As for now, he has the voice, the pathos, and the charisma required of an American folk hero. Now all he needs are the songs.

Each task is completed hyper-competently if dispassionately, creating a catalog of feats by a band that can seemingly do anything, remarkable in scope but lacking in focus. Mighty Vertebrate proves that Butterss can thrive in whatever world they find themself in. Now they just have to choose which one to conquer.

All the emotions Bridges mines in looking back are flattened into another textural element in the mix, a move that results in an album as comforting as a cool summer breeze—and just as ephemeral.

Although Cool World doesn’t stomp with the same weight of God’s Country, Chat Pile’s stylistic experiments pay off.

Like its sister album, it is unexpected, unfiltered, uncomfortably messy, and dizzyingly fun.

His self-produced beats do more talking than his words, filling in emotional blanks with a 4o-esque fogginess and R&B samples that add some longing to his nonstop raunchiness.

Mixtape Pluto seems to grind every cliche and caricature sketch of Future into pulp, then mold it into something odder, more alien, more jagged and delightfully misshapen.

Ultimately, the album functions as an offering, an effort to commune with the listener despite the limitations of language and the specificity of her pain.

That unpredictable quality control makes Coldplay frustrating to defend or dismiss—for every questionable choice, there’s a 6-minute nu-jazz vamp or classical prog-pop opus waiting around the corner.

Compared with its predecessor, Cutouts is looser, funkier—a thrilling testament to the near-telepathic chemistry these three musicians have honed across two years of touring.

It’s too frantic, too kinetic, and has too many places to be, which over the course of the album makes the essential beauty of Greep’s singing and the featherlight precision of his band feel like a front they’re tiring of holding up. It’s fitting, even artistically admirable, that such strain makes The New Sound’s music an appropriate wingman for characters who struggle to maintain basic human kindness. But it sure makes for an uncomfortable conversation.

“NO TITLE” is not without its mournful, meditative passages (could an interstitial track called “Broken Spires at Dead Kapital” be anything but?), but the album more frequently provides accessible and expedient pathways to its moments of communal ecstasy. It’s a record that welcomes you in rather than making you work for it.

The Hard Quartet lets us into their circle for just under an hour; it’s hard not to want to bask in its stoned brilliance even longer.

Her songs remain as focused as ever, and she uses these other musicians with the same consideration with which she uses various techniques; nothing is simply spectacle. More than anything else in Williams’ catalog, Acadia is open to tangents, wild ideas, sudden realizations, and sustained moods.

Her writing is focused and concept-driven, often scaffolded around a single word or image. “Coffee” and “Kaleidescope” are lesser examples—not coincidentally, both are rather somber piano ballads—but “Picture You” is perfectly executed, conjuring drawn curtains and flickering candles in the bedroom where Roan fantasizes alone, “counting lipstick stains where you should be.”

AI is simply another tool that will sometimes be used badly and sometimes be used well, and on Honey I think it’s used well.

Blood Incantation not only understand, but delight in what makes the best prog endure: lush textures, dizzying interplay, undeniable groove, a sense of worlds beyond. Toward the end of the album, the band digs into an unsuspectingly aching black-metal churn, the maelstrom building to supernova levels as Riedl’s screams stretch to an infinite howl.

He’s finding new aural and emotional textures within a familiar genre. Those fresh sounds are married to the sturdiest set of songs Strings has written, with defined melodies distinguished by flashes of empathy and wit.

EELS is relentless, hooky, and thematically looser than the band’s full-length debut, 2023’s When Horses Would Run, which reveled in the mythos of the American West. This is music of fine details and huge sentiments.

Mustafa’s pliant, breathy singing holds all these threads together.

For 56 minutes Foxing alternately thrills and confounds but provides little in the way of catharsis.

White Roses, My God won’t be for all Low fans, and though—perhaps as with the strangely comparable posthumous SOPHIE album—its reception will certainly be softened by goodwill, it stands alone. Sparhawk releasing a record this immediate and inchoate feels like a gesture of faith, in both listeners’ patience and the musical futures it might yet bloom.

As a legacy product, it justly preserves these 16 songs, some of which are as good as anything she’s ever done. But it’s hard not to wonder if this is really it. Part of the issue is structural. SOPHIE is roughly comprised of four sections of four tracks each, with the strangest works up front.

Across the album, his voice is helplessly buried beneath vocal processing and mixed conspicuously low, as if to purposely obscure his lyrics. These effects aren’t new to the Voidz, but on Like All Before You, they dominate, obscuring any humanity in Casablancas’ vocals.

Lowe has created something daring and unwavering in Lover, Other. In using her most provocative production to date, she doesn’t dim the shine of her primary instrument—instead, she highlights its brilliance.

Aside from some fleeting hellacious decisions, like the jump scare of a warbling child’s voice that opens the cloying final track “Wonder,” 143 is mostly just…there.

Odyssey isn’t just full of ideas; it’s full of good ideas—rich, challenging, and inspiring in their largess. A decade into the new jazz boom and seven years on from Garcia’s debut EP, Odyssey shows ambition and style.

Tasteful and slick, approachable and antiperspirant, less oceanic ecstasy than the pool party of the year.

At times Wish on the Bone can be non-specific, and the universality of Howerton’s feelings becomes untethered and slippery. Perhaps that’s why the album ends with the brief, incisive finale “I Took the Shot.”

Aside from the sheer invention, what’s most striking about Viewfinder is Eisenberg’s ability to crystallize their complex, nuanced thoughts about the limits of perception without creating new dogma in the process.

This is the first album where Yanya has worked with only one producer, and having a steady collaborator gives the album a cohesion you may not have noticed the previous two didn’t have. The sound is unhurried and lush, with Yanya’s voice confidently tender.

Knotty, distorted, and alien, Shirt operates only in intensity and extremes, an adrenaline shot for a songwriter liable to get lost in dreams.

When Forsyth piles on effects like Quine does, as in the wild wah-wah of “Versatile Switch,” he risks sounding tasteless, too. But these are faults that BASIC are glad to share with their namesake, proof that they truly embrace its sound. For Basic’s devoted fan base, This Is BASIC is evidence, finally, of the album’s enduring influence.

Migratory balances this restlessness with an equanimous serenity unruffled by the gales, confident that Fujita’s scrupulous hand will catch the next updraft.

Now all parts of Shepherd are on display, the scientist-DJ-producer-jazz-musician who can have his cake and eat it, too.

Unfortunately, Fat Dog’s debut slumps right in that tepid puddle, weighed down by gimmicks, cheap irony, and unearned mythology. Rather than stoking rapture or rage, it prods with hollow indifference. More a whimper than a woof.

Richter’s approach is almost too cut-and-dry; there’s none of the messiness that comes with processing emotion or the tension and release that defines catharsis. But closer “Movement, Before all Flowers” offers a welcome surprise.

Endlessness is more than a crafty marvel, or even than the sum of its vaunted parts. It feels like a feat of physics.

With these songs, you can hear the love letter to aughts rap-rock that Bear aimed for, not a misguided attempt at catering to Fortnite players. Unfortunately, most of Hole Erth comes across like the latter.

Mercury Rev have created so many otherworldly symphonies in the past, but there’s very little of their previous ingenuity or vision on Born Horses. Everything shimmers and sparkles in roughly the same way, with very little to distinguish one song from the next.

While contemporary political and personal unrest continues to invade the lives of Molchat Doma’s members—and those of many other people—their music remains firmly rooted in the past. Even if it’s not entirely innovative, it offers a sense of security, and that can be its own reward.

What’s Wrong With New York? isn’t inventive or texturally weird enough to geek the analog synth heads, and its hooks aren’t massive or sticky enough to work as pure pop either. The embrace of pretentiousness and artifice comes at the expense of real emotional complexity and memorably witty writing.

Lenderman has honed his songwriting such that I’d nominate a couplet for short story of the year: “Kahlúa shooter/DUI scooter.” He’s got lines that’ll paint a stupid grin on your face.

Alligator Bites makes Doechii’s stance clear: Nobody puts Doechii in a corner. But if this is the sound of Doechii pushing against constraints, a little friction might not be the worst thing.

Amelia flits briskly from scene to scene, with just enough musical backing to flesh out the atmosphere: shimmering oceanic drones; subtly driving pulses; dissonant whorls abruptly smoothed into reassuring consonance.

Joy isn’t merely happiness felt, it’s happiness earned, and Wild God is a remarkable portrait of a man putting in the work required to cross the threshold.

Ritual holds down his rock-star impulses and ties the album to a specific time and place, settling for the merely pretty instead of the all-consuming. Richly textured and carefully composed, Ritual is an impressive composition, but for Hopkins it feels rote.

In the same way the band’s first records felt like off-kilter interpretations of, say, King Tubby and krautrock, these new ones recast, not retread, what we’ve already heard. Seefeel have still got it, and are still finding new things to do with it.

The Bed I Made is a lovely introduction to their orbit.

As a transitory release, Persona is the best of both worlds: just as ferocious and unrelenting, but with bolder production and deeper hooks.

Though the dreamy atmosphere and embrace of pop formalism make for the band’s most accessible record, You’ll Have to Lose Something is still profoundly challenging.

Nursing wounds while simultaneously trying to put her problems to scale, Tudzin writes unpretentious songs that aim straight for the heart (“I Would Like, Still Love You,” “You Are Not Who You Were”) like the enduring hits of So Jealous.

["Big Mama" is] a brief flash of greatness on an album overwhelmingly satisfied with the mundane.

If the sound of Short n’ Sweet is occasionally fuzzy, its sense of humor is diamond-sharp.

Since their inception in 2016, Magdalena Bay have made aqueous internet pop and low-voltage funk full of pinwheeling arpeggios and inside jokes. Imaginal Disk sounds like that, but bigger and punchier—more keyboards! More percussion tracks! Add a string section!! Synth harp!!! The total effect brings to mind ’90s Madchester, the progression of Tame Impala after Lonerism, and peak CD sonics.

What sets Woodland apart from the rest of the duo’s remarkable catalog is its quiet adventure and clear empathy, qualities that give the sense that Welch and Rawlings are building a new structure upon an old foundation.

The brilliance of Romance lies in its unsettling blend of antic energy with refined craft—in the depths of detachment, Fontaines D.C. strike an engaging pose.

Chapter I, the stronger of the two releases, features one of Crockett’s most personal and well-executed ballads to date, “Good at Losing,” a solemn ride-along through the years he spent traveling aimlessly. The title track, “$10 Cowboy,” is another highlight.

An album that prizes both goofiness and growth, one that takes the long view of emotional vacillation without sacrificing forward momentum.

There’s enough proof here that Post has the voice, demeanor, and goodwill to easily ingratiate himself into the Nashville scene.

Wishy’s most cohesive moments come from their knack for memorable, solid melodies.

The album sometimes sounds slightly undercooked, like a set of production sketches awaiting further embellishment. And the debt it owes to its influences dilutes any shock of the new. But it takes skill and a degree of daring to riff on an album as monumental as Loveless

So though Lungu Boy will deliver on Asake fans’ expectations, what’s missing is something more personal.

Quantum Baby is a lean and muscular eight-song accompaniment to 2023’s BB/Ang3l that asserts itself with the insistence of manicured nails tapping on a hard surface.

With Disaster Trick, Horse Jumper of Love subtly expand their sound without losing the instinctual, otherworldly interplay of their melodies, dizzying guitar lines and serpentine rhythms blurring together in a narcotic ooze.

A Dancefloor in Ndola shows the art of the DJ as selector, joining the dots between musical trends in a way that flows effortlessly onto the dancefloor.

Despite the frequent overtures to grandeur, spectacle, and machismo, these songs are limp and flabby.

What’s fascinating about SORCS 80 is that it feels vaguely rootless—some sounds are familiar but the form is not. That isn’t to say Dwyer has chucked out hooks or melodies the way he did his guitar. SORCS 80 contains some of his sharpest recent songwriting—the tunes just happen to get transformed by the Osees’ execution.

Another Day falters when it gets too ethereal and singy—as on the Haliechuk-led “Follow Fine Feeling,” which doesn’t have the melodic juice of his excellent song “Cicada” on One Day—or too straight-up and untextured, as on the plodding closer “House Lights.” But at its best, Another Day showcases Fucked Up as masters of transformation.

The album’s minimalist moments are its strongest.

Shadows of doubt give the album its quaint, mercurial feel, deepening Lenae’s quest for understanding. Bird’s Eye situates her as a consummate thrill-seeker with limitless curiosity, restricted only by the uncertainties in her own mind.

Listening to Smoke & Fiction in the same sitting as Los Angeles or Wild Gift, the lasting impression isn’t how they’ve changed over the years, but how much of their original spark they’ve sustained.

At times his extremely online subject matter takes the bloom off his writing. But his innate ability to shift between breakneck flows amid chaotic production buoys the album.

The project’s raw immediacy initially suggested it might be throwaway, a palette cleanser before White resumed his usual studio tinkering, but its triple-octane riffage and seething, sticky hooks pointed to something more lasting and substantial.

Songs for Sinners and Saints doesn’t cover as much ground as Michael, which offered the rich multi-genre sprawl of a classic Dungeon Family release. But the narrower palette and lower stakes of the project restore the focus and play of his “Snappin’ & Trappin” days.

Cellophane Memories may be pretty, but it’s not easy.

Birds & Beasts doesn’t necessarily surprise, but it crystallizes this band’s essence, particularly as they find their footing after the shocking loss of Leib.

Five albums in, Cults sound just as eerie and cheery as ever but struggle to transcend the fleeting pleasantries of paint-by-numbers pop.

Banjo-led instrumentals that pay homage to Appalachian folk music is a hyper-specific niche, but Bowles and his band never allow their preferred sounds to hem in their experiments.

Strange Burden is meticulous and crackling—a concise, gripping record that sparks and sizzles like a kinked spike of lightning.

Blur certainly sounds older on Live at Wembley Stadium than they did on their previous live albums, yet those scars lend poignance to these familiar songs. The erosion in Albarn’s voice diminishes his impishness, adding a sense of empathy to his cultural observations.

Gone is their past material’s giddy, lysergic bounce; instead, drummer Evan Burrows pours a spacious, continual foundation where melodies rise through repetition, and rich details (with string and wind arrangements courtesy of Backer) slither and swim.

RiotUSA is behind the boards on every track, and Y2K! is a testament to the strength of their long-running creative partnership. Its weakest moments are those featuring outsiders—Gunna and Travis Scott just get absolutely rinsed here. What makes Y2K! so instantly memorable is Ice Spice’s refusal to be pigeonholed.

Vertigo is very well-studied and primed to reach the rafters of the mega venues she was thrust into early on. It just lacks much sense of her in it.

He’s willing to be chaotic and a little all over the place, and though that does occasionally result in moments that are hard to process, Robinson proves that he’s as adept at wringing moving moments out of pop tropes as he is conjuring alien worlds.

The illusion of continuous chatter and conversation is compelling enough even if you don’t understand any of the languages spoken therein.

It’s hard to grasp who Childish Gambino is supposed to be. So even when he’s genuine, I have a little bit of skepticism on my mind.

Without romanticizing their lives, they do manage to find something meaningful in that pursuit, even if it’s just another song to stave off the darkness.

It’s clear that Lava La Rue’s ambition as an artist burns brightly. Right now, its light and heat is overflowing, a little messy and uncontained; but the stardust is unmistakable.

Harmonics’ collection of relatable songs and interesting ideas could use a stronger hand on the tiller to reach its intended destination.

The astonishing amount of care and detail that went into All Hell might just be the result of seven and a half years of creation, or maybe it’s Los Campesinos! giving us an album big enough to live in case it needs to last a lifetime.

Big Ideas plays like an eclectic compilation of scattered thoughts from her journal. Songs grapple with big questions but offer few answers.

“Only One” highlights Jenkins’ facility for understated sophistipop; she’s a masterfully silky interpreter of hurt, a canny channeler of failed love in the softest possible tones. But the album’s very best song is its most atypical. “Delphinium Blue” is mostly synths.

Cohen’s inviting arrangements may not always strike the delicate balance between peace and uncertainty that he strives for, but when they do, his music remains as warm and rewarding as a fresh cup of coffee at dawn.

No other American singer is repurposing our old folk scripts with so much authority or ingenuity; When I’m Called proclaims—softly, gently, and slowly, with a sly grin and a Southern ease—that what these songs have to say isn’t old at all.

At just 28 minutes, HEIS moves with ceaseless hustle.

It’s a long slog to get to “Guilty Conscience 2,” but there are moments of genuine inspiration along the way.

Macro’s swooning arrangements bloom and bend, revealing a band comfortable with experimenting within the boundaries of a certain sound.