I’m the millennial you keep hearing about. My music came from Napster. Then from KaZaA. Then BitTorrent. And now it comes from Spotify.

I’ve always had the stream of music at my finger tips. Like a song? Download the entire library. Never listen to it.

Not this year, though. I bought a record player and forced myself to listen to the entire album. And music changed.

Instead of a “best of” list, I’m narrowing it down to one album, the single album of the year, because there’s enough contained in an album of music to tide us over for days. For weeks. For years, if we let it.

Amid all of the musical advances, sweeping masterpieces, and catchy beats, it was a small, intimate record that affected me the most.

Jason Isbell’s Southeastern forgoes musical ornamentation for a focused style supporting honest, deeply vulnerable songwriting.

In days when we raged,
we flew off the page.
Such damage was done.
But I made it through
‘cause somebody knew
I was meant for someone

“Cover Me Up” and “Stockholm,” two fairly traditional love songs, open the album. Together they pan love that is valuable not in and of itself but because it is unlikely and undeserved. Neither of these songs disconnect from the hardships that led to love.

They prepare us for the grit of the record. They are the hero around the campfire, getting ready to launch into his tale. We know he’s going to come out alive, but that’s not always going to seem certain.

And the stories only mine to live and die with
And the answers only mine to come across
But the ghosts that I got scared and I got high with
Look a little lost

The middle of Southeastern is not made up of songs that you listen to and casually sing along with. These are songs that get in your head. They bring up those breakups. They bring up those nights you don’t remember. They bring up regret.

“Traveling Alone” has Isbell confronting loneliness. We often look at the road as a symbol of independence and freedom. But here it’s distance. At some point the joy of discovery, the independence gives way. He is alone, and even the thoughts in his head can’t keep him company. Like Christopher McCandless of Into the Wild fame, he comes to the conclusion that all that self-discovery dies with you if you don’t share it.

And so he wrestles with the death in “Elephant”, arguably the best example of storytelling in song of the year. Here are two people dealing with cancer, trying to live out their normal lives. It gets past the “Live every day like it’s your last” sentiment that breaks down when you keep waking up the next morning. It gets to the cliches we use to comfort ourselves. It gets at the loneliness of death. We each go to the grave alone. It is a challenging 3:40 seconds that I’d put next to the montage from Up in tear-creation-per-minute.

And so it goes with the rest of the album. Each song a small story capturing the essence of a universal struggle, from dealing with healing and hurt in a relationship while sitting on an airplane in “Flying Over Water” to the desire to atone for our pasts while standing in front of the lost children board in “Different Days.”

Despite the simple instrumentation, there is still a surprising variety. The calm and reflective hangover song, “New South Wales”, lulls us into “Super 8” which plays like a Guy Ritchie movie. Everything starting at once. Vocals and instruments, the night spiraling out of control as we stumble– “Don’t want to die in a Super 8 Motel”– and reach out for balance.

And then there’s “Yvette”. We’ve seen the wrong in us. It’s sick and painful. It needs to be punished. God, it needs to meet justice. And that gaze turns outward. “Look at the horrible things others are getting away with.” This is the song of a man who wants justice for himself, but God hasn’t granted it. Karma hasn’t granted it. The law hasn’t granted it. So we believe justice won’t come. We take up the gun. If no one will care for Yvette, the least we can do to atone is to bring justice for that one girl.

Stop. How did we get to this point? In this story? In this album? How are we nodding along in this song? How did Isbell get us to the point where murder seems right?

It’s the universal emotions that he taps into that hook us. We have a past. We’re not the people we thought we were. We want to make amends.

And this album forces you to encounter and question that darkness and those motives.

Is your brother on a church kick
Seems like just a different kind of dope sick
Better off to teach a dog a card trick
And try to have a point and make it clear

Out of all that testing and struggle, we reach “Relatively Easy”. Unlike the rest of Southeastern, we aren’t invited into this song with Isbell. This is a resolution wholly his own. Hard-won and personal.

He’s gone on this journey. He’s wrestled with life, and this is where he ends up, holding a photograph of lost love. He’s held our hand, shown us scenes, and told us stories.

But now we’re on our own. We are Scrooge waking on Christmas morning. The melodies end leaving a vacuum of noise disturbed only by the needle resetting. Left to take the pain, the sound, and the fury and find some meaning and comfort. It has to signify something, right?

We all go through this in life. Maybe once, but likely dozens of times. And that was my year. Facing the darkness, the pain, the uncertainty. Looking for purpose, refuge, and comfort. And every step of the way, this record has been there. Pushing me to lean into the doubt. To explore it. To question.

And that’s the power of an album. It takes us on a journey. It shows us the world. It asks us to look a certain way at it, at ourselves. A record is not an isolated song delivered digitally and instantly. It is an experience that reverberates long after the needle lifts off the vinyl.