It’s heavy, undoubtedly, and several tracks flirt with death. But exorcising their demons together has strengthened American Football’s unique chemistry and created their most adventurous music.

Foo Fighters like this feel fresh, energised and essential.

Whatever facet of Trent’s oeuvre you’re into, you’ll be well serviced by Nine Inch Noize, a thrilling addition to a career characterised by innovation. Credit must be given to Boys Noize, too, for helping inspire this incredible musical detour. It’s one worth taking. Again and again.

It’s true that not every track here rises to equal heights, but few overstay their welcome.

This is an album that might make you bawl your eyes out, but it may also make you feel like things are gonna work out okay. The results will probably vary on every listen, and depending where your own head’s at.

It might just be the most fun release in either band’s esteemed catalogues.

Into Oblivion is probably the best thing the Virginia metallers have done in 10 years. It’s not a reinvention, but neither is it Lamb Of God making their album again. The whole thing boils with caustic energy, red in tooth and claw.

Whether this is music of meditative transcendence or uncanny terror will depend not just on the listener, but on their frame of mind and surroundings. What remains undeniable is that Sunn O)))’s all-enveloping textures occupy a landscape like no other. Slow your breathing, open your ears and let yourself be taken there.

You Wish contains some exciting flashpoints, but it's also missing that prolonged sense of potency to draw you in further. .... Nevertheless, you can only applaud them for leaping out of the safety net of Doom Loop into a whole new world.

This may be a much more conventional form of hardcore than their alumni have been doing recently, but here Angel Du$t are truly flexing their muscles.

Normal Isn’t is a more subtle beast than Existential Reckoning, a cohesive collection of electro-goth tunes that runs deeper, darker, and in Bad Wolf and ImpetuoUs, hookier than its predecessor.

The lyrics, of course, are predominantly berserk. It wouldn't be a Rob Zombie album if he was to get all sensible on us, and it's fun picking through them. In fact, 'fun' is perhaps the best word for the record, which is a riot from start to finish.

The most diverse collection of music NOTHING have yet compiled. never come never morning and the string-assisted purple strings are imbued with a warm sense of intimacy, while the rain don’t care introduces a subtle country twang to the band’s signature shoegaze.

This 11th full-length finds the Massachusetts maulers’ mastery of heavy music not just undimmed but enhanced.

Even though you could not call the songs 'lean' – half of the eight clock in at over seven minutes and none under five – there is a sense that not a moment's wasted, everything is exactly where it needs to be.

This is a record that taps into punk rock’s restless spirit while giving it a sharp, modern lick.

Some of their most effective songwriting to date. The hazy, swirling sound is as beautiful as ever – see the silken Pill To Swallow and the gossamer-like I Held You Like Glass – but this time, they’ve spun it into more impactful shapes.

This is what it sounds like when Poppy is properly in her element. When she’s got something that lights her on fire, she’s unstoppable, and this is how she’s been able to write possibly her best songs yet.

Written and performed by a band well into their groove, and produced by Bad Religion legend-cum-Epitaph owner Brett Gurewitz, the finished product is finely balanced, tastefully under-polished and perfectly baked.

Megadeth (the album) is the perfect encapsulation of how Megadeth (the band) have lived: bold, frequently brilliant but occasionally flawed.

The only letdown is a cover of Dead Or Alive’s YOU SPIN ME ROUND (Like A Record), where for all of Thomas’ squalling riff work, it’s obviously just there as padding as it doesn’t quite fit in, and Franz Ferdinand’s Alex Kapranos performs as if it’s mere karaoke. Other than that, Thomas has masterminded a very solid collection of songs and though they’re not stretching rock ‘n’ roll to entirely new dimensions, they offer a tantalising glimpse into who this man is when he’s not a cog in a bigger machine.

Ascension is a truly substantial body of work, but it’s executed with an almost ghostly lightness of touch. Evidence of artists who have mastered their dark craft and another late-career triumph from one of metal’s most enduringly brilliant bands.

Consistently, Watch It Die is easy listening. That’s a compliment, given the way that gnarly guitar lines and shouted vocals can intertwine with synth lines you’d expect from The Killers, such as the motoring thump of Between The Waves. It’s also a critique on the simplicity of some melodies.

A thunderous, cathartic debut that remains subtly political and emotive while prioritising surface-level pandemonium. From top to bottom, it exists on the edge of a cliff.

Across imperfect accounts and admissions, 5SOS are acknowledging how the pressure of performing links to a pressure to always be liked: to be young, to be attractive, to be good but not too good. So, they may piss off a metalhead or two by being colourfully themselves, but they’re sure good at pop rock.

This is punk as it was always meant to be: loud, ugly, righteous and alive.

This is an album for the coldest of autumns and for dark nights of the soul. It’s hellish, haunting and an emotional maelstrom, deeper and more textured than Witch Fever have ever gone before.

Creeper have always been great. But in this current (and unexpectedly elongated) vampire phase, they’ve blossomed into their true, proper selves.

Taking artistic plunges in areas outside garage punk is not for them, but this fifth album is nevertheless a solid half hour of what the Kentucky outfit do best.

Out of Ian’s time of crisis, Militarie Gun have made themselves a silver lining, a record that’s not just a tremendous step up but one that could be their defining moment.

That Nine Inch Nails have executed a stunning return is a given, but the size and scope of this particular victory – this double victory, actually – should not be overlooked.

The end result is maybe not as coherent as Race The Night, but it’s every bit as fun. Almost 30 years since Ash named their debut album 1977, after the year that Star Wars was released, the Force is still strong with these ones.

The Spiritual Sound is a fathomless pool worth hurling yourself into, a shimmering, shattering new landmark on heavy music’s mind-expanding outer limits.

If you want The Art Of Drowning-era iteration, then they’re still there on record forevermore. This is the AFI of 2025, though – older, bolder, hairier and doing things their way – and authenticity never goes out of style.

A truly thrilling record on the most basic level; boasting a set of classy songs that are half-brains, half-brawn and all-absolute-bangers.

It’s a bold, fresh effort full of tunes that are simultaneously immediate and deep.

As their most mature and focussed album yet, Tomorrow We Escape shows Ho99o9 can go the distance to rage on and burn bright well into the future.

This is surely one of the year’s most important records.

The soft strummed title-track is saturated with heartbreak and rage. By the time the downbeat End Times Sermon dissolves into its ponderous parting sample, it’s hard not to feel drained and dejected, but also utterly connected to the chaos of the world falling apart around us.

Everest remains Halestorm, yes, but in dazzlingly diverting ways that are gonna take you time and several plays to appreciate properly.

In a time where it seems everyone wants to make noisier music as an act of defiance against an increasingly cruel world, Jehnny Beth has found a way to stand out. She’s real, she’s raw, and everything here has such a strength of spirit to it that it feels truly alive.

A musical purge of trauma patterns, depression, love, loss, and of course, ego, the wit and honesty of Hayley’s lyricism is the shining star of this work. It’s an unboundless exploration of a life lived under the scrutiny of misogyny and in the public eye from one of our time’s most creative and fearless artists.

Georgia’s bass tone, not only disgustingly good, is a storytelling tool: in one instance it’s slurring and drenched in gloopy, thick fuzz, and then in other pockets it snaps awake, crunchy and computerised, but alive like a robot driven on revenge. Amy experiments with classical operatic vocal wails on opener Glory, while elsewhere her vocals become like fight talk, are enunciated with the confident cries of the Supernova era.

This latest offering is as uncorrupted a rock album as any released this year, 33 minutes of breakneck, tyre-screeching anthems.

Fuelled by personal tragedies and savage times, this fifth album is understandably dark in tone, but never feels too austere to engage.

Even in the scheme of one of modern rock’s most consistent and treasured back catalogues, Private Music is in the upper most tier, a record that succeeds where its predecessor didn’t quite.

So while this is a familiar, albeit more polished ride, it’s replete with beautiful moments, such as Black Crown and Gold Long Gone, that stay with you and work on you; it’s music that lovingly infiltrates hearts and minds rather than bludgeoning you over the head with its message.

They’re still the same fiercely independent band that can run rings around an oddball time signature, just now they’re trusting their chemistry and melodic instincts to take them in any direction they wish – and the results kick ass.

There are some lulls, mind. Sometimes the moodiness threatens to drown the melody, and not every track earns its philosophical baggage. .... But Learning Greek is never boring. It's chaotic, clever, and just unhinged enough to charm the eyeliner off your face.

There are moments of genius here. In forging new bonds and attempting to break new ground, METAL FORTH's intentions are noble and the executions occasionally excellent.

Uninterested in taking over the airwaves or lighting up the charts, it is art at its unapologetically visceral peak. More than that, it’s vitriolic fresh proof that absolutely no band is more vital, and that maybe we really would be better burning it all to the ground.

At its best, it’s pure, soul-soothing escapism. And yet, this is only the start – as she grows, she'll evolve and mould everything she’s absorbed into an even more individual sound.

At its best, I Beat Loneliness is revelatory. Elsewhere, sadly, it’s rote. Gavin may claim to have beaten loneliness, but he’s been thwarted by his own ambitions.

We’re left with something that isn’t Volbeat’s best album, but is a candidate for their most interesting.

It’s a go-getter of a record that pays homage to the greats whilst still feeling brand new. YUNGBLUD’s outlandishness makes him a hard pill to swallow for some, but his guts, drive, and devotion to his craft cannot be denied.

21st Century Fiction somehow manages to feel filthy, sexy, and tender all at the same time. In need of an existential crisis but want to feel like a hot rock star at the same time? Please get acquainted with your latest soundtrack to life.

It could slot into the soundtrack of anyone’s life, it has that sort of everyman, indie movie quality. But it’s for him first, and it’s an incredibly pure distillation of who Finn is when he’s not on camera.

Turnstile are ahead of the curve once again and showing what’s possible when you follow your own path.

While not quite the box of delights Garbage shook at us last time, there’s persistent allure in the mating of cavernous soundscapes with Shirley’s penetratingly icy vocals.

They’ve never released an album that embraces creativity this openly. My Greatest Moment, for example, is full of ear-catchingly extracurricular sounds – the sort of thing artists in the NIN-to-Starset bracket specialise in, but without sounding like either. Life’s truth might be painful sometimes, but it’s rarely sounded better.

Written on the road – between hotels and practice rooms across continents – the sense of freewheeling momentum is undoubtedly UNATØNED’s greatest strength, capturing the roadworn charisma and runaway force of the Machine Head 2025 live show. But with it comes a jettisoning of the tonal consistency and sprawling songcraft that defines their finest recorded work.

Perhaps mastering a sense of duality is what Rico Nasty is gunning for – harsh and soft, or trap and rock. At the same time, there’s not quite enough sense of focus to suggest that’s the case. Should she find that, or find a way to blur all these sounds into something cohesive and singular, she could be unstoppable.

Fortunately, Even in Arcadia’s minor quibbles are easily dwarfed by the height of its peaks. It isn’t quite an album of all-timers, but it’s more than enough to bring in wave after wave of gleaming gold spoils all over again.

The highlights are plentiful, from the misanthropic maelstrom of People Person, to the lolloping The Digger You Deep and the Pixies-esque Hate The Polis, but you don’t need to pan for gold when there’s so much of it.

Who Will Look After The Dogs feels more intensely personal than anything the band have made before.

As sweeping final ballad Excelsis picks up where previous closing tracks Life Eternal (Prequelle) and Respite On The Spitalfields (Impera) left off, compelling listeners to live life to the fullest with one eye on the inevitability of death, there’s surely no-one else living quite so deliciously on the level of The Devil.

While only the heads-down opener King Of Rome is presented in a radio-friendly three-minute format, there is much here that could lure newcomers into the twisted soundworld of the Melvins – as long as they don’t expect the next record to sound much like this one.

It’s absolutely fantastic. Where previously their records had sounded like a moment captured, a document of a fire blazing away, this is more controlled and deliberate, where everything arrives with the confidence of a heavyweight champ.

The Velveteers strut across many different dimensions, whether that’s through the means of dreamy ballads like the title-track, the cinematic, swaying Heaven or the hulking blues rock of Moonchild (with a sassy coda that demands that listeners get up and shimmy). It leaves a remarkable impression, so much so that even after a couple of plays, these songs feel like they’ve been in your life forever.

There are certainly moments here where what Pigs… provide is primarily big, dumb fun. But Death Hilarious also finds them thoroughly exploring their sonic and emotional range, the result an album which digs its hooks in deeper than ever.

Only Dust Remains is a brave, powerful and uncompromising album that holds nothing back, either in terms of Ashanti’s own life, or her views about what’s happening outside it. Yet bleak and dark as it is, there’s nevertheless hope to be found here.

Dreams On Toast is spread to the corners with the familiar and the fresh, equal parts self-awareness and self-regard, resulting in their finest album of this, the second coming of The Darkness.

There’s a gleaming shine on everything that fills it all with vitality. Far from a step back, or attempt to redress something, a return to heaviness is simply the next piece of the picture. That you can hear them fair running towards it with refreshed enthusiasm for such things only makes it sing all the louder.

If you loved Eternal Blue, this is the record you’d want to hear next, on which Spiritbox, empowered by confidence, go bigger and (occasionally) stranger. If, however, you felt Eternal Blue wasn’t quite bold enough, then strap in for something choppier.

Immersing themselves in the sea of literature and comic books available to flesh out the story, truly hardcore fans may find a deeper connection to these 14 songs, but it’s to the album’s immense credit that they won’t find a better listening experience than newcomers hitting ‘play’ for the first time.

A band with a curious alchemy, an ensemble of stylistic contrasts, pulling together to make a record of understated pleasures.

Processing pain does not mean wallowing in it, of course. The only way out is through. Ultimately, The Bad Fire feels like an acknowledgement of that, burning out neither in scalding catharsis nor cold resignation, but the radiant glow of a future still unwritten.

They’ve done something even more audacious than dropping a track with an off-the-scale number of C-words in it. They’ve dropped an album of the year contender just 10 days into 2025. Big power move, that.

It’s not an easy listen, in both an emotional and sonic sense. But, as an individual experience, it’s hard to ignore the boldness with which Hayden realises her vision, and the terrifying impact that such unfiltered, uncomfortable ambience can hold.

An album which initially goes in hard on horrorcore lyrics, before broadening out into social reportage and geo-political comment. Along the way, there are guests galore and one piece quite unlike anything else the band have put their name to.

Opeth have broken new ground, entered fresh realms both oppressive and melodic – but their rapier-like determination to be different may be too much for some.

As scattered as it can be, its hit rate remains high and it’s never content to just coast.

Sure, not every song is something to write home about, and not everyone is going to be on board with a new singer, but as a piece of work, it’s a clear reminder of why Linkin Park reached the heights they did and continue to influence multiple generations of artists. Welcome back.

Anguished and uncomfortable as it may be, Chip King and Lee Buford have constructed a brutalist masterpiece, here.

Evergreen is a reminder of what an effective, emotive songwriter she can be.

It perhaps didn’t have to be so lengthy, especially when it’s made dense by a surplus of delicate ballads that sound just a tad too similar. However, its concept, eloquence and even just its sheer emotional weight all serve to make this record special nonetheless, both for its quality and as a document of Halsey’s survival.

It’s an addictive yet antagonising listen.

Added together, it makes for an instantly irresistible album that – just like its opening line – is frank, fearless, funny and fucking fantastic.

It’s an altogether more oppressive album than Brighten, and therefore something that Alice In Chains fans are going to want in their lives. That said, I Want Blood still knows when to pause for breath.

PRUDE is an album whose life-affirming spirit is unrelenting throughout its 10 tracks, which fly by in sub-30-minute blast of punk fury. Whether you’re on the lookout for heart-on-sleeve punk, hectic hardcore mayhem or just some pure sonic fun, Drug Church’s latest offering is a real must-hear.

There are a couple of marvellous moments – namely the shapeshifting Mezzanine and the agonising regret of Finalist – but often Spiral In A Straight Line settles into itself too much.

True, it’s also an often familiar-sounding form – that same chord progression at varying speeds, faster than Bad Religion, slower than NOFX – but they also sound like themselves again.

Bleak as all hell, then, yet somehow this uncompromising music seems so in tune with the times that Chat Pile could genuinely be on the cusp of a major breakthrough. Don’t miss out.

No Obligation documents the result of resilience and hard work, and makes for a listen that’s enjoyable regardless of musical preference or taste.

Sløtface’s third album leaves the feeling of a musical outfit undergoing a bit of a rebirth, but one that’s brimming with promise. Don’t bet against Haley making this new incarnation of Sløtface even better as they continue to find their sound.

The greatest achievement is how easy to swallow this all is. The shifts between chonky riffs and mellower, jazzy polyrhythms and gorgeous David Gilmour-ish guitar solos are so smooth as to be in some way unnoticeable as they happen.

It's a record as sweet as 20 pumpkin spice lattes, with Gravity ('She keeps pulling me like gravity, everywhere she goes') and Perfume ('I wanna make you my girl / I wanna make you my world') sticking out as notable offenders, while the equally syrupy Kiss Me Again is also a little boilerplate. That said, it’s all rather endearing, especially for those who relate enough to the sentiment to be swept up by it.

It’s not, in fact, an exaggeration to say that there are moments on this album that almost replicate the visceral intensity of vomiting. Partly that’s due to Michael’s guttural growls, a voice that rattles and chokes on itself as it exits his mouth. Around it, though, is a brutally cacophonous swirl of sound that, especially on the title-track, is harrowing and – oddly, paradoxically, confusingly – comforting.