Make no mistake: it may be a good two decades late, but ONoffON is the follow-up that Vs. has always cried out for. And as a result, it’s one of the finest records I’ve heard all year.

Fall Be Kind shows the band on the path to becoming an even mellower band and nothing here is exceptionally energetic except for the last half of Graze.

She follows her curiosity with abandon, deconstructing pop modalities with space and patience—from the strings-drenched chamber jazz (For the Old World) and the warped avant-garde of the title track to campfire folk (Spirit in the Eye of the Fire King,") her wildly eclectic, though sometimes distancing, choices sound familiar, yet completely their own.

For music that's this visceral, every heart-rending confession can feel like a victory lap—but even the best runners have to take a breather to renew their energy.

The great achievement of Feels is that it throws everything at every track yet never loses sight of the tunes themselves.

In Western Stars, the old adage about finding meaning through the journey couldn't feel truer. And that's an idea that Springsteen can relate to—leaving a little bit of yourself in a landscape that feels immortal.

It’s a dense, difficult listen, nigh impossible to compare to the rest of Kanye West’s work, and its rewards come slowly.

Wildheart impresses in parts, and Miguel’s vocals are a thing to behold. For the most part, however, it’s a record that struggles to fully hold your attention.

Even with the songwriting differences, Hope Downs sounds like a unified partnership between five musicians who've known each other for most of their lives.

In many ways, his music is more punk than punk music is nowadays-stripped down completely to only the most basic and bare of instruments, the tiny Kristian Matsson manages to live up to his name as The Tallest Man on Earth.

Whereas Pratt once settled on a colder and more reserved state, Quiet Signs manages to present a more empathetic side of her that was once concealed. It's still quaint by comparison, though, a delicately-crafted acoustic set that offers insight into her deepest fears and truths without letting us encroach into her private space.

One of the best debuts of the year.

Certainly, it feels as though Takk emerges from a group who, despite arriving at the zenith of their capability, has, at least for the time being, run out of things to say.

MCII sounds much more concise and meticulously assembled than any of Segall's efforts.

That's quite a timespan, though, and it does mean that one minute you're reeling from the hormonal stench of a roomful of anguished shoegazers and the next you're surrounded by happy little Japanese girls wearing anti-gravity shoes and doing Steiner dancing with wafty pastel banners. But that's just as it should be.

Great art must provoke or inspire you, and I’m sorry to all the folks out there “awash” in Eluvium’s dreamy “soundscapes” of pure “emotion” and “beauty”, but this record does neither.

It’s hard to deny that this record is driven by texture and aura, rather than directly relatable content and meaning. But if you’re like me and can totally get with some heady sonics, this one’s a gem.

On this, her latest and most emotionally charged album, she's managed to create a painful outpouring of honesty, one that strikes that coveted balance of both melodic and lyrical expression; her message is equally powerful from each direction.

Halo is just as effective when taken purely as an aural experience; just like the symbolic spirit she invokes, her challenging and throbbing entanglements are impossible to turn away from.

One of his consistently best albums and the one that perfectly captures the restless creative spirit that continues to push Yorke beyond his comfort zones at a time in his career where other artists would likely be happily settling into theirs.

All Nerve is not in the same league as Last Splash, but it is an exhibition of a band with alarmingly strong musical chemistry making relevant music--and enjoying doing so--a quarter of a century on from their most notable landmark.

It’s an honest, soulful and superbly well-executed body of work, and one of the best British rap debuts for a long time.

Balloon Balloon Balloon is not Slater’s best album of 2025—it’s probably not even his second best—but any record that evokes the snotty power pop of Guitar Romantic is worth investigating in my book.

It’s still hard to truly get Leonard Cohen right, and Thanks for the Dance sadly sounds like an easy approximation of his sound.

The first five tracks are some of the rawest the nine-man conglomerate has ever served. But this all transpires within the first fifteen minutes of the disc. From there Pretty Toney takes a few ugly turns.

Negro Swan is another sure-footed step forward. It’s rare that an artist can operate within the pop template, collaborate with household names and still produce work that can be considered as significantly culturally important, but that’s what Hynes manages.

There's nothing wrong with Lizzo's so-called "genreless," agenda-forward sound (nor did Pitchfork claim that there was, and I'm not one to side with their opinions as a rule), but it does lack a certain cohesion and maturity.

Due to awkward, clunky sequencing, Dark Days/Light Years takes longer to reveal its charms than maybe it should. Despite this, it’s still a marvellous record and evidence that despite their increasing years, Super Furry Animals are a long way from being out of ideas.

Varmints is a playfully delirious listen that constantly rewards with new ideas at every corner, one that sketches an idealized pop landscape without recognizing that it actually touches all of its requisite pleasure points.

DISCOMBOBULATED is an idiosyncratic record, overflowing with eccentric charms and a uniquely British (in the best sense of the word) personality.

While his narratives can leave a lot to chew on, Freeman is at his very best when his ragged, guitar-drenched intensity sounds deceivingly loose. He does try to balance the mood more in the exploratory second half, but he's earned that decision after the first half's tight, generous songwriting

The album definitely has its moments, and the first half is very engaging, but they lose it in the long run.

His synth work on this record is nothing short of remarkable, and his ability as a producer is further enhanced to a level at which he has no contemporaries. Parker is a once-in-a-generation talent, and this album is conclusive evidence of it.

For the most part, Code Orange leans upon evocative writing that pairs heaviness to thoughtful lyricism. While there are a handful of phrases that feel sloppy or obvious (“The digital knife's edge that cuts us all” on In Fear, or Cold.Metal.Place’s “The fire burns down our 3D world”), Code Orange’s self-seriousness almost entirely works because of how badass they are.

He pushes his songs forward with just the right amount of old and new—all without losing his adventurous drive. He takes us into the darkest hallways of his mind with, ironically, a rejuvenated zest.

With her lowkey yet glistening collection of songs, she jumps back into the light with clearheaded confidence and a more mature outlook.

The listener brings just as much to this music as Stith does, which is the peculiar genius of his creation.

This is a brilliant and varied album, risky and excessive at times, yet compelling and open throughout.

As madcap of a concept as ULTRAPOP appears to be, its musical thrust feels purposeful in its creation and curation.

By pushing pop into the dreary without all the drab, Iron and Wine strikes a balance of truth and hope that can get muddled by a scene dominated by pessimists.

It's just comfortable and pleasant enough to convince yourself to stick around - never good enough to be satisfying, nor bad enough to be disappointing.

Clearly, songs is the more developed album of the pairing here and one that those already under Lenker’s spell will treasure and contrast to her earlier work.

Snaith's gradual evolution is more than evident in Suddenly, a reflective and also outgoing mood piece that shares insight into what he's learned in the six years he's been away since 2014's Our Love.

All these songs stand out for their craftsmanship and collaboration, not only between three artists but also three friends.

Modern Vampires of the City is nothing short of a pop music achievement, a standout album in a year full of standout albums.

I can tell that you are dubious, but I can assure you, gentle listener – these are the goods.

It's a grower - no doubt about that.

The album frequently descends into seemingly chaotic feedback and amp fuzz but the dirt is very much artfully, deliberately applied.

The Black Keys have created a record that they believe is how a rock'n'roll record should sound, but without soul or sex or genuine sweet emotion.

Sexistential is urgent, direct, and strikingly concise.

Dream River is probably as evocative a record as Callahan has ever made, and that really is saying a great deal when considering his extensive back catalog.

Shellac delivers a very spare and assaultive listen, 33 minutes that fly by and demand repeated listens.

They deliver one unforced, shout-out anthem after another—mirroring the immediate tunefulness of their Canadian counterparts Japandroids' Celebration Rock. Does the celebration get too rowdy for its own good? Well, sometimes. The hook-driven energy can get way ahead of you if you're not fully committed to it. Even so, there's a lot to ponder in their resistance with closer inspection.

Lyrically Wake Up The Nation is largely inscrutable, while sonically it remains a shambling and ungainly listen.

It’s unfortunate that the familiar sound of some of these tracks, the nagging suspicion that you heard this once before, is always hiding in the background, because there’s worthy enough material here.

There are four reasons why this album is necessary: firstly, it will make any party you happen to be soundtracking sound very clever. Secondly, following the samples and contributions will open up a whole world of modern and traditional music from the Southern Cone to you. Thirdly, both live and on stage, tracks like Pa'bailar rock a squeezebox like you've never heard. And, finally, Ry Cooder is nowhere in sight.

Route One or Die is many things--immense, joyful, weird and above all aptly titled, as you'd be hard-pressed to find another debut album released this year --British or otherwise--that sounds so completely vibrant and alive.

In spite of the album's wilfully hard-to-stomach intensity, [it] will appeal to fans of art music of many different backgrounds.

What I hear is basically a mildly enjoyable set of songs, whose lackadaisical delivery and spacey major second chords could easily accompany my Sunday afternoon nap.

For a debut LP that relies so heavily on a sound that is considered by some as fossilized, this is a very good effort. Urth is meticulously intricate in its more labyrinthine moments, and categorically barbarous for the rest of it.

With this record, there is Britpop, Radiohead, Spiritualized, grunge, trip-hop and more basking under an astral, space-rock umbrella, and Pumarosa have turned it all into a contorting, ornamental obelisk.

I Romanticize bobs around with a collage of springy trinkets that both confound and fascinate, though never without trying to make sense of his eccentric impulses.

With producer Andrew Schneider tweaking the knobs, his experience producing Unsane certainly applying here, KEN mode elevates their sonic outcry, hitting levels of discomfort with the subtly seasick Learning To Be Too Cold, thrash-bred Not Soulmates, and the manic combination of sounds in Fractures In Adults.

These remarkably self-assured ten tracks stand on their own with joyful inventiveness, as McGreevy tries to make sense of his past mistakes (Old Times) and alcohol-induced pseudo-intellectual babbling (Fit to Burst) through their joyous outbursts.

Fairweather Friend is a great record, a genre standout deserving of adoration and acclaim beyond the niche of specialist blogs and, let’s be honest, the No Ripcords of the world. Great songs are still great songs in 2024. If you like those, you’ll love The Umbrellas.

Their quiet, understated charms reward the kind of focused listening that is seemingly less fashionable in this screen-addled age. III might not lend itself to modern playlist culture, but if you’re looking for a 2026 release to truly invest in, its exquisite beauty will reward your time and efforts many times over.

Only one year later and we have Two Dancers an album so laden with lush densities and provocative melodies that you would be forgiven for thinking this album had taken ten years to make.

While they add a few new tricks to their arsenal, whether adding an extra layer of polish to their tried-and-true hardcore (SUNSHOWER, SOLE) or a touch of bright, jangly new wave (I CARE, SEEIN' STARS), their crossover attempts feel frustratingly half-hearted for a band that genuinely subscribes to the healing power of music.

Petals for Armor succeeds best at sustaining a mood throughout, capturing the chaotic ups and downs of depression. Some moments are sugary sweet, while others are biting and angry, but the album keeps things healthy by switching between infectious pop tunes and mellow art-pop parts.

Truly electrifying.

It’s a wondrous gem of an album that, even at its most lustrous, manifests itself with biting precision.

Magus captures well the force of its players throughout its near 90-minute runtime, the culmination of which occurs in the album’s final track, Supremacy.

Pierce commits to an intricately layered masterwork that brims with beauty at every turn. He has come close to writing a Motown-inspired ballad-like Let it Bleed (For Iggy) before, but here, in typically unorthodox fashion, Pierce nails down that aesthetic while serving up Britpop grandeur this side of Blur’s The Universal.

The eclectic range Bey displays in Fidelity occasionally runs into filler, but it also drops clues into what her next big statement might entail.

A glorious triumph.... The Decemberists deserve to become your new favourite band.

The final three songs aren’t quite as engaging, but it’s clear that Sorry have done enough to ensure Cosplay is worth revisiting—even if a few judicious clicks on the skip button will be necessary.

FLOTUS is much more than another genre effort, where Wagner deeply alters his usual country bearings and gives it a new and unexpected orientation.

Ekstasis abounds with originality and depth; soars and sinks; expands and implodes; evolves and dissipates; crackles and breaks all within one cohesive sound.

Celebration Rock's high-tempo riff rock concerns itself with energy and embraces our serendipitous run-ins with those good times worth remembering.

This isn’t political, but it is personal, comical, sad, satirical, intelligent and refreshingly honest.

She heads into more accessible waters —on tracks like Down on Me and Confessions, Davis softens her pop-meets-classical mishmash with a mellifluous inflection that gives clarity to her self-empowering message. And like a memoir of sorts, she goes through stories that range from her birth to the present day.

The record stands as the most shocking thing the Odd Future collective has put out to date: a R&B record with crossover potential without sacrificing soul that creates a complete picture of its author, warts and all.

Sheer Mag’s heady mixture of influences shouldn’t work. And yet, their tireless curiosity and genuine affection for rock song forms is what separates Need to Feel Your Love from sounding like a conventional tribute.

These tracks resonate through lovely pop music, the core that ties together these songs, but there’s plenty of stylistic range—disco, jangle, chamber pop, Brill Building—to both chew on and delight in.

At its best, Laughter In Summer is deeply affecting and genuinely beautiful. At its least compelling (“Children’s Anthem,” “Harbour”), it remains enjoyably wholesome, but falls well short of his finest work, where Glenn-Copeland’s simple lyrical sentiments were adorned with more engaging layers and textures. Still, it feels unreasonable to grumble.

Despite Holter's all-around meticulousness, Aviary never comes across as careful or rigorous. She engages in artful replication, seeking to understand those voices she successfully reconstructs with a feeling of apprehension and anticipation. And in the process, leaving her own imprint for others to also discover in centuries to come.

He’s on a full-on conversationalist binge on Sky, though it’ll demand your extra attention since the album’s turbulent production tends to obscure most of his learned reflections. In spite of this, it wouldn’t be a true Mould record if it didn’t hit you with that pummeling, noisy sheen.

These are songs that you feel more than listen to. Everyone has encountered some sort of mental illness, addiction or crisis of faith, whether in your life or another’s. Not only does Baker prove that you’re not alone, but she finds a way to make it better.

She's near the peak of their powers, if not actually at the summit.

Relying less on atmosphere, tracks like Savage Nomad and Negro Spiritual reveal a rawness that balances his brisk delivery and minimal samples with renewed urgency. It comes with a caveat, though, as taking a more formalist direction puts the focus on technique rather than subject matter. And that's okay.

These guys are still writing and playing at the top of their game, making another album that’s just as brutal as Stage Four, if not a little more palatable for everyday listening.

My Father Will Guide Me Up a Rope to the Sky is an advance for Swans, and Gira comes across as less of an eccentric noise-generator, and more of a presence that requires our attention.

There's nothing here with quite the same catchiness that The Field somehow achieved on the head-nodders A Paw In My Face or The More That I Do, but each track is a fascinating experiment in sound, and this is perhaps his strongest record yet.

The Odds is excellent, because the odds are never against him.

A favorite for punk album of the year.

Old is all about developing the character of one very conflicted dude, and to me that’s its crowning achievement; it’s not his “split personalities” as much as the inner turmoils that fizz around within any complex character, but which you hardly ever hear so convincingly captured on a single record.

You can hear how she gradually tempers her busy thoughts, setting her mind at ease with a sense of renewal. And in her clean, unembellished melodies, reminding us that we can take our true selves whichever way we choose to roam.

On Tempest, Dylan easily puts to rest those detractors who claim that he's merely standing on the shoulders of greater artists.