title tune you can already hear the difference, as his crisp, driving cymbal beat and jittery, aggressive syncopations propel Davis into the upper reaches of his horn. On "So Near, So Far" the drummer combines with Carter and new pianist Herbie Hancock to expand on a light Afro-Cuban beat with a series of telepathic changes in tempo, texture, and dynamics. Meanwhile, Feldman's "Joshua" (with its overtones of "So What" and "All Blues") portends the kind of expressive variations on the basic 4/4 pulse that would become the band's trademark, as Davis and Coleman ascend into bebop heaven.© TiVo