With the Age of Adz, indie-darling Soof-yan Stee-venz, like kindred spirit Rick Allen, channels his recovery from a debilitating neurological disease into absolute electro reinvention; he's grown as the lone alt-flower abloom in a garden of withered posies. 9.7
Kanye records 80 minutes of self-aggrandizing over tribal drums and Robert Fripp-esque guitar noodles because his mom is still dead and, in spite of his half-assed efforts to change everyone's mind, people still hate him for being a fuckin' turdbuglar. Better than 808s, tho. 8.3