
Culture Review: Migos Turn Ad-Libs Into an Artistic Statement (7.9/10)
A grim, spare demon of Atlanta rap arises full-formed, its ad-libs a low murmur, its silence a terror never once apologized for.

Records we have scored.

A grim, spare demon of Atlanta rap arises full-formed, its ad-libs a low murmur, its silence a terror never once apologized for.

A theme park of guest verses and shifting beats, this record turns spectacle into song, matching its own bluster at last.

Mac Miller's Swimming: a steady, candid record of staying afloat, thirteen songs deep, closing the loop it opened.

A tale of fourteen songs, wherein a man of rhyme tells of the doom and destiny of his own soul and country. A precise, singular work.

A restless, uneven album of prayer, boast, and grief that argues with itself and mostly wins.

Bieber's Swag: 21 tracks of hazy dreams, half-finished sketches, cracks left bare. Ambition true, order broken.

A brisk, thirty-three minute record moves a personality toward song rather than confession, through pace and mood alone.

A record of twelve songs and thirty-eight minutes wherein a lady of song grows bolder, and each jest becomes a melody unto itself.

Katy Perry's sixth record, one hundred and forty three, appears a most dull effort, void of that spirit which erst distinguished her art.

A tale of a heart's secret told in thirteen parts, wherein Abrams' voice grows bolder, wounded, and unguarded.
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