What do Sturgill Simpson, Angine de Poitrine, and Tori Amos have in common? Longtime music critic Alan Light loves their new records. As is the case with only the very best listeners, Light has no loyalty to any particular artist or genre. He simply cares about quality. Keep reading for his list of the 10 best albums of the year so far. —Madison Vain, executive editor
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Halfway through 2026, the year’s best albums have met the chaos with fury, absurdity, and a little hope.
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Halfway through 2026. Only halfway through 2026? Already halfway through 2026? It’s impossible to know how to feel about time passing when any given day can feel like a week. Olivia Rodrigo had no idea how strong her prophecies would ring out when she warned us, way back in 2021, that it’s brutal out there.
It’s been nonetheless a fascinating six months in music. There were surprising wins—Ella Langley locked in her status as a country superstar with Dandelion (in general, it was a good chapter for country, as the list below indicates) and Drake’s preposterous trio of albums somehow pulled him back from the brink of becoming exclusively a punchline. There were also curious shortfalls, like Raye getting right up to the edge of the breakthrough she deserves with “Where Is My Husband!” only to see her This Music May Contain Hope album prove so insanely dense and ambitious that it seemed to hold her back, or Bruno Mars’s comically derivative The Romantic dropping down the charts.
But when you line them up, there were a lot of really strong albums in this Chaos SZN, responding to our times with fury and with absurdity. And in just the next few weeks, we’ll hear from Jack White, the Rolling Stones, Gracie Abrams, and the Strokes, with Phoebe Bridgers, Mike D, and others closely following. Maybe there’s still hope for us yet.
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Few are the liquids that carry the barroom lore of Campari. The celebrated bitter liqueur has been a cocktail staple for over 150 years. It was popularized by its eponymous inventor, Gaspare Campari, on the crowded sidewalks and throughout the boisterous cafes of 1860s Milan. Thanks to its bright red color—initially derived from crushed insects—it turned drinks into spectacles long before Instagram existed. Its bittersweet taste—fueled by orange zest and a clandestine combination of dried roots and botanicals—became a signature flavor profile of the ensuing aperitivo culture, a movement that came to dominate Western Europe.
Much has changed for Campari in the years since. It’s now a veritable empire, reporting upwards of $3.3 billion in annual sales and counting brands no less prominent than Wild Turkey, Appleton Estate, and Glen Grant within its portfolio. Its formula has evolved; its iconic crimson red hue now comes from food dye as opposed to pulverized bugs. Its ABV modulates depending on the market. (Here in the U.S. it currently sits at 24 percent.) And yet its universal appeal endures.
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When Gertrude’s opened in our neighborhood, my brother and I made it a point to show up as often as we could. We wanted to support the new spot, of course, but the goal was to become familiar enough that we could always, or almost always, get a spot at the bar. Through sheer repetition and recognition, we’d have a place that wasn’t our apartment where we could get a drink without having to mix it ourselves. The food was unpretentious and delicious, the martinis were freezing cold, and the music was an excellent mix of ’80s pop and ’00s indie. In an area lacking fin(er) dining and relatively kid-free establishments, Gertrude’s checked several boxes. The only question was when we’d go.
Our weekends were crowded with errands and extracurriculars, and there wasn’t a single weekday that felt more special or available than the next. So when Gertrude’s announced a new weekly special—every Monday, its signature burger would get remixed either in-house or by a guest chef—it felt like kismet.
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