Although Chance’s debut album was lampooned for both its inconsistencies (extremely valid) and its earnestness (not so much), the title track itself — buoyed by the always effervescent Francis and the Lights — is a tour de force, the song’s minimal instrumentation the ideal soundscape for Chance’s boyish freneticism. Very similar to “Summer Friends,” their Coloring Book collaboration, we find Chance reflective and emotional, this time as he details “the greatest day of [his] life,” the moments immediately before his wedding to now-wife Kirsten Bennett. Anxiety imbuing his every note, Chance honestly sounds like he might be losing his mind just a little. But sometimes, you’ve got to go crazy. Actually might be the only way to survive.

Let’s be honest here: a good chunk of DaBaby’s music shares, let’s just say, a similar pattern. On this here song, he asks himself when he plans to switch up the flow. And largely for that reason, I stayed largely ambivalent to his foray into the mainstream earlier this year. But, like the force of nature he seems to be, he forced his way into my music consciousness by the end of the summer; his charisma too undeniable, his songs way too fun to sing along with. Torn between “Goin Baby” from March’s Baby On Baby and “BOP” — because, again, same song — the tiebreaker became the recently released “BOP on Broadway” video. If you haven’t seen it yet, you’ve got three minutes. Follow that link. Music videos still matter.

Commendations for two of my favorite new(er) discoveries of the past 12 months, and thanks to them for making my job simpler by making an exceptional song together. Retroactively, Burna Boy’s “Ye” could’ve contended for last year’s #1 spot in these rankings (I should probably get to finishing that one, seriously), but I only learned about it at this year’s BET Awards. (Support black television!) And although Jorja was featured on More Life a few years ago, I hadn’t heard from her since, and this single was the first time I found her voice demanding I revisit her music. A song that sounds like the last days of summer, it makes me want to be on an island soon, dancing with my lady, careless to the problems of the world. Initially a last-second inclusion on the list, the longer I’ve had to look at it, #23 almost feels too low.

Gunna probably wins the imaginary WSH Most Improved Artist title this year, an actually stunning development considering I’d dismissed both him and Lil Baby as gimmicky, unsustainable one-hit wonders after my first few times hearing “Drip Too Hard.” After just missing inclusion on last year’s list with “Space Cadet” off Metro Boomin’s NOT ALL HEROES WEAR CAPES (I rolled with “Up to Something” off that project instead) and another song-stealing performance on Chris Brown’s “Heat,” his work over these last 12 months merits a mention.

And of course, the always reliable Thugger, but this time without his normal brother-in-arms in these rankings, Travis Scott. No Trav this year, but taking last year’s rankings in account, it’s almost fitting that a Gunna and Young Thug collaboration makes this year’s final cut. The circle of life and all that.

I spent way too much time trying to make Rap or Go to the League be a better album in my own mind than Uncle Tit’s 2017 opus Pretty Girls Like Trap Music. It’s not. And that’s fine. Rap or Go to the League was still a lot of fun, a sort of victory lap that flexed Chainz’s indisputable cultural influence. I mean, the project was supposedly A&R’d by LeBron James, because why the hell not?

No song on the album embodies its breezy carefreeness like “Rule the World,” a flip of the Amerie classic “Why Don’t We Fall in Love” that transports you directly to springtime. Ever the opportunist (and I say that admiringly), Chainz managed to score some of Miss Ariana Grande’s vocals in exchange for some cultural currency after she became embroiled in some (legitimate) appropriation controversies, and the rest, as they say, is history. Never let it be forgotten that Ariana Grande owed 2 Chainz a favor.

Believe me, I get all of the Posty hate. At best (!), he looks like he needs a deep cleaning. And at worst, he’s a culture vulture who doesn’t understand hip-hop and only used it as a means to a financial end. Since learning about him on “White Iverson,” I too have been waiting for it all to fall apart, sure that the next song couldn’t be as good as the one before.

But guys, we’re like 10 next songs in at this point. The guy is too good to fail. Nearly every first time I hear a Post Malone song, I immediately comprehend why it’ll be a hit if it’s not already one, “Wow.” being no exception. The beat is unique, the lyrics are catchy, and the melody is an absolute earworm. I knew the entire song in 5 minutes, and I’ve been singing it ever since.

Over the years, I’ve become something of an unabashed Wale apologist, cognizant that he often does stick his foot in his mouth online but still unsure when … we decided he couldn’t rap anymore? At the turn of a somewhat surprisingly successful decade and fresh off another very solid project, I think it’s time we give Folarin his flowers while he still cares enough to smell them.

“On Chill” might be Wale’s suavest single since “Lotus Flower Bomb” and “Bad” from back in the day, the undefeatable Jeremih and the underrated Eric Bellinger the perfect complements for the track’s clear callback to 90’s R&B, Raphael Saadiq sample and all. And by the way, the lyrics are pretty good too. If you’re a lapsed Wale fan, come on home. I promise you won’t be disappointed.

Rap can be a weirdly cruel game. Four summers ago, on the cusp of a certain type of career triumph, Philadelphia’s Meek Mill came for a Canadian half-Jewish former child actor in a rap battle … and lost. It’d be a lie to pretend his credibility wasn’t immediately dented, considering he picked the fight and then got summarily embarrassed. Today, following the backlash of that relatively inconsequential slapfight, Meek stands as something of a conquering hero, one of the leading public faces behind criminal justice reform. (This has been a long decade.) A certain type of cultural cache comes with actually beating the system, don’t you think? I mean, Drake can’t lyrically attack a social justice advocate with a high approval rating. It’d look … tacky.

A petty rap beef threatened to render Meek inconsequential. Now he’s rapping in-between his two legendary bosses, themselves in the midst of their own career renaissances. For the career comeback alone, I’ve got to give Meek his credit. Too bad it required a crooked judge for it to happen.

I’ve been somewhat confounded by the sort of universal acclaim bestowed upon Tory Lanez’s recently released Chixtape 5, actually referring to it as the worst of reboot culture. Full disclosure: I’m not particularly compelled by Tory’s music (B.I.D notwithstanding), since the entire act feels contrived. The autotune, the clear reliance on nostalgia. I hear a new Tory song and immediately seek out the song he sampled, almost like I’m cleaning my palate with the original. That’s, er, not good?

At the opposite end of the spectrum exists “Come Thru,” Summer Walker and Usher’s collaboration that samples and interpolates his 1997 classic (and one of my favorite songs of all-time), “You Make Me Wanna…” I am a music snob (I do one of these every year, as evidence), so it takes a truly special effort for me to acknowledge the remix maybe could be just as exceptional. “Come Thru” passes that test with ease. Fresh and innovative, you forget the song it sampled is over 20 years old. And I can’t forget to mention Summer’s absolutely stunning vocal performance. I’d pay to watch her sing in the studio if she’d prefer to never perform live again. What a talent.

Much respect to the undisputed Record Label of the Year. I’ve long admired J. Cole’s commitment to building the Dreamville brand, and 2019 was definitely their official coming-out party. The social media-hyped Dreamers III recording sessions built anticipation for what promised to be a sonically eclectic — and electric — compilation, and the team did not disappoint, earning a nomination for Best Rap Album at next year’s Grammys.

With Cole himself expressing a desire earlier this year to collaborate more openly, it’s been cool watching him leverage his power into something tangible for his Dreamville roster, and for other up-and-coming artists too. I’ve always appreciated Cole’s sobriety, but this project and the run of features preceding Dreamers III clearly energized him, in a positive way: “All hail King Cole / first of his name, long may he reign.” With Dreamville as his burgeoning legacy, are we sure Lightskinned Jermaine didn’t win the decade?

I tend to stay above the fray during the PWI vs. HBCU debates. [ACRONYM BREAKDOWN: A PWI is a predominantly white institution; an HBCU is a historically black college and university.] I get both sides, I swear I do: black students who attend PWIs find and develop community that can ultimately prove life-changing; while those of us who attend HBCUs grow to appreciate diversity in all its forms, racial and otherwise. I never thought I wanted to be at an HBCU until I got there, at which point I never wanted to leave. (I went to a PWI for graduate school and fled directly back to Howard. There’s no place like it. Facts are facts.)

At Howard (and other HBCUs, I’ve heard), Maze’s “Before I Let Go” is the final song of the party, your cue to both set up whatever’s next for your evening and hit the Electric Slide one last time with your kinfolk before the lights hit. I respect the hell out of Frankie Beverly, and I’ll forever love the communal nature of dancing along to his rendition with other melanated people, but I wish I had this version during my undergraduate days. Tay Keith’s production (more on him later) modernizes this classic for 2020 and decades beyond, and Yonce’s always gonna Yonce. I went from assuming the song was Twitter hype to grooving down D.C. city blocks, hoping nobody caught me hitting actual dance moves in public. “Before I Let Go” is her song now. Sorry, Frankie. You had a good run.

If you’ve been keeping up with the WSH Radio ALBUMS of the DECADE podcast series, you know I’ve been belatedly earning my Associate’s Degree in Big K.R.I.T. Studies. (If that were an actual major, I’m sure some of my friends would actually reenroll.) I’d like to state again, for the record, I’ve never found K.R.I.T. lacking in talent. But no matter my reasoning, I’ve been at minimum delinquent in both catching up on his discography and giving him the respect he’s due.

Allow me to rectify that now. Authentically unique, nobody else except K.R.I.T. could make this song. Spiritual and southern as ever, K.R.I.T. glides across this Winans’ sample like he’s delivering his own Sunday morning sermon, even more powerful and convicted than he was at the top of the decade. I … guess I’m a fan now? Friends: I’m sorry I ever doubted you.

Three musical tropes for which I’m an absolute sucker: spanish guitars, whatever ‘anthem’ setting Just Blaze puts on his beats once they’re completed, and two MCs so in-sync they’re damn near finishing each other’s lyrics. The best examples of that last trope include Jay and Kanye on “Gotta Have It,” Redman and Method Man on “Da Rockwilder,” and now YBN Cordae and Anderson .Paak on “RNP,” a song so entertaining I declared out loud it’d make these rankings the first time I heard it.

By my estimation, Paak’s last 12 months have been musically uneven; I really liked Oxnard but forgot Ventura exists, while it seems everyone else liked Ventura but not Oxnard. Hearing him so effortlessly play big brother to Cordae reemphasized both his talent and dexterity, his sunny disposition singlehandedly powering the track. To Cordae’s credit, he nimbly keeps pace, serving as the straight-man to .Paak’s outright jubilance. And learning J. Cole’s on production here is the proverbial cherry on top of the sundae. This kid Cordae’s got good taste.

Three summers ago, I stood maybe 500 feet from Ari Lennox as she performed “Backseat,” openly lusting over this woman with the voice of an alto I know I’ve heard in a gospel choir somewhere. She’s so fake-wholesome, and fake-humble about being fake-wholesome, and I love it. I really think my stepmom would adore Ari’s voice until she actually heard the lyrics. Then she’d wonder aloud why the girl has to be so crude. And Ari would laugh at that question. Boisterously.

“BMO” quickly emerged as the people’s champ from May’s Shea Butter Baby, the letters short for “Break Me Off” if you had any lingering doubts she’s about that action. The song officially interpolates LaBelle’s “Lady Marmalade,” but I promise you I’m hearing way too much of Aaliyah’s “More Than a Woman” for it to be coincidental. If nothing else, the song’s are spiritually related: both these women are, er, libidinous, and aren’t too shy to tell you about it in detail. My respects to the First Lady of Dreamville for walking entirely in her truth.

(For bonus footage: please watch her Instagram Live stories if you haven’t before; she’s really hilarious.)

Starrah briefly popped up in last year’s rankings, as I tried to explain her (very significant) role in creating what became the final form of Travis Scott’s “pick up the phone.” She reminds me of Jeremih in the grooviest way — just much, much more ethereal. I got momentarily obsessed with her a few winters ago after hearing “Rush” (probably on SoundCloud; shoutout to Mel), and I’ve been preaching her good gospel to anyone who’ll listen ever since.

Every single person I’ve played “Codeine Cowgirl” for this year has loved it. Literally, every single one. I know because by like the sixth person asking for background information on the song I actually started tracking it. What is this?! I’ve never heard of her before, but this is great. Reinforced by an absolutely irresistible guitar riff, this song grabs your attention from the first second and doesn’t let go until it’s over nearly two-and-a-half minutes later. Starrah’s discography isn’t the most extensive, but “Codeine Cowgirl” will force you to dive into the little bit that’s currently out there. And then check out her songwriting credits. You’re guaranteed to see a few of your favorites there, too. One of mine is still to come in this year’s rankings.

I cannot recommend the first season of Netflix’s Rhythm + Flow any more highly, one of the show’s superpowers being that it damn near compels you to be invested in no less than ten of the contestants by the time the first batch of finalists reaches Hollywood. In hindsight, the über-professional D Smoke was always the favorite to win the inaugural version of this competition: supremely polished and confident, proficient in a number of instruments, and randomly fluent in Spanish to boot, once Smoke eked past Old Man Saxon during Episode 6’s rap battles, the show was quite frankly his to lose.

Nevertheless, I personally became a TrOyMan superfan, impressed by his very clear growth from episode-to-episode. Bay Area-born and Atlanta-raised with an on-stage swagger rare for a relative rookie, TrOyMan did not arrive in Los Angeles as one of the four best MCs, but by the final episode, I’d become convinced he actually had a chance to take it all. Gifted a truly incomparable Tay Keith instrumental, Troy goes on a run of metaphors I’m still trying to work into some Instagram captions: “B****, I been lyrical since umbilicals / I reached the pinnacle being cynical / Verses on verses, it’s getting biblical / Hallelujah, I’m puffing that indigo / I know where I’m finna go / And it’s where you not gone be.” D Smoke might’ve had the most consistent competition, but TrOyMan definitely had the best one. And although #10 in these rankings isn’t quite worth $250K, I hope the sentiment is felt all the same.

The most recently released to make this year’s list, I only heard “Gucci Pajamas” for the first time while dropping the homie TeeTwoTimes off at the airport post-Howard Homecoming in October. Admittedly, I’m way too much of a cynic, so her sales pitch seemed way too good to be true. You’re telling me Charlie’s on here, too? Why? I began paying Guapdad a bit more attention following his appearances on Dreamers III, but I’d be lying if I didn’t immediately cop to ranking “Gucci Pajamas” inside this year’s top-10 for the Charlie and Chance features alone.

There’s a sequence during Chance’s verse where he complains that “all [his] pajamawear is whiter than Santa beard / Whiter than Bon Iver / Whiter than Sonny, Cher.” I don’t know how long it took Chance to think of that and write it down, but I truly do appreciate that he took the time. And, still, why is Charlie here again? Not that I’m complaining, at all. I can’t wait until I can afford to have him, just, narrate my day. You’re not convincing me that’s not a good way to spend my disposable income.

Last time I talked to Willie on WSH | RADIO, I actually mentioned how much I appreciate his outros, not knowing this one was still to come, probably the crown jewel of his young career. Over a bleating saxophone loop, Willie gracefully explores the gravity behind what we often take for granted as a clichéd farewell, considering our safety is far too often in the control of forces beyond our own. Willie and I both lost one of our best friends in this world when we were 15, and so every goodbye since has undoubtedly held extra weight, whether or not we’ve openly acknowledged it. You expect to see your loved ones again in this lifetime, but it’s ultimately out of our hands. So control what you can. Be safe. That’s all we can ask, until we meet again.

Read William Garner’s excellent review of Keep the Change.

My personal Artist of the Decade, I wrote this about Bas back in 2016:

I now know Bas is a full seven years older than I am, but Last Winter is clearly the musings of a colored man in his mid-20s. The whole thing is an ode to travel and meaningful experiences and trying to make something of yourself while not knowing exactly what "making something of yourself" means. … It's ultra-relatable, if nothing else.

Fortunately, it's more than [that]. It's sonically brilliant. Bas says he didn't start rapping until 2010, and that was more because it was something to do than some huge desire to become a rap star. But for a guy who sorta-kinda fell into this, his ear for music is incredible. Musicians frequently cite their desire to create "sonic landscapes," projects with supreme musical fluidity. The rookie did it on his first try.

I don’t really have much to add, except that the rookie’s a seasoned veteran now. Bas’s music makes me want to see the world, and listen to his music in the places I’m envisioning while I’m here in the States. “Nirvana” evokes the most transcendent kind of love: effortless, light, carefree, unconditional, alive. I’m so looking forward to Bas’s next decade. Cole oughta throw the farm behind him the second he senses the opportunity.

I grew up in a Kirk Franklin household. You think “Melodies from Heaven” is Kirk’s best song? It’s not even the best song on that album. I’m old enough to remember the legitimate fear in black churches nationwide that Kirk Franklin by himself was ruining gospel music. (For what it’s worth — and to his credit — he leaned heavily into the troll, first building a song and then an entire album around the concept he was on trial for the crime of making gospel music too secular.) Kirk is, bluntly, the sole survivor (does Hezekiah Walker count?) of gospel music’s last golden era, shepherded by those 90s-era choir leaders whose live albums live on in the Gospel music canon. Kirk kept more children of a certain era in churches than I’m sure those pastors back in the day would want to admit. And nowadays, he’s keeping more than a few of those kids-turned-adults maintaining their relationship with a higher power, whomever that power may be.

“Love Theory” reminds me of old-school Kirk, something I can see my homegirls back at Northwest Unity liturgically dancing to. Simpler times, they were. I should probably go to church, huh?

I’ve taken offense in the past that the sort-of critical acclaim Ty gets on Twitter and other social media platforms rarely translates to actual success on the Billboard charts (which, yes, I still care far too much about). I don’t know, man; a “Ty$ Features” playlist came across my timeline last year and it didn’t include “You Could Be My Lover,” which is the essential Ty$ feature. Folks are frauds, man. Yeah, I said it. Word to Rihanna.

“Hottest in the City” wasn’t #1 in the country for a week?! You’ve gotta be kidding me. Uncredited appearances by Juicy J and Project Pat (himself a national treasure) just … flew under the radar, huh? Was this an awareness issue? Do not enough people know about this song? Tell a friend to tell a friend. We can salvage this single, one fan at a time.

Morally, I couldn’t rank these two any higher than #4. But I also won’t pretend like “No Guidance” isn’t one of the year’s four best songs, either. I have no interest in waging a war on behalf of Chris Brown and his talent; either you think he’s a generational talent or a crackhead, and that’s somehow become the literal spectrum. All I’ll say: If Aubrey and his former arch-nemesis are seriously gonna transform into the Mega Powers for awhile, I wouldn’t mind an 8-song EP. And neither would you.

So I amended the already-squishy parameters of these rankings (from January to January, to a much more reasonable Black Friday reset date) just to account for this song here, a late November 2018 release that somehow didn’t cross my radar until last summer. Just months after her appearance on Masego’s “Queen Tings” from last year’s Lady Lady, Masego graciously returns the favor for Tiffany’s loosie, but Tiffany herself shines in the driver’s seat, using this stripped, laid-back beat to showcase her sublime vocal talents. Apparently something’s affecting her songs’ availability on the big streaming platforms, but please please please click the link on the song’s title to hear it on SoundCloud. If you’re disappointed, I’ll personally give you your money back.

I’ve already articulated my steadfast belief “FIND YOUR WAY BACK” is among the best songs of all-time, but I can admit I could be laying it on a bit thick, so I’ll relent from greatest songs ever to a slightly simpler greatest Beyoncé songs ever. (Another quick shoutout to Starrah!) A deeply touching and personal ode to her father, I can’t listen to this song consecutive times without becoming a complete wreck (this is a safe space), her lyrics so closely matching too many of the early life lessons my own father once tried giving me.

As a child, the challenge of “finding your way back” is both tangible and thrilling for a kid, semi-free from direct parental supervision but close enough to the house that they trust you to make it back without their guidance. In adulthood, for a variety of reasons, that challenge becomes far more abstract. Despite my dad’s constant warnings that he wouldn’t always be here in the physical, I’m still in search of who I am without him, almost four years later. I always imagine Beyoncé singing this song to her children — as Simba (or Nala, I suppose) would to their child — as someone with lived experience, as evidence I too can find my way home, and one day share these lessons with my own children once we’re there.

I hope I’m not betraying the trust of my friends by writing this, but a number of us brought in 2019 together, openly interrogating Nipsey’s career to date. Someone I consider a sister often paints portraits of her favorite artists and delivers them as gifts should they come to town to perform; most of these exchanges go off without a hitch, but she shared that Nipsey couldn’t be bothered. Beyond that personal anecdote, I’ll be frank that I found his $100 Crenshaw idea at best overambitious and at worst pretentious, a peculiar move for a guy trying to expand his fanbase, I think? I respected the defiance behind the decision-making, Nipsey making it clear that he’d be a rapper on his terms alone. But getting to understand the method behind the madness seemed like such a chore. It seemed that Nip did want to be a leader but actively went out of his way to turn folks away from the movement.

Which is why it was certainly noticeable when Nipsey began leaning into his celebrity at the top of the year, recording a series of charming online vignettes with his partner Lauren London to accompany their February 2019 GQ spread. Nip obviously still wasn’t comfortable with these exercises — you can see in the Couples Quiz video that he’s way too gangster for any of this — but I was most impressed with the fact he’d even tried. We can thank Lauren for that, as she, according to that GQ article, opened Nipsey up to the idea of expanding his audience. Only makes sense he kept her directly by his side for the most vulnerable parts.

It’s never not eerie hearing musicians eulogize themselves. But if this is Nipsey’s last solo effort, I pray it stands the tests of time, a contender for song of the year regardless of the tragedy surrounding it. Triumphant yet grateful, Nip allowed a brief, rare moment to enjoy the fruits of his labor, decking his grandma out in a Puma sweatsuit and bringing her aboard his private jet to enjoy a glass of champagne as visual representation of the generational change he’s providing, even after death. I hate it that Nipsey Hussle died so young. I hate that he died at his happiest even more.