One morning, at an old social work job of mine, I chatted with my friend and coworker, Will, about our mutual love of Bruce Springsteen’s music. Will told me that “Thunder Road” is the best song ever written, and I excitedly agreed with him: “It’s so good!” When Will mentioned that the song contained some of his favorite lyrics, I knew exactly which lines he was about to start quoting:
Don’t run back inside, darling, you know just what I’m here for
So you’re scared and you’re thinking that maybe we ain’t that young anymore
Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night
You ain’t a beauty, but hey, you’re all right
And that’s alright with me
If you weren’t listening closely enough, these lyrics might sound like an insult. Where does Springsteen get off calling his would-be lover plain-looking? Yet, in the context of the song, the Boss’s words carry immense weight. One stanza later, he describes himself in similar terms:
Well, I’m no hero, that’s understood
All the redemption I can offer, girl, is beneath this dirty hood
With a chance to make it good somehow
If you didn’t get the drift before, you’ve got it now. “You feel aged, tired, and ordinary, and I do too,” Springsteen says. “We’ve both got our flaws. But I’m taking you just as you are, warts and all.” By undermining the clichés of physical beauty that fill most of the love songs ever written, Springsteen highlights a deeper and richer beauty in the woman he loves.
When people listen to songs, they often focus on different things. Some people, like my older brother, tend to hear the music first – rhythm, melody, harmony, chord progressions, etc. Others, like me, tend to hear the lyrics first, paying close attention to metaphors and allusions and imagery and narrative arcs. A music producer might focus on textures and the layering of sounds, a superfan might hear nothing but confirmation of their idol’s greatness, and a Taylor Swift fan might hunt for tea. These differences impact our experiences with music, and they also make our conversations and debates about songs far more rewarding.
As a singer and percussionist, I geek out over well-crafted tunes. Yet words are my first love. A song might be catchy or musically inventive, but if its lyrics feel haphazard or undercooked, it generally won’t stick with me. The ten albums on my 2024 favorites list, however, showcase some of the best lyricism that I’ve ever encountered (as usual, most of them are albums from past years that I’ve recently caught up on). I’ve included a stanza from each record that I believe contains its most beautiful words, and I hope that my own writing can do these gifted songwriters justice. So, to paraphrase Springsteen’s “Thunder Road”: let’s get going!
Honorable Mention: The Black Parade by My Chemical Romance; Cannonballers by Colony House; Kind of Blue by Miles Davis; Ladies of the Canyon by Joni Mitchell; Unheard by Hozier; When We All Fall Asleep, Where Do We Go? by Billie Eilish
#10. Stick Season by Noah Kahan
I love so much about this album: its vivid sense of place, its unflinching self-examination, and its catchy folk-rock vibe, to name a few. Eager for inspiration, Kahan returned to his childhood home in New England, re-immersing himself in the joys and heartache that accompanied his journey to adulthood. It was clearly a painful process. Time may have passed, but not all of Kahan’s scars have healed. Yet, as bitter as the weather that menaces his hometown may be, he still approaches that fraught place with grace and love, seeking above all to remember and understand.
Kahan’s stories hum with authenticity. Like any skilled writer, he knows the value of “show, don’t tell,” and he employs that technique admirably here. The melodies on Stick Season‘s songs might be fairly predictable, but let me assure you that they also lend themselves to passionate belting on long car rides. Looking up Kahan on Wikipedia after my first listen, I noticed his list of musical inspirations: Hozier! Counting Crows! Paul Simon! Mumford and Sons! No wonder he’s such an honest and gifted songwriter. I think we’d probably be friends.
Favorite Lyric:
As you promised me that I was more than all the miles combined
You must have had yourself a change of heart like halfway through the drive
Because your voice trailed off exactly as you passed my exit sign
Kept on driving straight and left our future to the right
#9. Illinois by Sufjan Stevens
In 2003, Sufjan Stevens announced that he’d be composing an album for each of America’s fifty states. He released one inspired by his home state of Michigan, and two years later he released another centered on Illinois. Then he gave up.
Well, not exactly. Sufjan later revealed that the fifty states plan was a joke. Fans might’ve been disappointed if the singer-songwriter hadn’t already gifted them with one of the most mind-bending indie folk albums ever produced. Sufjan has two kinds of songs: the gentle, ethereal, rip-your-heart-out-through-your-ears laments of albums like Carrie and Lowell; and the zany, kaleidoscopic, open-up-a-new-chamber-inside-your-brain symphonies of albums like Illinois. “Phantasmagoria” is probably the best word to describe the latter.
How on earth to describe Illinois? Playing ten different instruments, Sufjan sings about historical events as far-flung as the 1893 World’s Fair, the Black Hawk War, UFO sightings, Abraham Lincoln’s debates with Stephen Douglas, and the murders committed by serial killer John Wayne Gacy, Jr. His song titles read like chapter headings in a Percy Jackson novel: “The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades Is Out to Get Us!”;”To the Workers of the Rock River Valley Region, I Have an Idea Concerning Your Predicament, and It Involves Tube Socks, a Paper Airplane, and Twenty-Two Able-Bodied Men”;”They Are Night Zombies!! They Are Neighbors!! They Have Come Back from the Dead!! Ahhhh!” Yet, somehow, Sufjan also keeps things intimate, grieving a deceased friend on “Casimir Pulasky Day” and yearning for personal transformation on “Chicago.” Illinois is the sound of a solitary life unfolding itself against the dazzling tapestry of the world.
Favorite Lyric:
All the glory that the Lord has made
And the complications when I see his face
In the morning, in the window
All the glory when he took our place
But he took my shoulders and he shook my face
And he takes, and he takes, and he takes
#8. Blood on the Tracks by Bob Dylan
Is Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks the best breakup album of all time? I’d take that bet.
Every couple years, I deep dive into a songwriter’s discography by listening to every album they’ve ever released. Back in 2020, it was Bruce Springsteen. Later came Paul Simon. This year is Kendrick Lamar. 2024 was the year of Bob Dylan, and while I can’t say that I made it through all of his records (I lost steam after reaching The Basement Tapes), I’m definitely a fan now.
Most rankings of Dylan’s albums place Blood on the Tracks at or near the top, and I wholeheartedly concur. The album, which describes the painful unraveling of the legendary songwriter’s marriage, feels more intimate and cohesive than anything Dylan had released before. His ragged voice is grating to some (AKA my wife), but here it captures the rawness of fresh grief. Dylan also reins in the absurdist poetry of earlier records like Highway 61 Revisited and Blonde on Blonde, and his confessional tunes are all the better for it. If there’s a richer, more rewarding breakup album out there, then I haven’t heard it yet.
Favorite Lyric:
Then she opened up a book of poems
And handed it to me
Written by an Italian poet
From the thirteenth century
And every one of them words rang true
And glowed like burning coal
Pouring off of every page
Like it was written in my soul
From me to you
#7. Hello Starling by Josh Ritter
In January of 2024, my wife and I watched the greatest songwriter of all time (and one of my artistic heroes) play a concert at Chicago’s Victoria Theater. It was a night of melodies and magic that I’ll never forget. I’d been a fan of Josh Ritter for years, and I knew many of his songs by heart. But I’d never listened through the album that he and his Royal City Band performed that night: 2003’s Hello Starling. Ritter wrote some of Starling‘s songs on tour in Ireland, and the whole record feels like a journey through that faraway landscape – wild and wistful, like a green expanse swept by rain. It may not be Ritter’s best work, but it was a joy to experience with the love of my life, and it’ll always have a special place in my heart.
Favorite Lyric:
I felt your hand light on my sleeve
As light as a bird that might offer a sinner reprieve
We don’t know too much
But love rains mysteriously
And behind every cloud is a purpose only now we can see
#6. Good Kid, m.A.A.d. City by Kendrick Lamar
In a recent episode of his Dissect podcast, Cole Cuchna described Kendrick Lamar as the definitive poet of our generation. I’m inclined to agree with him. Good Kid, m.A.A.d. City was my third Kendrick album, and while it doesn’t quite reach the heights of the rapper’s subsequent record, To Pimp a Butterfly (my pick for the greatest album ever made), it’s still a musical masterpiece.
The album’s lyrics tell the story of a single day on the streets of Compton, California. Here, we follow a young Kendrick as he struggles to escape a life of poverty, drug use, and gang violence. His tale unfolds with the depth and specificity of a great novel, bolstered by a talented cast of voice actors who reenact the songwriter’s memories. The turning point of the album – a song called “Sing About Me, I’m Dying of Thirst” – is a 12-minute epic that immerses listeners into the hopes and fears of Kendrick’s friends in Compton. Facing the fallout of systemic injustice, the Pulitzer Prize-winning poet refuses to look away, and his loving gaze points us all toward the possibility of redemption.
Favorite Lyric:
I count lives all on these songs
Look at the weak and cry, pray one day you’ll be strong
Fighting for your rights, even when you’re wrong
And hope that at least one of you sing about me when I’m gone
#5. Lemonade by Beyoncé
A confession: Somehow, while living in the United States of America for most of my life, I’d never listened to Beyoncé’s music. Prior to this past year, I couldn’t have named a single song of hers. I knew her name, of course, but I figured she was one of those pop stars whose chart-topping hits carry minimal substance (looking at you, Taylor Swift). My goodness, how wrong I was. At long last, I’ve had an audience with Queen B, one that I should’ve had a long time ago. And the songs that I’ve heard so far measure up to the hype. Long may she reign!
Strange royalty references aside, Lemonade is one of the most inspiring concept albums that I’ve ever come across. On the surface, it tells the story of Beyoncé’s falling out and reconciliation with her husband, Jay-Z, after a period of infidelity. That tale alone would be a tear-jerker, but Beyoncé takes listeners on an odyssey of cultural redemption, framing her marital struggles within the legacy of slavery and racial injustice in America (the album’s blend of musical styles mirrors this vast scope). “The past and future merge to meet us here,” she says in the movie version of Lemonade. Black love in the present, according to Beyoncé, is inseparable from Black history, and this entanglement is both curse and gift. Only by confronting the wounds of our past can we find a way forward. And on a chart-topping pop album in 2016, Beyoncé pointed the way for us.
P.S. I liked Cowboy Carter, but Beyoncé should’ve won the Album of the Year Grammy for this record. Adele, Bieber, and Drake had nothing on her that year.
Favorite Lyric:
We built sand castles that washed away
I made you cry when I walked away
And although I promised that I couldn’t stay, baby
Every promise don’t work out that way
#4. If This Is the End by Noah Gundersen
Have you ever encountered a song or album that felt like a message in a bottle handwritten for you? If This Is The End was that kind of album for me this summer. I discovered Gundersen through his 2009 song “Jesus, Jesus,” which is still the most poignant song about religious doubt that I’ve ever heard. I listened to Ledges and Carry the Ghost, enjoying the first and struggling with the second, but I wasn’t prepared for the transparency and artistry of Gundersen’s most recent project.
In song after song, Gundersen channels his emotions with breathtaking immediacy. His phrasing is straightforward, complemented by tasteful instrumentation that beckons you into his stories. Yet the simple lyrics are freighted with meaning, layers and layers of it. They nail that elusive balance: general enough to resonate widely, specific enough to seem tactile and real. I can’t relate to Gundersen’s meditations on the perils of fame, but there are dozens of moments on this album that struck a chord with me. On If This Is the End, we witness a talented artist taking stock of his journey, making peace with his failures, and passing on wisdom to whoever cares to listen.
Favorite Lyric:
Everything’s changing around you
And now you’re changing too
No one could blame you for being shy
When everything is new
#3. Only God Was Above Us by Vampire Weekend
When it released in April of 2024, Vampire Weekend’s Only God Was Above Us was praised as a “return to form” by many music critics. After a five-year hiatus, the renowned alt-rockers from NYC had crafted an album that hearkened back to their earliest work, mingling textured indie rock with playful classical flourishes and eschewing the jam band sounds of their 2019 LP, Father of the Bride. Fans raved about the new record: “Vampire Weekend is back, baby!”
While I understood these opinions, I disagreed with them. My first reason for doing so was musical. By my lights, Vampire Weekend had never lost their “form,” so how could they return to it? Every one of their records was unique and represented a sonic leap forward, so attempts to boil their music down into an essence didn’t hold water (also, Father of the Bride slapped). My second reason was lyrical. As I spun Only God Was Above Us through spring and into summer, I made a discovery that blew my mind: Vampire Weekend’s latest album couldn’t be separated from their previous records, because those records (all five of them) told a unified story – a bildungsroman or coming-of-age tale about the loss of innocence and the passing of time. Reeling from this revelation, I did some research to see whether Vampire Weekend might’ve planned this narrative arc. Lo and behold, they had!
So followed a series of five essays in which I analyzed Vampire Weekend’s albums from a literary perspective (yes, I know that I’m a nerd). These essays were an absolute blast to write, and they deepened my appreciation for my favorite band. Many pop lyrics fall flat on closer examination, and others reward scrutiny with genuine insights. Yet how often can you explore an entire album as a literary text, tracing motifs and foreshadowing and thematic resonances between lyrics? And how often can you do that between multiple albums? The opportunity was too good to pass up. So no, Only God Was Above Us isn’t a return to form; it’s the fifth chapter in a sprawling, intricately crafted epic – a story that spawned one of my favorite writing projects to date. You can read that project here if you’re interested: https://wordsforwayfarers.com/2024/04/28/to-love-the-world-again-introducing-my-vampire-weekend-series/
Favorite lyric:
Capricorn
The year that you were born
Finished fast
And the next one wasn’t yours
Too old for dying young, too young to live alone
Sifting through centuries for moments of your own
#2. Ghosteen by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
On July 14, 2015, singer-songwriter Nick Cave was notified that his 15-year-old son, Arthur, had taken LSD and fallen to his death from a cliff near the family’s home in Brighton, England. For decades, Cave had been renowned as a pioneer of aggressive post-punk and gothic rock. In the aftermath of his son’s death, Cave’s music underwent a dramatic transformation, one that reflected a seismic shift in his posture toward the world. His recent book, Faith, Hope, and Carnage, recounts that journey. And his 2019 album Ghosteen puts it to music.
I checked out Ghosteen after hearing that it was the best-reviewed album of the 2010s, tied with Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp a Butterfly (one of my all-time favorite records). On a whim, I downloaded the album from Apple Music, put on my headphones, and went for a run. I had no idea what to expect, and I couldn’t have prepared myself for what I heard. Ghosteen is first and foremost an expression of profound, unimaginable grief. Cave has described the album as a kind of seance – an attempt to communicate with his son beyond the grave and to receive absolution for his own shortcomings as a father. The album’s cover reflects its lyrics, which are chock-full of mythic, fantastical imagery – kings and queens, fiery horses, flying ships, stairways to the sky, black trees, dragons in the sea. This fairytale tapestry becomes a language that Cave can use to make sense of his sorrow, broken occasionally by vivid images of mundane family life – Cave’s wife at the kitchen table right before the tragic news arrived, the hotel stay where Cave’s son was conceived, drives to the sea in the wake of Arthur’s death. As he expresses his loss and longing, inviting listeners along for the ride, Cave wrestles with God and finds solace in the unutterable mysteries of the human condition.
Despite its heavy subject matter, Ghosteen remains suffused with hope and light. Few works of art have filled me with so much wonder at my place in the cosmos, the fragile and fleeting glory of life on planet Earth. This, Cave suggests, is the antidote to our deepest sorrows – a turning outward, an opening up of the heart. His album eschews traditional melodies, rhythm, and song structures, opting instead for swelling, shimmering ambience that carries his words like ocean tides. On the song “Fireflies,” Cave sings, “We are photons released from a dying star / And I am here, and you are where you are.” Listening to the music of Ghosteen, one can almost feel the breath of that interstellar transit, flickering like candlelight in the expanse.
Favorite Lyric:
For we are not alone it seems
So many riders in the sky
The winds of longing in their sails
Searching for the other side
#1. Nurture by Porter Robinson
If I was shocked that a Christmas movie topped my 2024 list of favorite films (!), I’m only slightly less surprised that an electronic dance music album topped my year-end list of favorite music. I have an excuse, though. Porter Robinson’s Nurture isn’t like other EDM projects. Not only is it stylistically distinct, but it’s also the most moving and resonant record that I’ve ever heard.
In 2014, Porter Robinson changed electronic music forever with his debut album Worlds, which melded EDM beats with fantasy-inspired textures and emotive storytelling. More famous and respected than ever before, Porter suddenly found himself mired in writer’s block. His inability to release songs coincided with a debilitating mental health spiral, and his brother was diagnosed with cancer around the same time. Porter had inspired a new wave of songwriting, but now he feared that he might never be able to make music again. He wouldn’t release another album for seven years.
Nurture captures the sound of healing – an artist emerging from a period of deep darkness and learning to love music again. According to Porter, the album represented a thematic departure from Worlds: “I didn’t want to keep writing about faraway dreamscapes. I wanted the album to be about the beauty of the real world, because that’s what gets us through.” This shift is audible in Nurture‘s sonic palette, which glistens with wind, water, birdsong, and other ambient noise. Porter found hope and inspiration by spending time in nature, by traveling to Japan (the J-pop influence is unmistakeable on this record), by falling in love, and by allowing himself the freedom to experiment. He’d been white-knuckling the songwriting process; when, at long last, he finally released his grip, a masterpiece emerged.
While I admired its musical brilliance, Nurture stopped me in my tracks for a very personal reason. I suffer from obsessive-compulsive disorder, and after listening carefully to Porter’s lyrics, I had a feeling that he might’ve been diagnosed with OCD too (he was). Many of the hardships that he sings about are intimately familiar to me: the dread of passing time, the constant apologizing and reassurance-seeking, the hunger to discover life’s meaning, the grisly and self-critical intrusive thoughts, the artistic perfectionism, and more. Like Porter, I’ve broken down in tears when writing more than once, terrified that I might’ve lost my gift. That’s why the song “dullscythe,” which might sound like musical chaos to some people, chokes me up. In the first half of the song, Porter flicks through dozens of beats, samples, and instruments, second-guessing each and every production decision. Dissonant sounds intensify, as jarring and unpredictable as the obsessions that knife through the songwriter’s brain. Then, finally, a melody emerges, and the discordant parts swirl together into a shimmering whole. He did it, I think to myself. He found the song! And then the tears come, because if Porter’s broken pieces can merge into something beautiful, then maybe mine can too.
Favorite Lyric:
Then somebody somewhere finds
The warmth of summer in the songs you write
Maybe it’s a gift that I couldn’t recognize
Trying to feel alive
Words for Wayfarers 