James Blake’s 2011 self-titled debut was a masterpiece of hermetic melancholy, a midnight whisper of a record surveying that stark domain where sadness echoes back to its bearer as terror. Blake’s work since then has mapped a slow climb into the light, his skeletal compositions collecting collaborators and textures along the way. On his fourth album, Assume Form, Blake throws himself a party in the name of romance and swoons through the strobing zone of desire. For the first time, he sounds flustered and even a little bit messy, like he’s struggling to wrap his mind around resplendence. He stumbles here and there, but it wouldn’t be love if he didn’t.

by Chris Stamm