Political music only works with a strong point of view, which MUNA lack on this record. That said, it has at least a couple niche hits to round out summer playlists and Pride party sets. Even without the depth, MUNA know how to please a crowd — but the impression is fleeting.

A dozen listens to Train on the Island, the New Zealand songwriter's mesmerizing fifth record, will yield a dozen interpretations, a century's worth of pondering and re-pondering condensed into 40 minutes.

The irony of Kneecap's urgent political potency is that FENIAN is fun as hell.

Rashad has delivered yet another excellent project, striking a delicate balance between exploring new sounds and remaining true to what has always made his music so appealing.

With her sharp pen and a deft balance of traditional and modern sounds, Middle of Nowhere is a reminder of why Musgraves is a lone star of her calibre.

On Your Favorite Toy, it's all loud and all fast all the time. (One notable exception is "If You Only Knew," a relatively straightforward rock song that nonetheless stands out thanks to an excellent hook.) Compounding this problem is the fact that Grohl remains a frustratingly boring lyricist.

There are moments on Long Long Road where Burnett almost makes his case: the rollicking "Baby Don't Go" is endearing, and Ringo is especially having fun on line dance-ready "Why." Much like Brian Wilson's feature-heavy No Pier Pressure, however, Starr mostly feels like a guest on his own album.

Friko play with more lift and propulsion, creating songs that sprint and bloom with a confidence their debut, 2024's Where we've been, Where we go from here, only hinted at.

This far into their career, you don't need a They Might Be Giants album to be classic — you just need it to be a reminder of how great they are, and have been since before you were born, probably.

Much of what set WU LYF apart from other UK pop-rockers has been dulled to match their ambitions and ages. It's maximalist minimalism (or is that minimalist maximalism?) at its most heartfelt and bland, similar to other heartsick stadium "rockers" like Coldplay and Imagine Dragons.

Her sophomore LP embraces the more straightforward impulses of her pristine pop songcraft — to results that feel more jubilant and whimsical than anything else she's ever done.

A pretty perfect soundtrack to the never-ending battle against conformity, complacency and chords. .... There's a ferocity and alienness to the complexity. While Angine de Poitrine are certainly not alone in their explorations of microtonality, experimentation and funk, the music is nevertheless demanding in a way that other popular contemporary sounds are not.

It's a leap of faith, a self-assured reinvention, and a testament to Parks' chameleonic staying power.

On their 10th album, The Former Site Of, bandleader A.C. Newman has honed his playful gibberish to the point that it's become his signature style, delightful rather than simply a way to fill the syllables of his towering power pop melodies.

The beauty of Hurts Like Hell is rooted in this catharsis: transmuting pain — the good, the bad and the ugly — into a unit of strength and perseverance.

Honora feels a bit like a few different projects in one, its moments of revelatory beauty refracted through a slightly convoluted structure.

Altogether, Ö feels like candy: addictive, sweet, glossy; the ultimate sugar rush. While it remains to be seen if there's a crash coming, Fcukers are undeniably the life of the party.

While there's arguably nothing here that will dethrone your favourite all-time Robyn tracks ("Call Your Girlfriend" forever wins the March Madness bracket, doesn't it?), a great many stand proudly amongst them — and for most fans, this is very much enough right now.

Saputjiji is not an easy listen; at times, it's downright ugly. But as the empire's war machine kicks back into high gear, Tagaq's courageous offering is a much-needed wake-up call.

The album's blipping between hip-hop, footwork and a clutch of other electronic styles does carry a prêt-à-porter element, but one that hangs well on Gordon's frame with every new fit.

The Mountain does not reach the same heights as the one called Monkey at the end of Demon Days, nor does it have the same sonic depth as Plastic Beach. However, it does continues in the path of both of those albums.

Fancy Some More? is a lot of fun. It leans further into the '90s/noughties than its predecessor, intensifying its jungle and D&B undercurrent while also adding some Madchesterian flavour with SEVENTEEN's mix of "Illegal."

By the end of Nothing's About to Happen to Me, it feels as though Mitski has reclaimed both her home and her mythos. No longer lingering on the edges of the album, she steps into her art as presently as she can, trusting that it will continue to speak for her long after she's gone.

While she tries to impress upon us that the girl we knew is now a woman who reads tarot cards and engages in pure sexual pleasure, bold and brash have never entered the lexicon when it comes to Hilary Duff and her music — and maybe they never will. We love her because she stays earnest.

While it may not be flawless, it's another strong entry in a consistently compelling catalogue. His mom called it a masterpiece, and I guess that's all that matters.

Wuthering Heights expertly plays with the joys and violence of love, always leaving space for the nuances of both. As the sun finally rises at its finish, it's clear that this album is ultimately an optimistic love story, even if it's a Gothic horror set within Bluebeard's castle.

It's possible that hyperpop purists and longtime Harle fans will wince at the sanded-down edges and softened tones that make up this album — go listen to "Boing Beat" or "Interlocked" for an ungentle reminder of how bonkers Harlecore remains a half-decade a later. And yet, Cerulean is undeniably fun, and cements Harle's standing as a singular artist in the world of progressive pop.

Whether it becomes the hip-hop classic he envisioned will be decided over time, but this is peak J. Cole — for better or worse.

With URGH, Mandy, Indiana have crafted the first great album of 2026, one that rewards with each exhausting listen. In a time of crisis and uncertainty, URGH is not merely cathartic: it's exorcistic.

There are undeniable flashes of peak Joji scattered throughout the album, which only heightens the frustration. They serve as reminders of his ability to be great, confirming the unevenness as less of a lack of talent and more of an excess of underdeveloped ideas.

Taken together, Butterfly feels less like a fusion of Daphni and Caribou, and more like an uninhibited manifestation of Snaith's ever-changing tastes and proclivities.

Singin' is comfortably the most accomplished and self-assured Ratboys album to date.

An overstuffed and engrossing album that's a bit of a mess.

It comes as no surprise then that Megadeth, like so many of those latter-day albums, is an uneven affair, front-loaded with its best material in the time-honoured tradition — but when it's good, it's good.

The project hits a bit of a rut with "Rachel's Song" — an anachronistic cover of a Vangelis composition for Blade Runner — and the subsequent "Stardust," whose droning synth line and latent drum pattern ironically also give the impression of the film score for a sci-fi thriller, albeit an underbaked one. Fortunately, Tragic Magic rediscovers its rhythm on closing track "Melted Moon," a song written in response to the tragic wildfires that consumed much of Los Angeles last January.

The result is a dozen highly listenable songs that don't sound like anything else in the world of rock music right now.

A saviour of lost noise, it's plunderphonics at its finest and most process-oriented, data and the digital transmogrified to something warm, nostalgic, tense — and, above all, timely.

As a whole, Stardust is Brown's strongest album since 2019's uknowwhatimsayin¿. This is a concise, confident and encouraging body of work that will instill hope in fans for what's to come.

The record is in constant danger of toppling under its own weight. Thankfully, Rosalía largely manages to keep her head above the swell of her own ambition. Built on enormous waves of strings, brass, choir, thunderous kettledrums, bells and flamenco rhythms, it's a miracle just how nimble LUX sounds.

Reflecting on their shared experiences in the rural landscaping of the South Central states, Pedigo helps the band break out beyond the confines of their genre, sawing through the crust to bask in the heat of a molten core.

Despite Snocaps' supergroup pedigree, their debut album feels less like boygenius-style star-making moment and more like a low-stakes romp. With a spirit of fun and camaraderie, this feels a bit like the rock-leaning cousin to Katie Crutchfield's band Plains.

A couple tracks are crowded and rambling, as the theatrical cacophony obscures intention and meaning in a way that bores rather than intrigues. But for the most part, the album's depth and texture are a refreshing contrast to the industry's current hyper-polished pop moment — and the complexity of the arrangements is essential to support the magnitude of Welch's vulnerability and fury.

An argument can now be made for the significance of Through the Open Window, because it's ground zero. Although large chunks of the material have circulated previously (as, well, bootlegs), the restorative sonic care and Wilentz's chronological contextualization is invaluable.

All in all, the brilliance of West End Girl lies in its lack of pretension, and the fact that its room feels mostly cleared of committee.

If Touch were the first album by a brand new band, it would likely be judged as an unequivocal triumph — but Tortoise suffer from the burden of their iconic back catalogue.

Save the Gun is certainly Militarie Gun's most "mainstream" record, with synths, strings and studio tricks co-mingling with distortion and Shelton's caustic, confessional roar. Unfortunately, not every song is a winner, with a number of uninspired tracks in the second half of the record plodding along without the energy or muscle of the first. .... Thankfully, the final act is positively anthemic, with Shelton's voice and the band's booming sincerity keeping the songs from entering derivative "stadium rock" territory.

Mileage on the more pastoral, slow tunes may vary, but bar italia are now a band in flux: they've mastered the chaos, and here is their first, true attempt to merge the hypnagogic impulses of their early efforts with the choleric punk of their present.

Perhaps it's the vulnerability at the core of THE BPM that really makes what Sudan Archives is doing still feel so fresh. Standing out in the club music scene, it sets a new standard for anyone interested in playing with sound while maintaining an accessible heartbeat.

Belong is a welcome addition to Jay Som's discography, and will undoubtedly solidify her reputation as your favourite pop singer's favourite pop singer.

Despite a greater variance in beat drops and textural flourishes (that way the drum machine fades into the post-chorus saxophone is the only redeemable thing about "Honey"), the middling mid-tempo The Life of a Showgirl strays even further from the magic Swift's pen once wielded.

For the most part, Based on the Best Seller feels like a revitalized bunch of friends cutting loose and having a blast. The wheel hasn't been reinvented, but you get all the inside jokes because they're your friends — and you're just happy to have been invited along for the ride.

If you wait, there is a reward for those interested in committing to a whole album; a final refrain. This is the reality of taking chances — and, as the protracted ending of "Match-Lit" proves, Case refuses to compromise for her artistic vision for digestibility or easy answers.

Geese build up to the album's conclusion: a charged and accelerating train ride, 16 stops from Brooklyn into the darkest parts of "Long Island City Here I Come," Winter issuing poetic threats that crosswire Bob Dylan and Van Morrison into a barroom bible-mishmash scored by screaming guitars. It's a thrilling exit point, full of ecstasy and menace, but it still feels a little like dress-up rather than lived-in.

In constructing such an ornate snarl of emotion and eloquence, Le Bon has effectively created in Michelangelo Dying a bummer album that doesn't actually require any wallowing to digest.

Full of complicated emotions and sombre nostalgia, it confronts the darkness and the details, the granular and grandeur, the trivialities and the everything. That's just life, and that's just Wednesday: an exercise in horrible, wonderful contradiction.

There's a contentedness here; a playfulness; a willingness to be silly. Instead of shying away from the shadows of life, the band embrace the dark with the light, relishing in it all. It's such a sharp contrast to their earlier work, this sense of acceptance with a knowing smile.

If 2023's Blame My Ex was the Beaches testing out new dimensions of their sound, they've honed it on No Hard Feelings, cementing themselves as a band that's earned a place in the public consciousness internationally, possibly for years to come.

While it provides plenty of tell, there's not nearly enough show.

While her previous two solo records did not quite reach the high bar set by her work with Paramore, this record is in a tier with the group's absolute best, and is Williams's first solo masterpiece.

This is a new, astronomically high benchmark in a catalogue comprised of fantastic bodies of work — and a rare moment where you can feel a generational artist at the height of their powers in real time.

For this seventh album in just under a decade, the duo continue their upward trajectory, finding new and casually complex ways of expressing their musical minds.

While it may not reach the heights of Acid Rap or Coloring Book, it doesn't feel as far removed — and, in some moments, indicates that those heights are still within reach.

Nothing feels forced; rather, the album gently unfurls at a languid pace. DeMarco remains the relatable everyman, his laidback delivery happily coexisting alongside his ever-present mastery of the titular instrument ("Rock and Roll," "Holy").

Even though it remains an abstract surprise album, Ain't No Damn Way! flows coherently, making for an impressively seamless addition to Kaytra's ever-expanding discography. Most importantly, the record's meaningful callbacks solidify that he has yet to lose sight of his creative North star.

It's a treat to get an album that feels as real as The Starrr of the Queen of Life.

Alex G is one of the most distinctive characters working in indie rock today, and despite some of its shortcomings, the songs on Headlights still prove that. But rather than being a victory lap, Alex G's first major label record feels self-destructive. Maybe he's not quite ready for the burden of prosperity.

Virgin is the kind of album that makes you realize something you hadn't really before: until now, Lorde was operating at an emotional distance. .... Virgin feels like a rebirth.

If Women in Music Pt. III cracked the door open, I quit stands in the threshold, taking stock of what's worth carrying forward.

Phantom Island is a mature reflection on grappling with success. Musically, King Gizzard may never step foot in the same stream twice, but it's clear they're here for each other wherever the current takes them.

The album is an earnest, succinct group of tracks that freely flow into each other, and [b]y the end of its 33-minute runtime, every song deserves its spot on the tracklist.

Turnstile remain the ambassadors we need, and their latest album is proof of their lasting legacy.

Something Beautiful does, of course, sound beautiful — Shawn Everett's production is widescreen and larger than life, but still remembers to dial things back when needed, although maybe not always quite enough (Cyrus is an impressive balladeer! "The Climb" was a moment!) — but it also rings hollow.

It's a worthy continuation of the unfulfilled upswing they were on when they called it quits feels like an undeserved bonus. More is unlikely to win Pulp many new fans, but that would be presumptuous to really want (and undignified to aim for) when you can otherwise hit the mark so authentically.

The result is a sound that is assured and ebullient, lively as a coiled spring releasing its kinetic energy until it's exhausted.

As direct as it is complex, Instant Holograms is an album of pure sonic pleasure.

"Waterproof Mascara" is surely one of the most harrowing rap tracks in recent memory. .... Full of horror and self-described Afro-pessimism, GOLLIWOG is frequently grim. And yet, it's not a difficult listen, since woods is simply too clever of a writer for him not to tickle my sense of humour.

While Teitelbaum's vocals occasionally teeter on nonchalance or disaffection, she knows how to balance these quieter moments with bursts of passion, making them strike even harder.

Babcock strikes the perfect blend of distress and condemnation in his vocal delivery, expressing righteous indignation at these lived realities.

Horny, outrageous, delicate, queer and poised to rip flesh at any moment, Pirouette is the sound of a band at the height of its powers.

That image of her — other people's perceptions — have always haunted her work, but near the end of Bloodless, on "Proof," Samia takes control of the narrative. As she confronts being loved "like a child's toy or cigarette" atop the descent of a warm yet aloof finger-plucked acoustic guitar line, she's at her most powerfully direct and poetically impact.

Despite these four musicians' predilection towards abstraction, The Film is at its most impactful when SUMAC and Moor Mother's most obvious musical building blocks are conjoined.

TORRES and Baker don't fully escape the influence of their strong indie milieus, but that's part of what makes Send a Prayer My Way so special: it feels a little folky, a little Americana, and a lot country.

SABLE, fABLE won't just make your head bob — it'll also make you excited for Bon Iver's next inevitable curveball.

Like the queen of the night, it fans wide and confident; its petals may fall back to earth quickly before dawn, but its essence lingers. The same flower, transformed but unmistakably familiar, will greet eyes, though briefly, once again.

With its fresh simplicity, Glory is a blazing return to form for Perfume Genius, who, on his seventh album, has come full circle as a pop star that has never been afraid to emerge as something brand new, familiar, or even as No Shape at all.

Difficult to dislike. The knowing wink may feel a bit strained as the crow's feet deepen, but it will coax your face into a smile more often than not.

Diggs finds all of the quicksilver tales of sex, drugs and violence that '90s gangsta rap used to trade in — except here, they're wired together yet dislocated, provocative yet impersonal. Hutson and Snipes gleefully resurrect the adrenalized club beats of that same era, with occasional breathers that flirt with the ambience of Massive Attack or Tricky when darkness starts to suffer the threat of dawn, all tied together with the static pulse of electricity and the flow of information.

It's certainly not the culture-shifting force that The Fame or Born This Way were, but it does recapture some of that former glory after some years where Gaga's biggest contributions have been blockbuster soundtrack ballads.

He remains one of the few songwriters who can capture the indelible marks we leave on one another ("Good While It Lasted") with impressive verisimilitude, plumbing the depths of human emotion in a mere quatrain. Even at his most didactic ("Don't Be Tough"), he comes across as an old friend gently leading the way.

A mostly forgettable but sometimes good album.

The album evokes a powerful sense of longing: a yearning for the connection, understanding, and beauty found in fleeting moments. In the hiss and fuzz of splintered memories and reveries, Powers draws us into a past that lingers, soft and near, just within reach.

Equal parts pensive and dreamy, minimal yet expansive, Phonetics On and On is the unapologetic sound of confident experimenting, the product of three musicians years ahead of their respective ages. Horsegirl rule, and so does this record. Put it on and on (and on and on and on).

On Cowards, Squid reveal themselves as possibly the most forward-thinking and artistic band of the new post-punk explosion. It's not an easy ride, but few of the best things are.

The resultant album is cohesive, but slightly tiring; bogged down in ballad after ballad, all draped with the Weeknd's pretty but repetitive vibrato falsetto.

Think of Mist feels airy and accessible, even as Paas quietly presents herself as one of our most slyly provocative musical theorists working today.

Taken on its own, in an era where most artists make albums a third of its length, the EP feels like a daunting endurance test. But the deeper you dig into Perverts and Ethel Cain's world, the more rewarding the experience.

This album — through its stirring, stripped-back guitar music and syllabus of cultural touchpoints — limns a path to that solace, and locates it alongside the toil and trouble that underlies rock 'n' roll's still-unfolding history.

In a discography as impressive as Lamar's, GNX stands as a major highlight, sitting comfortably in the upper echelon of a rarefied body of work.