Cements them as no longer excellent imitators of the bands they once tipped their hats to, but worthy equals.

There’s so much good stuff here that it can take several listens before the less overtly outgoing gems (also including the wounded hush of “Love Is For Love”) emerge from Twilight Override’s mass of music.

So: Dance Called Memory is a very good Nation of Language album – perhaps their most tonally varied since the debut – and for many fans that will be more than enough.

Though the topics may be hard-hitting and steeped in despondency, Crookes still finds space to allow the light to shine through, with swooning vocals and infectious percussive beats (“Perfect Crime”). Throughout, vocals remain reminiscent of Amy Winehouse, with gritty yet honeyed intonations detailing intricate narratives.

Whereas her blockbuster debut Invasion of Privacy used every minute of its runtime, AM I THE DRAMA? wavers and meanders around tracks that are fine at best and miserable at worst.

It has the angst and energy we have come to expect, but refined through a miscellany of new sounds and influences while challenging what a Black Honey record can be, shifting away from their punk and grunge roots and cementing their growing reputation.

Their growth is obvious: the songwriting is more versatile and the dynamics more daring, the emotional range broader.

With her fourth studio record, Lola Young has created a tapestry of conflicting narratives delicately intertwined.

It’s ultimately futile to fight the album’s considerable charms, culminating in “When It Rains”, a low-lit, minimalist beauty that eventually curdles into a storm of fiercely shrieking guitar feedback and electronic dissonance.

Wednesday know what they want to say, and how: Pouring their hearts out with reckless riffage to illustrate the agony and ecstasy of smalltown life.

Ellis-Bextor's decorated back catalog has always split a complementary difference between a good groove and inventive intrigue. Even when she turns the dial ever so slightly in one direction, Perimenopop is no exception. Turn it up and enjoy.

They continue to forge gripping narratives and confrontive declarations, their verses ensconced, often straitjacketed, in industrial, hardcore, and metal sonics. In fact, there’s not much “mock” here, just well-crafted juggernaut mixes and volatile cum apoplectic vocals, with touches of pop sensibility thrown in for good measure.

Williams has created something that exceeds even her finest, most vital work. In short: a masterpiece, then.

Maruja and their defiant debut record meet us at that starting point, helping us to make sense of a world gone numb, to turn numbness into feeling and fire.

This debut shows a woman free to make the music she wants to, and boy does she do it well.

No One Was Driving The Car represents a strong return to the guitar-driven, fictional, but nonetheless moving terrain of La Dispute’s third (and best) album following the more personal and pastoral Panorama.

It's a potent start, but Allbarone gets better, deeper, more engaging and – crucially – stranger with each track, with Dury’s half-muttered speak-song voice mutating into more and more enticingly contorted shapes with each successive track.

It’s one that will thrill fans of inventive, guitar-driven alternative rock.

The tracks feel as easy as they probably were to craft, and while they are pleasantly paced and succinct, the impact of their previous work is lost.

If I’m dinging anything, it’s the temptation to coat every chorus in frosting, but I guess that’s also what makes Man’s Best Friend so much fun to listen to. Even when Carpenter over-ices the cake, the bite underneath is her own – funny, flirty, occasionally feral, and unmistakably Sabrina.

There’s an underlying recognition here, particularly on the part of Miller: parties end. The most opulent train can go off the rails. It’s this juxtaposition – brashness and vulnerability, abandon and a recognition of impermanence – that makes No Hard Feelings an arresting sequence.

This is an album that lacks the fun and hooks of their earlier outings.

From Talking Heads onward, Byrne’s songwriting style hasn’t been so much light and shade as light or shade, and the album sags a bit when he indulges in his more twee instincts.

It’s a throwback to 90s aesthetics, but it’s equally a modern dance pop record, almost a reclamation moment like New Order’s late-career return to form, Music Complete. Saint Etienne similarly tap into everything they do best, but it’s by no means groundbreaking.

A tenth studio album that feels less like a late-career coda and far more like a daring new beginning.

With each record, Wolf Alice return with more bite, a new story to tell, and new fans to invite into their world, The Clearing is no exception to the rule.

Some will see it as cathartic and welcome, whereas others may just be disconnected by the process. This seemingly brutal separation of the wheat from the chaff won't necessarily sit comfortably with all listeners, but I guess that’s exactly the point.

It’s still a difficult record to parse – Smith’s complex collaging lends itself to attentive admiration – but on this release, she wants you to hear the concept. She wants you to see what she can hear.

To a certain extent, Euro-Country distances itself from her previous releases, however, the material still remains distinctly, unmistakably CMAT. It possesses the same piercing humour and ambitious craft while offering her most personal collection of songs thus far.

Ultimately, with Guitar, DeMarco is working against the friction of his inescapable audience expectations to declare where he stands now: wiser and more intent, although still victim to tedium.

Ultimately, Interior Live Oak hits the richly rewarding territory of classic double albums by making the listener wonder whether its impact would be even stronger were it slimmed down to a single album whilst making it impossible to identify which tracks could be justifiably ditched to downsize the proceedings down to a more conventional 40 minute running order.

Duffy has sculpted an album that vibrates with courage, tenderness, and a sheer insistence to feel. Blue Reminder is not just another indie-folk sojourn; it’s a declaration of presence.

Laufey colours both inside and outside her established lines to create a joyful tension on A Matter of Time. It makes for the boldest chapter in her artistic story yet.

On their tenth record, they’re back once again to thwack their guitars really hard while also putting together some of the lushest soundscapes and most rousing choruses you’ll hear all year. The band’s greatest strength is an ability to cover multiple bases while always sounding unmistakably Deftones.

It’s an album of such focus and dedication to its oddness and brilliance that you can tell just how much work has been put in.

What’s so beautiful about The Passionate Ones is the simmering afterglow in every song, enhancing his mixture of chillwave, Arthur Russell, and SWV. Brown’s more spacious arrangements have helped him eloquently articulate his compelling words, catching your unsuspecting attention whenever the music lulls.

The messaging does feel appreciative yet it feels too familiar between its use of commonplace metaphors and lack of clear thematic thread.

What immediately clicks on his newest record here, is that he’s just cracked the code on how to write a great track, as one would hope over a decade in. Choruses catch, he has natural chemistry with every feature, and he changes his flow so much he almost has chemistry simply by himself.

It rocks the boat a little too much, but by keeping their bearings, Pool Kids continue to lead from the front.

Making mischief of one kind and another in a world gone wrong is what Osees do, and Abomination Revealed at Last is a solid rumpus.

Whether conjuring aurora borealis through music, “Sound & Light", or crafting pop bangers from vulnerability, she proves that reinvention, when it’s honest, doesn’t need spectacle to dazzle. Think of Flux as an elegant evolution. She’s still dancing, but this time with her heart closer to the surface.

when i paint is an intimate record full of poetic and melodic turns, giving you the impression that sometimes Levy herself is surprised by where it takes her.

Ethel Cain’s debut was a feat of artistry. This is a feat of musicianship.

You do have to dig at times though, to forage and find your own touchstones. Without that effort you may be left wandering around the realm she inhabits admiring the craft without feeling its warm embrace.

A curious, engrossing listen.

All in all, BITE ME is a lot of fun, like watching the drama unfold when you’re comfortably not involved. Reneé Rapp has solidified her place in today’s pop scene, and here’s hoping with a third record she’ll rock the boat.

THE FUTURE IS HERE AND EVERYTHING NEEDS TO BE DESTROYED's unrelenting refusal to quit, like The Armed, makes it a sonic treat and proves the Detroit gang remain unstoppable.

The narrative of Five Leaves Left is long and complex. Now that it has been told, in words and music, the record’s greatness is surely only enhanced. This release is the culmination of a remarkable project for which we should all be grateful to Gabrielle Drake and the archival team.

If you like “State Sponsored Psychosis”, you’ll enjoy it a tad faster in “The Abduction”. The dazzling backdrops overpower Pelant’s vulnerability, detracting from his authenticity. Nonetheless, they regain their footing with closer “Desperation”, a hopeful, power pop gem affirming where Night Moves currently stand.

Some of the unexpected and as such extra-fresh thrill of the new of encountering Davis’s debut with the Roadhouse Band may now have eased into an instantly recognisable house style, but New Threats from the Soul provides another compelling flowering of a unique and idiosyncratic songwriting talent.

Precipice is that rare album that brings together vulnerability, self-reflection, and the trademarks of a mainstream milestone: super earworms, coolly cosmopolitan sonics, and a voice that grows more compelling with each track. Precipice is De Souza’s “arrival” album and a singular addition to the contemporary pop canon.

Veronica Electronica may not add much to the already excellent era it comes from, but it certainly acts as a reminder to give the original another spin.

This record is Jade Bird’s strongest to date, an expansion of her sonic influences and an intimate depiction of the aftermath of a breakup and the trials and tribulations that come with that.

DON'T TAP emphasises that, really, he’s simply multifaceted. We all have radically different sides to who we are, and Tyler’s committed to expressing as much of himself as possible, from the cliché to the novel, the ugly to the beautiful, the cold-blooded to the empathetic.

The songs are proficiently penned, though often devoid of the juggernaut hooks that elevated previous outings, particularly the exhilarating House of Sugar and stunning God Save the Animals. Additionally, the production MO tilts toward the conservative – well-sanded and well-stirred instrumentation.

Black Noise dissolves existing genres and gives you a taste of what may lie beyond the system he’s fighting against.

Period sounds like a record trying its best to be happy – the striking highs of something like “Praying” are nowhere to be found on this allegedly unrestrained album.

Even if a few rougher edges wouldn’t go amiss, the results prove resonant, occasionally reminiscent of the similarly genre-blending mash-up of black music styles exemplified by Sault.

Teeming with overt-love metaphors, insatiable lust and uncaring attitudes, Wet Leg walked so Moisturizer could run, and boy, did she run.

Songs that feel tantalisingly and really quite brilliantly caught between the factual lived reality and some sort of a distorted imaginary twist of it: is the latter song about the literal devil, or a more mundane personification of a devil fond of lies, empty promises and manipulation? Who knows, and it’s in these tantalising grey areas that Utopia really shines.

Lorde’s tasteful embrace of fluidity in expression and refusal to slide into any conclusive assumption is Virgin’s most compelling strength. Even if the music’s painfully minimalistic and uneventful, her voice is a hurricane with guttural words as its generous source of energy.

Perhaps their least remarkable record, from its messaging which has grown increasingly unrelatable outside of religious contexts, and a collection of instrumentals which are another iteration of a sound previously travelled on more groundbreaking records. But don’t forget, they’re still firmly within zeitgeist territory.

Idols fails to expand on the promise of its grand opening statement, instead resulting in a heavily flawed fourth outing, overly reliant on the use of tired rock caricatures and repetitive song structures.

In short, afraid may demand a bit more from the consumer, in terms of mindful listening, but variety and range (and intensity) are indeed present, even if more understatedly.

If there’s a critique, it’d be on density, the album feels super compressed with a hectoring pressure that barely lets up despite some smart sequencing choices chopping up the pacing as well as it can to ride the turbulence. More moments of atmospheric space could have given the emotional catharsis room to breathe.

It would be wrong to view hopefully ! as a step back into Carner’s comfort zone based on a surface assessment. The live band used throughout the record gives hopefully ! a relaxed and blissful undertone, enriching the feeling of sunbathing or watching a sunset that Carner’s repeated mentions of the sun craft in the listener’s head. Vocally, the rapper pushes his boundaries more than perhaps ever before.

The record’s strongest moments originate in its audacity rather than precision: Desert Window opens up the ambient ideas she’s perfected in the past into riskier, roomier territory.

The presence of a full band in the studio and the proverbial writer’s room gives Raspberry Moon the dynamic presence previous records swapped for a consistent, syrupy atmosphere. While plenty of radiated sunbeam ragers populate the tracklist, acoustic ballads and delicacy are the real calling cards of this album.

I quit shows that HAIM will always make good music, and while this record doesn’t radically shift the formula, it reinforces their strengths: thoughtful songwriting, tight production, and seamless cohesion as a trio.

There is considerable range here, yet there is also so much nuance on what is a challenging and simultaneously rewarding record.

Crying the Neck finds him getting into his stride again. If he reins in his excesses, he may be in full flight on its follow-up.

Talkin’ To The Trees is no major return to form: there is too much letting go of unfinished things on view here for that. However, in its commitment to keeping things simple and looking inwards for inspiration, it resembles 2000’s underrated Silver & Gold, which alongside Toast (recorded in 2001 but not released until 2022) featured the last evidence of Young’s 1990s creative comeback: not a bad result for a 2025 model Neil Young album.

Its highs are higher, its lows are non-existent, and it has the government mandated Obongjayar feature, or it wouldn’t be a Simz project.

Why does “High Fashion”’s bassline sound so intoxicating and disjointed? Why does “Headphones On” possess trip-hop stems that are strangely symbolic of the destructive gallows? These interludes, if executed better, might’ve fulfilled and encouraged the listeners’ curiosity such as mine over Rae’s intriguing soundscapes.

If NEVER ENOUGH proves one thing, it's that Turnstile has a bright blue horizon ahead of them. The sky is the limit now.

Throughout this record, a steady vocal belies a complex layering of acoustic and electronic sounds. So many of these selected covers deconstruct into quirky, experimental instrumentals.

From the very outset, they exceed expectations, such is the quality and compositional depth of the material here.

I Got Too Sad For My Friends doesn’t deliver much versatility. Each track rolls into the next, and while that is alike to the depression Denton dissects in the record, it doesn’t make for varied listening.

On Nat Ćmiel’s fourth album, styles perfected and popularised by subversive 90s acts – Massive Attack and Nine Inch Nails will spring to mind – provide the guidance needed to explore new soundscapes, encouraging the singer-songwriter to surpass all previous achievements.

Similar to Charli xcx, Smerz’ downtempo songs might be more revealing than their anthems. T

With We Were Made Prey, Joseph finds her technical and emotional stride. Her lyrics are impressionistic, if not abstract; channeled through her expressive voice via subtle melodic movements, however, they become accessible, taking on a mystical allure.

Somehow, With Trampled with Turtles combines the emotional heaviness and wounded introspection seamlessly with the palpable, communal joy of playing and singing music in good company.

It comes across as a record not made with a grand statement or goal, but rather a meticulous creation from a collective with nothing to hide or show off. Just raw talent and a willingness not to be too precious with their creations.

Here is your soundtrack to that world, perhaps unsurprisingly it rocks righteously.

The angular flexes in style and wordplay tied together with Russell’s high wire deployment prove as duly consistent a formula as any of the standout entries in the duo’s crowded discography.

While Crooked Wing finds These New Puritans at their most refined and fractured, the album won’t be for everyone. Its refusal to deliver easy pleasures might leave some cold. And for all its inventiveness, there are moments where the almost academic precision threatens to override the emotional core. Yet, it’s exactly what it feels like, a requiem for the mechanical age, a love song to decay, and a stark reminder of the beauty that can be found in the shadow of ruins.

For a group so often criticised for the coldness and the metronomic aloofness of their catalogue, this is a record that sounds warm, tactile, and is evidently the outcome of five musicians spending six years on the road together.

On Hers, both the words and the music often make you stop in your tracks, raising a smile or prompting a gasp.

Metalhorse largely succeeds in conveying the pushing and pulling through life.

Furman’s upfront picture of Goodbye Small Head is perhaps clouded by jest: “orchestral emo prog-rock record sprinkled with samples,” she writes. Yet, it’s a continued display of her marked empathy as a songwriter, trying to seize control against a rhetoric centred on exclusion. Her observational musings are even more: a sign to band together now more than ever.

Ever since 2009’s lo-fi debut Bird-Brains, every Tune-Yards album has offered raw excitement. Better Dreaming does too, and it may just be their most uplifting and inspiring work to boot. Give it a listen – you’ll be dreaming better.

The clarity heard on this album can be interpreted as a sharpened edge in Hval. She collapses the space of the album into a single sensory experience; she conveys something unsearchable but found.

As it stands, the more things change the more that stay the same. But, when you have a formula as egregiously glorious and cacophonous as PUP is no bad thing.

The album not only justifies its existence but also adds something vital to the band’s legacy. It’s messy, lean, sharp, and relentless. Not cleaned up. Just tuned up and turned loose.

Woods’ song begins with a view from a beach, watching as zombies staggering into the sea, except these bodies are actually just people, pushed from their home countries by corrupt governments and post-colonial extraction. “Universities empty, the troublemakers is drowned or drivin' Uber overseas”. Moments like these prove Woods to be one of rap’s best ever storytellers and, what’s even more remarkable, is that among this Golliwog remains a distinctly New York rap record too.

Tall Tales sees Pritchard and Yorke plug into the fragility of social structures built on sand, a subject that finds voice via a quasi-cryptic sidewind through vast digital and organic tracts – an at times menacing, evocative and hypnotically immersive statement on a freefalling societal state of play.

It appears they have landed on something magnificent; symphonies of aching, internalised nostalgia and frequent beauty, bookended by hate, despair and some of their finest sonic experiments ever.

I Said I Love You First barely even tries to entertain during its runtime. It’s fundamentally uninteresting music.