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Pop has always known that the dancefloor is the best place to cry. New Order knew it, the Pet Shop Boys built a career on it, and Robyn made it an emotional philosophy. On *Relabel*, her second album, Southampton's Kat Button joins that lineage with ten tracks that are danceable and disarmingly honest. Very little EDM
Tulsa doesn't get much credit as a breeding ground for existential dread set to a 170-BPM click track, but themindwillnotletgo has quietly built a case for the city's home studios as some of the most dangerous rooms in American rock. *burnout*, the nine-track record dropping September 4th, is a wall-of-sound séance con
Vulnerability, on record, usually arrives pre-packaged: a stripped-back arrangement, a whispered vocal, the implicit stage direction reading *sincerity now*. Freidrich$ has spent a career resisting that packaging, burying his voice under distortion and studio trickery as if flinching from his own confessions. Doll, Her
Records made by friends in a room tend to sound either like a warm hug or a hostage negotiation. *Bass River Sessions*, cut over several sittings on a Massachusetts street and named for it, sounds like three men who have spent years arguing productively about guitars finally being allowed to leave the amps switched on.
Solo piano records now arrive by the thousand, most of them built to sit politely behind a spreadsheet or a sleeping child. The default setting of the genre is a pleasant fog: a few unhurried chords, a wash of reverb, a title that hints at rain. Niel Lian's debut album declines the fog. It is quiet, and it keeps its vo
Concept albums usually arrive draped in a cape, with a gatefold sleeve the size of a paving slab and a sleeve note that reads like a tax return. Fabian Starr shows up in wraparound shades that glow the blue of a science-fiction fridge, a leather jacket zipped to the chin, and an infinity symbol lit on his chest like a
The compilation album has a shabby reputation, and usually deserves it: a hurried shuffle of old favourites, a couple of scraps to tempt the completists, a contractual obligation with a sleeve. *Elf* is a different animal. Its title is German for "eleven", the number of tracks Roland Wälzlein, who records as Fish And S
Nine tracks in, and the record still refuses to sound like anyone's homework. That's the first thing worth saying about OM Mare Shangri-la, the debut vocal statement from a composer who has spent a decade letting piano pieces arrive to her fully formed, as though dictated rather than written. Karen Salicath Jamali has
Bedroom pop has a habit of sounding exactly like what it is: modest, a little threadbare, honest about its limitations. Ricky Earlywine's "the grace code" declines that bargain outright. Recorded in the same room where every previous release was made, mixed alone in BandLab, built from an AI-generated instrumental sket
Loss, in pop music, gets treated two ways: wallowed in until it curdles into self-pity, or so heavily varnished with hope that the wound never gets shown at all. Starboard to Sunset, a Jersey Shore outfit steered by singer-songwriter Tom Damiano, split the difference with a maturity that belies how straightforwardly th
Milan's dance-pop underground has a way of producing artists who arrive fully formed, and DALE belongs in that company. "Addiction," the second single pulled from a forthcoming record, is a small triumph of restraint married to instinct — a track that could easily have leaned on nostalgia and instead chose to build som
Two minutes and forty-five seconds into the ACTVE CAPTVE universe and you already understand the joke: the world is on fire, so why not smash something? "PSSSH!" arrives less as a single than as a controlled detonation — barely any time at all to make its case, and it doesn't waste a second of it, treating the twenty-f
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