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The 25 Best Singles of 2014

Finding the gems with freshness and vitality is as much a burrower’s game as ever these days.

The 25 Best Singles of 2014
Photo: Interscope

As if taking a cue from Daft Punk’s nothing-but-nostalgic triumph at the Grammy Awards, 2014 was the year of the late arrival. Two years after its release, Disclosure’s “Latch” suddenly and belatedly became a wedding-reception staple. (Though, as Sam Smith could now attest in no less than 35 states in the Union, sometimes the wait’s worth it.) Pharrell Williams’s “Happy,” which first appeared two summers ago in the utterly inconsequential Despicable Me 2, rode a surprise Oscar nomination to rule the charts throughout spring, before ultimately winding up as the year’s preeminent song for everyone to pretend they hated all along. And Taylor Swift finally admitted to being the pop artist the rest of the country-music world already knew she’s been the entire time. Of course, the industry’s default mode remains as ever the hot new preferably young thing. So it’s hardly surprising that, despite Swift’s many magazine covers, Ariana Grande emerged as arguably the most ubiquitous force of perk on the pop charts, her melisma sounding freshly trained like the first-in-class graduate of the Mariah Carey Arpeggio Academy she is. Ultimately, none of these artists came within earshot of making our list, which only goes to show that finding the gems in popular music, the songs with freshness and vitality, is as much a burrower’s game as ever these days. The songs we chose share with Grande that sense of emergence and discovery. Only they’re darker, with a disinclination for showing their faces until you reckon with their imposing talent, or, conversely, zeal for giving listeners uncompromisingly violent sexuality at face value, leaving more dead bodies strewn in their wake. And more references to masturbation. Eric Henderson

Editor’s Note: Listen to the full playlist at The House Next Door.


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25. Spoon, “Inside Out”

This is what happens when Britt Daniel hands his bandmates a piano ballad and tells them to turn it into a Dr. Dre track: lyrics about devotion and setting one’s own values (“I don’t make time for holy rollers/Though they may wash my feet…they do not make me complete”) backed by three distinct keyboard solos, gooey synth strings, and a drum beat worth busting out the subwoofer for. A rare instance of Spoon conceding to reverb, “Inside Out” features a magnificently wounded-sounding vocal from Daniel and all the sonic trickery (tinkling bells, reversed string swells, panned keyboards, etc.) listeners have come to expect from producer Dave Fridmann. Spoon, primarily known for tautness and instrumental economy, lets their maximalist flag fly on “Inside Out,” and, in turn, created their most indelible ballad to date. James Rainis


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24. London Grammar, “Hey Now”

Moving in the same sonic stream as the xx, London Grammar’s “Hey Now” gathers itself so slowly that it’s almost somnolent, seemingly too curtailed to achieve any texture or emotional effect. But there’s an urgency to the track all the more powerful because it forgoes self-aggrandizement or posturing. Hannah Reid’s vocals have been compared to those of Florence Welsh, but Reid demonstrates greater reserve and subtlety, though her voice, when she opens it up, is just as powerful. “Hey Now” is lyrically simple and repetitive, but Reid imbues the exclamative “Hey now” with a compass of emotional resonance as wide as her own vocal range. Producer Dot Major and guitarist Daniel Rothman surround Reid’s vocals with reverb-heavy keys, chiming guitars that unwind forever, and a bottomless sub-bass, but mostly, they just stay out of her way. Caleb Caldwell


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23. Beyoncé, “***Flawless”

It all comes down to those three stars. They’re the paradox at the heart of one of the most confessional, most combative singles in a career that hardly wants for them. Technically speaking, those stars represent the losing score that Girl’s Tyme received on Star Search. But lest you think they portend a humble Bey, just consider where those three stars put the song alphabetically. And then bow down, bitches, as Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie breaks down centuries of ingrained gynophobia. Beyoncé trades every shade of fair-market fierce available, and she won’t stop until every little girl’s got a shirt proclaiming, “I woke up like this” But what do those three stars really stand for in her world? Me, Myself and I. Henderson

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22. Mac Demarco, “Passing Out Pieces”

Sedate, simple, and relaxed, “Passing Out Pieces” conveys emotional distress in the most tranquil fashion possible, two short verses and a chorus detailing the small trials of minor celebrity, the passage from a personal life to one defined by creation and performance. Backed up by a chugging electric organ and some bulbous synth swells, DeMarco manages to sound both dreamy and glum without taking any of this too seriously, archly playing up the slacker vibe via mysterious maternal references, cruising on his innate talent at shaping complex songs out of a few small parts. Jesse Cataldo


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21. Cloud Nothings, “I’m Not Part of Me”

So much of Dylan Baldi’s music with Cloud Nothings is burdened with a defeatist, world-weary angst (a prerequisite for any self-serious aspiring punk rocker), but “I’m Not Part of Me” thrashes along with a determined optimism he’s rarely expressed before. “I’m learning how to be here and nowhere else/How to focus on what I can do myself,” Baldi sings in an attempt to quell his anxieties, while drummer Jayson Gerycz bashes away like he’s gunning for Dave Grohl’s spot on a re-recording of Nirvana’s In Utero. It’s not what’s expected of a singer who once destroyed his larynx screeching the mantra “No future, no past,” but it’s as catchy a paean to emotional stoicism (“I’m not telling you all I’m going through”) and as perfect a punk anthem as you’ll hear in 2014. Rainis


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20. Röyksopp and Robyn, “Monument”

For its release as a single, Röyksopp and Robyn’s “Monument” was edited down to a more economical six-and-a-half minutes (featured below), and an even tidier five for the remix subsequently included on Röyksopp’s own The Inevitable End. But the original version, in all its near-10-minute glory, stands as a monumental beacon to R&R’s formal and esthetic synergy. Svein Berge and Torbjørn Brundtland don’t push Robyn so much as elevate her, fitting for a synth-prog song that quite simply towers. The track pulsates, grooves, and swells as the singer methodically lays bare her existential crisis like a dying queen preparing her own sarcophagus, Jamie Irrepressible’s mournful backing vocals and Norwegian jazz musician Kjetil Møster’s wailing sax at once grieving and celebrating her. Sal Cinquemani


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19. Lee Bains III & the Glory Fires, “The Company Man”

The electric guitar is well over 80 years old now, but on “The Company Man,” the kick-in-the-mouth leadoff track from Birmingham’s Lee Bains III & the Glory Fires’ sophomore album, Dereconstructed, it’s rarely sounded more vibrant. Bains and Eric Wallace’s axes rage together like turbocharged chainsaws, transitioning seamlessly between Stones-esque stomping and Muscle Shoals soul vamping. With all that rocking going on, it’s easy to forget about the words, which are mixed well below the guitars. Baines’ lyrics might constitute one of the most incisive political commentaries of the year as he rails against crooked bankers and his segregationist Southern heritage. But even if he were singing about dish soap, who cares? Those guitars, man. Jeremy Winograd

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18. Caribou, “Can’t Do Without You”

“Can’t Do Without You” is perhaps the only dance track of the year that could realistically soundtrack the first dance at a wedding: The song purveys an unfettered romantic sentiment schmaltzy enough to please Grandma over a groove frisky enough for the younger cousins. Instead of the belt-it-from-the-rafters approach of big-tent EDM, Caribou’s Dan Snaith opts for unembellished, puppy-eyed earnestness. Building from handclaps affected with a soaking-wet reverb effect, “Can’t Do Without You” erupts slowly and deliberately into an orgy of whooshing organ synths and skittering hi-hat figures. The tracks’s dynamic breadth and emotional heft is bolstered by its joyous compositional simplicity: start quiet, get loud, get quiet again, repeat. “Love is all you need” may be well-tread ground at this point, but Snaith ensures it still rings true. Rainis


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17. Jack White, “Lazaretto”

“Lazaretto” is Italian for a plague hospital, and a fitting title for a track on which Jack White harnesses, behind the bass pulse and impossibly fuzzed blowtorch guitar, the deep lassitude and bone-rot of the blues. Jack puts on a convincing show, aided by an electric violin and palsied synth effects. “Every single bone in my brain is electric,” he spits, but, quarantined and imprisoned and tricked by (a female-gendered) God, that electricity has no outlet but braggadocio: “I’m so Detroit, I make it rise from the ashes” The song is so good we almost believe him. Caldwell


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16. Disclosure ft/ Mary J. Blige, “F for You”

“One more time, yo” In one sense, our inclusion of the remix “F for You” is one of those “cheats” Disclosure lumps in with the restless whispers infecting them. The track was already a single before, and citing it now feels a tad like aligning with the throngs of Americans who never heard their star-making remixes for the likes of Jessie Ware. But like a dessert that adds an exclamation point to an ultimately perfect meal, Mary J. Blige’s soulful interjections prove the catalytic ingredient no one would’ve known was crucial to the recipe until their byplay with the song’s spare Chicago house beats made us all fools for them. Henderson


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15. alt-J, “Left Hand Free”

Although it still glitches and twitches like Radiohead hopped up on whatever Baroque musicians used to get high, alt-J’s new album telegraphs its oddity less forcefully than their debut. One of the primary points of entry is “Left Hand Free,” a song ostensibly written as a “normal” radio single to mollify their record label. The lyrics are full-on Dada (“I tackle weeds just so the moon buggers nibble”), the guitar riff sweats like a Black Keys jam session, and the hook is big enough even for American audiences. The group has called “Left Hand Free” “the least alt-J song ever,” but, despite its blues pastiche, only they could have written it. Caldwell

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14. Sia, “Chandelier”

As a songwriter, Sia has scored copious hits by channeling the voices of pop stars as varied as Rihanna and Celine Dion. On “Chandelier,” her heart- and lung-rending delivery of a song about addiction feels entirely her own, the kind of full-throttle catharsis that you can’t fake no matter how big the paycheck. From the reggae-inflected verse asserting that “party girls don’t get hurt” to the sky-high chorus declaring the singer’s intent to swing from ceiling fixtures while drinking her face off, “Chandelier” captures how denial can morph into jarring revelations about the extent of one’s self-destruction. The song, however, keeps that reckoning in abeyance, riding its thudding beat and reveling in those final moments of exhilaration before the hangover inevitably hits. Annie Galvin


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13. Sturgill Simpson, “Turtles All the Way Down”

In one sense, this is the song that real outlaw-country fans have been waiting for after something like 35 years of being let down again and again by Nashville’s conveyor belt of fake-cowboy-hat-wearing pop-country bros. When Simpson, a real small-town Kentucky boy, starts the song off a cappella, sounding like the ghost of Ol’ Waylon himself, it feels like spring finally beginning to bloom after a long, cold winter. But “Turtles All the Way Down” is far more than just a nostalgia kick. Rather than lie back on country clichés, Simpson sings about secular spiritual awakening and “reptile aliens made of light”; he even tosses in some psychedelic filtering effects for good measure. Winograd


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12. Perfume Genius, “Queen”

Prior to Too Bright, Perfume Genius was known mainly for excess of the emotional variety, otherwise opting for spartan lo-fi and somber piano pounding, which is part of what makes the sudden shift into dramatic opulence on “Queen,” the album’s second track, so surprising. Riding a slow wave of distorted guitar strums and crystalline synth effects, he lets things build slowly before launching into a wordless chorus just past the one-minute mark, a mixture of grunts and trills signaling the union of sumptuous production with brash physicality—revisionist glam with an ornate, stomping approach to personal pride. Cataldo


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11. Indiana, “Solo Dancing”

Elsewhere on our list, alt-J leaves little doubt about what the right hand’s doing. Here, Indiana’s introverted electro ballad draws a possibly too-obvious comparison between finding bliss by yourself while enveloped within the flashing lights and undulating waves of bass on the dance floor and finding bliss by yourself enveloped within the folds of your bed sheets and undulating gestures of…well, there’s no point in asking Indiana to elucidate further on the mechanics of her very Robyn-esque body talk. Best to just take her word for it and tend to your own, err, dance moves. Henderson

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10. St. Vincent, “Digital Witness”

There’s something about “Digital Witness” that hearkens back to a song by one of Annie Clark’s most obvious influences: David Bowie’s “TVC15” Both songs use herky-jerky vocal hooks to deliver sly existential horror about the prevalence of technology in the modern age, and almost 40 years after Bowie sang about a television swallowing Iggy Pop’s girlfriend, Clark sounds even more distressed: “Digital witnesses, what’s the point of even sleeping?/If I can’t show it, if you can’t see me/What’s the point of doing anything?” But the funky, chopped-up horn bleats that form the backbone of “Digital Witness” manage to place the tune squarely in the 21st century. Winograd


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9. Jenny Lewis, “Just One of the Guys”

There are several very good songs with almost uncomfortably personal lyrics and poppy earworm hooks on erstwhile Rilo Kiley frontwoman Jenny Lewis’s third solo album, The Voyager, but “Just One of the Guys” is one of the few that had the benefit of not being produced by Ryan Adams, with his ’80s AOR-rock fetish. Instead, the Beck-produced single possesses more of a late-’70s singer-songwriter feel that suits Lewis’s voice and personality better. But it’s not the arrangement, or even the incredibly catchy see-sawing chorus that stands out the most; it’s Lewis’s daringly close-to-the-bone bridge: “There’s only one difference between you and me/When I look at myself all I can see/I’m just another lady without a baby” Winograd


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8. Future Islands, “Seasons (Waiting on You)”

Future Islands frontman Samuel T. Herring has one of those odd voices—poised at some anomalous juncture between lethal earnestness and ironic affectation—that can easily leave an uninitiated listener feeling puzzled about his intent. This proves to be an asset on “Seasons (Waiting on You),” which sidesteps straightforward New Romantics homage through the bewildering effect of the singer’s voice, and only grows stronger as he confirms his seriousness, deftly swooping between growled lows and dramatic crooned highs. The music bounces along mournfully behind him, its whistled synth trill and 4/4 beat acting as the steady baseline beneath this tumultuous tale of longing. Cataldo


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7. Sam Smith, “Stay with Me”

From its plaintive piano chords to Sam Smith’s wavering inflections, “Stay with Me” bleeds vulnerability while proudly affirming the all-too-human need for intimacy, no matter how fleeting the attraction may be. The song builds on an initially spare arrangement of piano, drums, and voice, adding a full choir and Smith’s spiraling grace notes with each chorus. A gospel tune sung by a jazz singer, “Stay with Me” dwells beautifully in its throwback simplicity, refusing to indulge the current appetite for synthesized distractions and showy production. Its massive commercial success attests to the fact that classic American genres can live alongside more contemporary ones, especially in the hands of an artist with Smith’s technical mastery. Galvin

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6. FKA Twigs, “Two Weeks”

The best sex songs are often not about sex at all, but dreaming about it. What with its nearly indecipherable pitched-down vocals and singer FKA twigs’s breathy, staccato delivery, it’s easy to dismiss “Two Weeks” as just another tribute to fucking. At the song’s climax, twigs (a.k.a. English singer-songwriter Tahliah Barnett) eagerly pants the best pop lyric of the year: “Hi, motherfucker, get your mouth open, you know you’re mine” But upon further inspection, “Two Weeks” reveals itself to be a wanton fantasy, and one inspired and perpetuated by a little green: “Smoke on your skin to get those pretty eyes rollin’/My thighs are apart for when you’re ready to breathe in” Love is the drug and it’s pussy she’s dealing. Cinquemani


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5. Hozier, “Take Me to Church”

Irish singer-songwriter Hozier’s blindsiding hit “Take Me to Church” is a paean to sensuality, starting out with piano and vocals in all the hushed intimacy of a church whisper and ending with tactile pagan swagger. In the best vein of both Delta blues and Irish literature, ecstatic carnal love and religious feeling are deeply entwined. Orgasm, that “deathless death,” is substituted for any other redemption that religion might offer, and Hozier begs for it in a supple and worn voice. There are no clear winners in the song, other than the listener: The singer presses back against the oppression of “absolutes,” but it could just be the weight of hedonism that he’s feeling, a mistress crueler than any femme fatal. Caldwell


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4. Vic Mensa, “Down on My Luck”

A song as seamlessly crafted as “Down on My Luck” risks being overshadowed by its grace notes (or, in this particular case, its clever concept clip). What on the surface sounds like just a punchier, house-adjacent variation of the smooth, 2-step confections of Craig David reveals itself as a slow-burning surrender to the lure of the four-four beat. Mensa, an MC by trade, kicks off his club jam by warbling polyrhythmically around the beat, as though doing whatever he can to avoid landing on it. Ultimately, though, he can’t hold out any longer, cashes in his luck, and does: “Fuck that, get down!” Drop of the year. Henderson


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3. Jessie Ware, “Say You Love Me”

Co-written with Ed Sheeran, “Say You Love Me” gives voice to the agonizing experience of waiting for mutual infatuation to turn into either long-term commitment or devastating heartbreak. Jessie Ware captures those emotional vicissitudes by modulating between understated R&B verses, delicate falsetto runs, and full-throated, synth-blasted choruses, in which she exclaims, “Baby, looks as though we’re running out of words to say/And love’s floating away” After the bridge, the song kicks into straight-up gospel mode, Ware’s voice bolstered by a full choir and propulsive handclaps. It’s as though she’s throwing all her cards on the table, declaring that if her offer isn’t taken up then she’ll have a damn fine time showing her lover what there is to miss out on. Galvin

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2. The New Pornographers, “Brill Bruisers”

From the opening A chord and four-part harmony backing A. C. Newman’s vocal, “Brill Bruisers” is a celebratory assault, an encouragement to get on board with its jubilant hook. Newman’s lyrics often tend toward the opaque, but here they’re conceptually playful without being pedantic. The title refers to the Brill Building genre of mid-century American music, paying homage to the style of pop-rock embodied by artists like Neil Diamond and Laura Nyro, and the song’s stripped-down bridge is a study in internal rhyme: “Go in fighting/To crying/The rising star dying/From its own virus” “Brill Bruisers” can be sophisticated or straightforward depending on how you want to interpret it: You could spend hours unpacking its lyrics, or three minutes getting lost in its contagious joy. Galvin


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1. Jessie Ware, “Tough Love”

No track off of Jessie Ware’s latest, Tough Love, exemplifies the singer’s delicate touch better than the titular one, what with its sincere message of heartbreak hiding beneath cooed vocals, ghostly electronic flourishes, and wispy percussion. Rather than lessen the impact, this understated approach only cements Ware’s status as a refined chanteuse with the capacity to achieve an icy distance from her material while still drawing on depths of real feeling, transforming pain into something ethereal and quietly affecting. These qualities make for a song which gains power with each successive listen, growing more potent as its details and accents emerge. Cataldo

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