It is intelligent, thrilling, unique, and endlessly replayable—challenging, yes, but always worth the effort. .... This is her Hounds of Love, her Brat. Yes, it’s that good.

A majestic record of solemn beauty. Not only does Night CRIÚ sound unlike anything else in 2025, it also stands proudly alongside the year’s very best work.

Like so many posthumous releases, Infinite is a tricky record to critique. It’s not Mobb Deep’s strongest record, but given the circumstances, it is a triumph—and a fitting testament to their legacy.

Giddy and tuneful, the band feels more at ease as a tried-and-true guitar pop band, reminiscent of how a band like Los Campesinos! captured the hearts of many an indie rock fan.

Rocket shows far more sophisticated rhythmic interplay than some of their shoegaze-leaning contemporaries on this debut.

While the remaining members, a power trio now, haven’t lost any of their edge, they’re channeling it with renewed energy.

The songwriting on songs like “Wake Up and Smile” and “Maybe I'll Burn My Life Down,” while adventurous to a degree, usually delivers the same result: the layering of a few sonic embellishments to rough-edged anthems that end up clashing against each other. But the main offenders are the most straightforward.

Ultimately, From The Pyre is the archetypal mixed bag, with glorious highs offset by some slightly concerning lows.

While Nestled in Tangles requires utmost attention to recognize their impact as a whole, it mainly inspires one to absorb its cleansing qualities if you look closely enough.

Whether Bleeds marks the end of a nice run or the beginning of a legendary one remains to be seen, but for now, let’s just enjoy one of the stand-out releases of 2025.

There are hints of Shame’s continuous evolution as songwriters. Take the muted, jagged menace lurking behind the austere “Packshot,” which builds into a powerful, guitar-driven crescendo. But for the most part, Cutthroat struggles at balancing that very fine line between accessibility and experimentation.

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

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.

THE FILM is a showcase of intensity: SUMAC ably matches that of Irreversible Entanglements via alternate delivery, while Ayewa’s passion and spoken outbursts meet Aaron Turner’s guttural howl. Looking at the essence of both entities and their respective creative signatures, it’s somehow both remarkable and obvious how natural each of them sound together on this LP.

The trio compels you to return to it again and again on Ripped & Torn—it's just that catchy—all while paving the way for the next generation of curious teens who have uncles with cool record collections.

The diminished presence of Michael (he does contribute here, but is more of a background figure) leads to a slight loss of variety, but it's hardly a deal-breaker. If you like The Lemon Twigs you will find plenty to enjoy here.

Outside of some slight bloat that nears The Lumineers' territory, the bulk of the album is far too open and compassionate to ignore.

Not everything works here and I found my attention wandering at times. But it is bursting with promise and MIKE's arrival feels both imminent and inevitable.

In refining their approach, Horsegirl stumbles onto a new set of influences that takes away from their true identity. Nevertheless, there are flashes of brilliance -- Frontrunner, accented with a lovely twang, details a story of romantic yearning that hits deeper as it progresses.

One can't help but admire Booker's big swings, and when they are this compelling, everything else becomes a moot point.

At times delightful, yet not without its flaws, this is an encouraging debut.

Minus openly captures the messy beauty of growth in real time in DÍA. And while she sometimes structures these songs a tad oblique, having rewritten some for three years straight, Minus understands that it's better to ease, rather than scrutinize, every aspect of the songwriting process. But never, ever should it be an afterthought.

Sure, the duo's musical palette is a little limited, and Phoebe Lunny’s nasal snarl starts to become a little grating after a while, but the furious lyrics and frenetic guitars certainly make for a fun listen.

There are jaunty little stabs at the band’s earlier post-punk revival sound, but even these are more of a pedestrian shuffle than an exuberant rush. Audacious is pleasant enough in a toe-tapping kind of way, but it’s still something of a misnomer. Elsewhere, the harder Kapranos flails around trying to recapture the magic of old, the more desperate and sad The Human Fear sounds.

Filled with frisky self-confidence, Falcon Bitch and Shmoofy—note the absurd names—bolt through sixteen terse, inventive tracks as they dryly switch and harmonize vocals.

It might not be new and it might not follow the current trends, but this is a rare document of heartbreak and hope with the power to move you to tears and make you smile, sometimes at the same time. It deserves any accolades it will receive and many, many more.

While listening to Disaster Trick, there is a sense that Giannopoulos intentionally distances himself, lingering in his thoughts. Given the traces of emotion he lays out throughout, they curiously let us in in mysterious ways. Credit also goes to the less measured and more textural production, which, unintentionally, allows the songs to become more alluring and inviting.

Johnson and his bandmates shake off their anguish with sweeping, lighthearted melodies that, instead of weighing you down, lift you up.