PopMatters' 80 Best Albums of 2024

Billie Eilish has always delighted in subverting expectations, but *HIT ME HARD AND SOFT* still, somehow, lands like a meteor. “This is the most ‘me’ thing I’ve ever made,” she tells Apple Music’s Zane Lowe. “And purely me—not a character.” An especially wide-ranging and transportive project, even for her, it’s brimming with the guts and theatricality of an artist who has the world at her feet—and knows it. In a tight 45 minutes, Eilish does as she promises and hits listeners with a mix of scorching send-ups, trance excursions, and a stomping tribute to queer pleasure, alongside more soft-edged cuts like teary breakup ballads and jaunts into lounge-y jazz. But the project never feels zigzaggy thanks to, well, the Billie Eilish of it all: her glassy vocals, her knowing lyrics, her unique ability to make softness sound so huge. *HIT ME* is Eilish’s third album and, like the two previous ones, was recorded with her brother and longtime creative partner FINNEAS. In conceptualizing it, the award-winning songwriting duo were intent on creating the sort of album that makes listeners feel like they’ve been dropped into an alternate universe. As it happens, this universe has several of the same hallmarks as the one she famously drew up on her history-making debut, 2019’s *WHEN WE ALL FALL ASLEEP, WHERE DO WE GO?*. In many ways, this project feels more like that album’s sequel than 2021’s jazzy *Happier Than Ever*, which Eilish has said was recorded during a confusing, depressive pandemic haze. In the three years since, she has tried to return to herself—to go outside, hang out with friends, and talk more openly about sex and identity, all things that make her feel authentic and, for lack of a better word, normal. “As much as *Happier Than Ever* was coming from this place of, like, \'We\'re so good. This sounds so good,\' it was also not knowing at all who I was,’” she tells Apple Music. FINNEAS agrees, calling it their “identity crisis album.” But *HIT ME HARD AND SOFT* is, she says, the reverse. “The whole time we were making it, we were like, \'I don\'t know if I\'m making anything good, this might be terrible…’ But now I\'m like, \'Yeah, but I\'m comfortable in who I am now.\' I feel like I know who I am now.” As a songwriter, Eilish is still in touch with her vulnerabilities, but at 22, with a garage full of Grammys and Oscars, they aren’t as heavy. These days it’s heartache, not her own insecurities, that keeps her up at night, and the songs are juicier for it. “LUNCH,” a racy, bass-heavy banger that can’t help but hog the spotlight, finds Eilish crushing so hard on a woman that she compares the hook-up to a meal. “I’ve said it all before, but I’ll say it again/I’m interested in more than just being your friend,” she sings. The lyrics are so much more than lewd flirtations. They’re also a way of stepping back into the spotlight—older, wiser, more fully herself. Read below as Eilish and FINNEAS share the inside story behind a few standout songs. **“LUNCH”** BILLIE: “One of the verses was written after a conversation I had with a friend and they were telling me about this complete animal magnetism they were feeling. And I was like, ‘Ooh, I\'m going to pretend to be them for a second and just write...and I’m gonna throw some jokes in there.’ We took ourselves a little too seriously on *Happier Than Ever*. When you start to embrace cringe, you\'re so much happier. You have so much more fun.” **“BIRDS OF A FEATHER”** BILLIE: “This song has that ending where I just keep going—it’s the highest I\'ve ever belted in my life. I was alone in the dark, thinking, ‘You know what? I\'m going to try something.’ And I literally just kept going higher and higher. This is a girl who could not belt until I was literally 18. I couldn\'t physically do it. So I\'m so proud of that. I remember coming home and being like, ‘Mom! Listen!’” **“WILDFLOWER”** BILLIE: “To me, \[the message here is\] I\'m not asking for reassurance. I am 100% confident that you love me. That\'s not the problem. The problem is this thing that I can\'t shake. It’s a girl code song. It\'s about breaking girl code, which is one of the most challenging places. And it isn’t about cheating. It isn’t about anything even bad. It was just something I couldn’t get out of my head. And in some ways, this song helped me understand what I was feeling, like, ‘Oh, maybe this is actually affecting me more than I thought.’ I love this song for so many reasons. It\'s so tortured and overthinky.” **“THE GREATEST”** BILLIE: “To us, this is the heart of the album. It completes the whole thing. Making it was sort of a turning point. Everything went pretty well after that. It kind of woke us back up.” FINNEAS: “When you realize you\'re willing to go somewhere that someone else isn\'t, it\'s so devastating. And everybody has been in some dynamic in their life or their relationship like that. When you realize that you\'d sacrifice and wear yourself out and compromise all these things, but the person you\'re in love with won’t make those sacrifices, or isn’t in that area? To me, that\'s what that song is about. It\'s like, you don\'t even want to know how lonely this is.” **“L’AMOUR DE MA VIE”** FINNEAS: “The album is all about Billie. It\'s not a narrative album about a fictional character. But we have always loved songs within songs within songs. Here, you\'ve just listened to Billie sound so heartbroken in ‘THE GREATEST,’ and then she sings this song that\'s like the antibody to that. It’s like, ‘You know what? Fuck you anyway.’ And then she goes to the club.” **“BLUE”** “The first quarter of ‘BLUE’ is a song Finneas and I made when I was 14 called ‘True Blue.’ We played it at little clubs before I had anything out, and never \[released it\] because we aged out of it. Years went by. Then, for a time, the second album was going to include one additional song called ‘Born Blue.’ It was totally different, and it didn’t make the cut. We never thought about it again. Then, in 2022, I was doing my laundry and found out ‘True Blue’ had been leaked. At first I was like ‘Oh god, they fucking stole my shit again,’ but then I couldn\'t stop listening. I went on YouTube and typed ‘Billie Eilish True Blue’ to find all the rips of it, because I didn\'t even have the original. Then it hit us, like, ‘Ooh, you know what\'d be cool? What if we took both of these old songs, resurrected them, and made them into one?’ The string motif is the melody from the bridge of ‘THE GREATEST,’ which is also in ‘SKINNY,’ which starts the album. So it also ends the album.”

The musician born Josh Tillman chose the title for his sixth album in a decidedly Father John Misty kind of way: He found the Sanskrit word in a novel by Bruce Wagner, who shares with the musician a certain impish LA mysticism. Mahāśmaśāna translates to “great cremation ground,” so it’s no surprise to find the singer-songwriter in “what’s it all mean?” mode, trawling tragicomic corners of the American Southwest in search of answers about life, death, and humanity. After trying his hand at big-band jazz on 2022’s *Chloë and the Next 20th Century*, Tillman returns to the big, sweeping ’70s-style pop rock that’s earned him a place among his generation’s most intriguing songwriters. He channels Leonard Cohen’s *Death of a Ladies’ Man* on the sprawling title track, whose swooning orchestration and ambitious lyrics take stock of, well, everything. “She Cleans Up” tells a rollicking tale involving female aliens, high-dollar kimonos, and rabbits with guns, and on dystopian power ballad “Screamland,” he offers an all-American refrain: “Stay young/Get numb/Keep dreaming.”

While Marika Hackman was making her fifth album *Big Sigh*, she kept thinking about, well, big sighs. “It’s quite cringingly something that me and my partner say to our dogs quite a lot when they do a big sigh,” the British singer-songwriter tells Apple Music. “Which then was being said at me quite a lot. \[The title\] was actually born out of there being a lot of sighing happening during the making of the record.” Because creating this album, says Hackman, was anything but easy. After 2019’s *Any Human Friend*, a “cocktail of different factors”—including the pandemic, a lack of inspiration, and “a constant hum of stress”—stunted her creativity. “It was like crawling through mud,” she says of trying to claw it back. “It was the biggest struggle I’ve had with that aspect of my career since I started.” Yet she found an upside, eventually. “Once you’ve got that far down the rabbit hole, it was like, ‘I’m here now and I’m going to make this record exactly how I want to make it. Even if that takes more time, money, stressful situations, I can’t be half-arsed about this,’” she says. Listen to the opening moments of *Big Sigh*, and it quickly feels like this is going to be a different kind of Marika Hackman record. After the largely guitar-led indie of *Any Human Friend* and 2017’s *I’m Not Your Man*, *Big Sigh* features swirling strings, piano, instrumental interludes, and horns, but also distorted vocals, industrial sounds, and electronic music. Plus, plenty of dark, arresting lyricism, and the minor-chord melodies that Hackman has always excelled in (“I feel like I have resting bitch face and I have resting sad voice,” she deadpans). It’s raw, immersive, and cinematic—both a leap forward and a culmination of everything Hackman has done before. “It feels like a bit of a turning point for me as an artist,” she says. “It feels very honest. I’m not trying to hide behind anything on this record at all. It’s exploratory, but in the way that a child explores—a really pure, honest exploration.” It also feels like another big sigh. “Once the record was done, the sense of relief, the whole process that it had taken to go through, it felt like a big sigh,” she says. “The song subjects, the themes, the sonics of it—it’s like this big, big release.” Read on as Hackman takes us inside the making of her fifth album, one song at a time. **“The Ground”** “I always like the first song to be the door opening. It sets the tone and gets you in the right mood. I wanted it to sound almost like a Vaughan Williams composition and then break down into something that felt really industrial. I’d written ‘The Ground’ long before \[starting the album\], but I just never thought it would end up on anything. Once I’d accepted that it wasn’t going to be a song and that I could just have it as an instrumental, that was a really exciting prospect. It takes guts for someone like me to do that, because it’s really flexing arrangement and composition as opposed to hiding behind my voice or lyrics. Then I was like, ‘I want to bring aspects of all of this throughout the record.’” **“No Caffeine”** “\[The piano\] is relentless in quite a light way. A little bit like a broken child’s toy or something that could start to make you feel quite uneasy. I had the music written for ages but it took a really long time to write the lyrics. At some point along the way, it occurred to me that it should be a song about the relentlessness of anxiety and how it’s inescapable. What about a big to-do list of all the stuff that I do? Then it became really fun to write—you can kind of be really playful and cheeky with it. And then it was the idea that, ‘This was only supposed to happen one time, a one-night stand, and now you’ve moved in with me and you’re my wife and you’re giving me hell every single day.’ I’ve always written quite gnarly lyrics alongside quite playful melodies. I’ve always found that a really fun collision.” **“Big Sigh”** “Flipping between the major and minor has always really got me. But this one was just one of those lightning-bolt songs, so I wasn’t thinking about it much. I was just messing around on my guitar at home and that initial riff came out. I listened to a lot of Alex G around that time and you can hear that. It’s that thing again of pushing the chords into quite weird places but then having quite a catchy chorus on top of that, which was fun. I think any song that comes to you that you don’t have to try for always feels like a really big release. This one came so naturally, you can kind of hear the relief in it, I think. When it came to being in the studio, it was like, ‘This has got to be big slamming guitars. Let’s just lean into it.’ I will always take my direction from the song itself, and it was just screaming for it. So I was like, ‘Yeah, here we go.’” **“Blood”** “Those lyrics are pretty brutal. It’s obviously all about ex-relationships and that idea of being held to a certain standard that you didn’t even set for yourself so that you’re basically constantly disappointing people. Or that people will create an image of you in their head and they’ll be in love with that image, but it’s not real. And when that mask starts to slip, it gets very painful and stressful. I kept it pretty simple. I didn’t want to overdevelop it. Then it just releases rather than giving you a big sing-along moment, which suits it great. That’s all it needs.” **“Hanging”** “Whether it’s a song or a poem or whatever, I’m all for a bit of candid, sort of domestic, lyricism. But it’s also the point to really take it somewhere even deeper and darker—the furthest you can go. That’s what I was doing on this one. It was a relationship I’d been in that had gone on for a while—you kind of lose yourself a little bit and you don’t even realize that it’s happening. It’s the pain of that stifling feeling. With the huge release at the end, it’s like, ‘Yeah, you were part of me. I’m so relieved it hurts.’ And it hurts because it’s ended, and that’s a relief as well. There’s a lot to unpack, but at the core of it, it’s a pretty classic reflection on a relationship that didn’t work with just some hella strong dark imagery to really bring home the gnarlier aspects of that. I’m very, very proud of it as a song. The structure of it, the way that it flows, to me, is a top level of my capabilities as a songwriter.” **“The Lonely House”** “I was just plinking around on the piano and came up with a little motif and decided to expand into it. Having written ‘The Ground,’ I wasn’t too scared of having a moment without any vocals. I think the record is cinematic, and it was a nicer moment to reflect and have a little bit of space to breathe amongst all this quite devastating stuff. I’m quite a basic pianist, but it’s now opened up another part of my brain going forward that I’m excited to flex a little bit more.” **“Vitamins”** “My mum has never actually said any of the stuff \[in the lyrics\] to me. She’d be absolutely devastated, I think, if she thought that anyone thought that! But it’s supposed to be a reflection on how one sees themselves through the lens of the mother, the father, the partner—the people closest to you—and how that reflects back onto you. It’s about self-doubt: ‘I’m not going to be who I thought I was going to be. I’m not going to be this kind of successful or that kind of successful.’ I knew I wanted this big, growing outro that was kind of dark and menacing after this quite meditative track. I’m almost loathe to call it a track—it doesn’t feel like a song to me in the way that I write songs. It was just really, really instinctive.” **“Slime”** “Something a bit more uplifting and a little bit funner—and much more aligned with my last record. I was quite open at this point. I’d cracked myself open and it was like everything was coming pretty quickly, so it was a very easy song to write. I love writing music like that. You don’t have to deep dive in a way that makes you feel like you’re on the cusp of tears. It’s like you get to just be quite poetic and a bit risqué and kind of cheeky with it. It feels more like playing with your craft as opposed to skinning yourself.” **“Please Don’t Be So Kind”** “This is sort of a partner to ‘Blood.’ I love how simple and repetitive it is, then you’ve got all these horns coming in. It feels funereal and that’s the concept. The idea of this is, ‘If you were just being a massive asshole, it would make life so much easier rather than actually being someone that I like.’ Not a fun situation to be in. It had the potential to be a releasing-doves-into-the-air, boy-band single if you treated it the wrong way. We found that taking it away from being on the guitar and piano and putting most of it onto a horn section was the perfect curveball, because it saps anything cheesy from it.” **“The Yellow Mile”** “I felt like I was just chatting. I wanted it to feel really raw and honest, but not at the cost of beauty. You listen to that first verse, it’s like you can’t help but see every single one of those images in your head. The trick is kind of making it feel like I haven’t actually said any of that, that you’ve just thought it for yourself. I’m talking about the sadness, again, of a relationship that doesn’t work. This was the last song I wrote for the record—it’s the end of a journey. I felt like I needed a song that needed to feel quiet and intimate and not produced and just raw.”

In the 18 months after Taylor Swift released *Midnights*, it often felt as though the universe had fully opened up to her. The Eras Tour was breaking records and blowing past the billion-dollar mark; its attendant concert film became the highest-grossing of all time. She generated interest and commerce and headlines everywhere she stepped foot, from tour stops to the tunnels of NFL stadiums. In 2023, she was named both *TIME* magazine’s Person of the Year and—just as iconic, tbh—Apple Music’s Artist of the Year. But do songs about that level of success speak to you? As the news broke that her highly private six-year relationship to Joe Alwyn had ended, Swifties started Swiftie-ing, quickly recirculating a clip on social media of Swift a few weeks earlier, onstage during an early Eras show, in tears as she sang “champagne problems”—a song she and Alwyn had written together. It was a reminder that, despite the superhero-like aura she now radiates, Swift, at her peak, still hurts like the rest of us. What sets her apart is her ability to sublimate that pain into pop. When she announced her 11th studio album in early 2024—while accepting another Grammy, as one does—we probably shouldn’t have been surprised. “I needed to make it,” she’d say of *THE TORTURED POETS DEPARTMENT* a few weeks later, to a crowd of—\[rubs eyes\]—96,000 in Melbourne, Australia. “I’ve never had an album where I’ve needed songwriting more than I needed it on *TORTURED POETS*.” Working again with trusted collaborators Jack Antonoff and Aaron Dessner, she returns to the soft, comfortable, bed-like sonics of *Midnights*. But the stakes feel noticeably higher here: This isn’t so much a breakup album as it is a deep-sea exploration of everything Swift has been feeling, a plunge through emotional debris. On “But Daddy I Love Him”—over strings and guitar that faintly recall her country roots—she lashes out at the crush of scrutiny and expectation she’s been subject to from the start. Naturally, catharsis comes after the chorus: “I’ll tell you something right now,” she sings. “I’d rather burn my whole life down than listen to one more second of all this bitching and moaning.” On “Florida!!!” she and Florence + the Machine team up for a pulpy escape fantasy wherein they Thelma and Louise their way down to the Sunshine State in hopes of starting over with new lives and identities: “Love left me like this,” they sing. “And I don’t want to exist.” At turns hilarious and heartbreaking, *TTPD* is a study in extremes, Swift leaning into heightened emotions with heightened, hyperbolic, ALL-CAPS language and imagery—how we think when we’re drunk on love or flattened by its sudden disappearance. Note the dark humor she weaves through the Post Malone-enriched opener “Fortnight” (“Your wife waters flowers/I wanna kill her”). Or the thrilling self-deprecation of “Down Bad,” a foray into science fiction wherein Swift likens the warmth of a relationship to being abducted by love-bombing extraterrestrials—only to be left “naked and alone, in a field in my same old town.” But this remains her most candid and unsparing work to date: As a listener, you frequently get the feeling that you’ve stumbled across emails she’d written but never sent, or into conversations you were never meant to hear. There’s a density and a specificity and a ferocity to her lyrical work here that makes 2012’s “All Too Well” feel sorta light by comparison. If you’re the kind of Swiftie who likes to live in the details, well, this one might be your Super Bowl. “You swore that you loved me, but where were the clues?” she asks on the devastating “So Long, London,” a high point. “I died on the altar waiting for the proof.” Alone at a piano on the haunting “loml,” she flips the script on someone who’d told her she was the love of their life, by telling them that they were the loss of hers: “I’ll still see it until I die.” The story, as you likely know, doesn’t end there. We get a glimpse of new beginnings in “The Alchemy” (“This happens once every few lifetimes/These chemicals hit me like white wine”) and something like triumph in the montage-ready synths of “I Can Do It With a Broken Heart,” when Swift, shattered on the floor, “as the crowd was chanting, ‘More!’,” still finds the strength to deliver: “’Cause I’m a real tough kid and I can handle my shit.” But we also get a sense of acceptance, of newfound perspective. On “Clara Bow”—named after a 1920s movie star who was able to survive the jump from silent film to sound—Swift reflects on the journey of a small-town girl made good, sung from the vantage of an industry obsessed with the next big thing. She zooms out and out and out until, in the album’s closing seconds, she’s singing about herself in the third person, in past tense, acknowledging that nothing is forever. “You look like Taylor Swift in this light, we’re loving it,” she sings. “You’ve got edge she never did/The future’s bright, dazzling.”

The Decemberists’ first album in six years feels like a homecoming. After the somber and reflective *What a Terrible World, What a Beautiful World* in 2015 and the synth-laden protest songs of 2018’s *I’ll Be Your Girl*, their ninth LP, *As It Ever Was, So It Will Be Again*—their first-ever double album—is a freewheeling and deeply pleasurable odyssey through the Portland folk-rockers’ estimable history. No stone in the band’s past is left unturned here: There are echoes of the wistfulness that drew so many listeners in circa 2002’s instant classic *Castaways and Cutouts*, as well as the flamboyant instrumentation and arched-eyebrow storytelling that marked 2005’s star-making *Picaresque*. Even *As It Ever Was*’ stormy and surprisingly bruising closer, the nearly 20-minute “Joan in the Garden,” instantly recalls the band’s 2009 proggy opus *The Hazards of Love* in its “Aqualung”-esque stomp, complete with meaty guitar riffs. At first glance, Colin Meloy and co. are doing a lot across the ample framework of *As It Ever Was*—but their successfully executed sense of ambition is perfectly complemented by the sweet musical simplicity of these 13 songs, some of Meloy’s most straightforwardly gorgeous music put to tape. Accompanied by The Shins’ James Mercer and R.E.M. bassist Mike Mills, the easy jangle of “Burial Ground” is practically The Decemberists’ own take on The Byrds’ classic “Turn! Turn! Turn!” while “America Made Me” leavens Meloy’s acerbic sociopolitical observations with a horn-laden bar-band boisterousness. “Don’t want stunning wordplay/All I want is you,” Meloy nakedly intones on “All I Want Is You,” perhaps a cheeky self-referential moment towards his own penchant for lyrical verbosity. But *As It Ever Was, So It Will Be Again* reaffirms that The Decemberists are at their strongest when embracing their most long-held creative tendencies.

Ariana Grande is used to being in the spotlight, but over time, she’s gotten savvy at playing it. The pop star’s seventh studio album *eternal sunshine*—a lightly conceptual riff on the head-spinning 2004 film starring Jim Carrey, of whom Grande has said she’s a lifelong fan—feels like a mind game itself, blurring the lines between real-life references and theatrical bits. It arrives in the middle of a whirlwind tabloid-packed stretch—Grande married, divorced, and scored a starring role in Hollywood’s big-screen adaptation of *Wicked*—and she knows fans have questions. What’s true? What’s real? Ari gives a lot of things on this album, but answers aren’t one of them, a cunning reminder of how little transparency celebrities actually owe us. In an interview with Zane Lowe, Grande leans into the project’s thematic murkiness. “true story,” she says, is “an untrue story based on all untrue events,” and when asked about her own experience with the Saturn return, an astrology milestone referenced in the album’s only interlude, she shrugs. “It was chill. Nothing changed. Pretty uneventful.” She says she finds freedom in art because “you can really pull from anywhere,” and she describes the film as another “lovely costume” to wear. Her answers have flickers of defiance that feel like power. Whoever said albums had to be tidy, or true? “It doesn’t have to be an everlasting love story,” she tells Lowe. “Love is complicated. Showcasing both sides of it is what I tried to \[do\].” If there’s one thing these tracks make clear, it’s that she’s still Ari on the mic—she’s still hitting those high highs (“eternal sunshine”); still finding release on the dance floor (“yes, and?”); still sifting gold out of ’90s R&B (“the boy is mine”), a sequel to the leaked 2023 track “fantasize.” Her favorite? “imperfect for you,” a tribute to the friends who make up her inner circle. “We’re so lucky to have loved ones who are accepting and real with us no matter what,” she says. “We live in a time where everything is boiled down, but that song demands room for nuance, humanness, and complexity.”

Kelly Lee Owens’ musical journey has been a fascinating one. After spending time as the bassist of the noisy British indie-pop outfit The History of Apple Pie, she took an abrupt left turn into electronic territory with 2017’s self-titled debut album, which melded brainy production with melodic pop gewgaws delivered straight from the Welsh singer-songwriter’s pipes. 2020’s *Inner Song* and the 2022 follow-up *LP.8* ventured further into strange territory, the former featuring a cover of Radiohead’s “Arpeggi” and a feature from art-pop luminary John Cale—but nothing she’s done previously can prepare you for the total rush of her fourth album *Dreamstate*. Owens’ music has always been body-moving even at its most abstract, but on her inaugural bow for the 1975 production impresario George Daniel’s dh2 imprint, she heads full-on into big-room territory—think miles of pulsing synths, dewy rhythmic stretches lovingly ripped from trance’s fabric, and a distinct psychedelic flavor. *Dreamstate* is, in its essence, a capital-B big-sounding record, with guest turns from the type of folks—The Chemical Brothers, Bicep, and Daniel himself all pitch in on programming and production—who know how to play to massive crowds looking to feel something. But the sound of this record retains the trademark wispy intimacy that Owens has proven so good at, launching her to the forefront of electronic pop alongside fellow sneaky-smart dance-pop alchemists like Jamie xx, Caribou, Floating Points, and HAAi. The lush, soaring build of “Higher” dissolves into the type of pulsing synth line that you can practically feel in your bloodstream, while “Air” packs a four-to-the-floor punch as her vocals aerate the neon house-music surroundings. Owens’ pop sensibilities, which she’s cloaked in mysterious left-field sonic shapes in the past, are more present than ever before: Witness the arpeggiated ascent of “Rise,” which features a lovely vocal sigh reminiscent of Kate Bush’s “This Woman’s Work,” or the bell-clear sincerity of “Ballad (In the End),” the most straightforwardly vocal pop cut of the bunch.

There’s a sense of optimism that comes through Vampire Weekend’s fifth album that makes it float, a sense of hope—a little worn down, a little roughed up, a little tired and in need of a shave, maybe—but hope nonetheless. “By the time you’re pushing 40, you’ve hit the end of a few roads, and you’re probably looking for something—I don’t know what to say—a little bit deeper,” Ezra Koenig tells Apple Music. “And you’re thinking about these ideas. Maybe they’re corny when you’re younger. Gratitude. Acceptance. All that stuff. And I think that’s infused in the album.” Take something like “Mary Boone,” whose worries and reflections (“We always wanted money, now the money’s not the same”) give way to an old R&B loop (Soul II Soul’s “Back to Life”). Or the way the piano runs on “Connect”—like your friend fumbling through a Gershwin tune on a busted upright in the next room—bring the song’s manic energy back to earth. Musically, they’ve never sounded more sophisticated, but they’ve also never sounded sloppier or more direct (“Prep-School Gangsters”). They’re a tuxedo with ripped Converse or a garage band with a full orchestra (“Ice Cream Piano”). And while you can trainspot the micro-references and little details of their indie-band sound (produced brilliantly by Koenig and longtime collaborator Ariel Rechtshaid), what you remember most is the big picture of their songs, which are as broad and comforting as great pop (“Classical”). “Sometimes I talk about it with the guys,” Koenig says. “We always need to have an amateur quality to really be us. There needs to be a slight awkward quality. There needs to be confidence and awkwardness at the same time.” Next to the sprawl of *Father of the Bride*, *OGWAU* (“og-wow”—try it) feels almost like a summary of the incredible 2007-2013 run that made them who they are. But they’re older now, and you can hear that, too, mostly in how playful and relaxed the album is. Listen to the jazzy bass and prime-time saxophone on “Classical” or the messy drums on “Prep-School Gangsters” (courtesy of Blood Orange’s Dev Hynes), or the way “Hope” keeps repeating itself like a school-assembly sing-along. It’s not cool music, which is of course what makes it so inimitably cool. Not that they seem to worry about that stuff anymore. “I think a huge element for that is time, which is a weird concept,” Koenig says. ”Some people call it a construct. I’ve heard it’s not real. That’s above my pay grade, but I will say, in my experience, time is great because when you’re bashing your head against the wall, trying to figure out how to use your brain to solve a problem, and when you learn how to let go a little bit, time sometimes just does its thing.” For a band that once announced themselves as the preppiest, most ambitious guys in the indie-rock room, letting go is big.

The grace of Khruangbin’s dusty, evocative groove music is that it feels both totally effortless and impeccably put together. Arriving after the group spent a few years exploring collaboration (including 2022’s *Ali* with the Malian guitarist Vieux Farka Touré and the R&B-centric *Texas Sun* and *Texas Moon* EPs with singer Leon Bridges), *A La Sala* goes back to the bass/guitar/drum-and-occasional-distant-vocals setup they managed to get so much mileage out of in the first place. The collection conjures the psychedelia of spaghetti western soundtracks (“Ada Jean”), the pop of West African funk (“Pon Pón”), and the whispered intimacy of indie folk (“May Ninth“) in strokes so minimal it almost breezes by. Of course, breezing is what this band does by design, and in their range, they give you an album as varied as a mixtape and as gently communicative as a great lamp—you know, the kind of thing that can change the whole mood just by turning it on.

In a short time, Claire Cottrill has become one of pop music’s most fascinating chameleons. Even as her songwriting and soft vocals often possess her singular touch, the prodigious 25-year-old has exhibited a specific creative restlessness in her sonic approach. After pivoting from the lo-fi bedroom pop of her early singles to the sounds of lush, rustic 2000s indie rock on 2019’s star-making *Immunity* and making a hard pivot towards monastic folk on 2021’s *Sling*, the baroque, ’70s soul-inflected chamber-pop that makes up her third album, *Charm*, feels like yet another revelation in an increasingly essential catalog. *Charm* is Cottrill’s third consecutive turn in the studio with a producer of distinctive aesthetic; while *Immunity*’s flashes of color were provided by Rostam Batmanglij and Jack Antonoff worked the boards on *Sling*, these 11 songs possess the undeniable warmth of studio impresario and Sharon Jones & The Dap-Kings founding member Leon Michels. Along with several Daptone compatriots and NYC jazz auteur Marco Benevento, Michels provides the perfect support to Cotrill’s wistful, gorgeously tumbling songcraft; woodwinds flutter across the squishy synth pads of “Slow Dance,” while “Echo” possesses an electro-acoustic hum not unlike legendary UK duo Broadcast and the simmering soul of “Juna” spirals out into miniature psychedelic curlicues. At the center of it all is Cottrill’s unbelievably intimate vocal touch, which perfectly captures and complements *Charm*’s lyrical theme of wanting desire while staring uncertainty straight in the eye.

Few artists have as keen an eye for human complexities as Joy Oladokun. The Arizona-born singer-songwriter has shown her incisive side on songs like the 2023 Noah Kahan-featuring *Proof of Life* favorite “We’re All Gonna Die” and the inspiring 2021 *in defense of my own happiness* cut “look up,” doing so with compassion and self-awareness. On this outing, which she produced herself, Oladokun turns that sharp intuition inward, pondering her place in a world that feels increasingly inscrutable. That introspection can sound confused and adrift, like on the breezy but questioning “AM I?,” or determined and purposeful, as on the sweetly defiant “flowers.” “I’D MISS THE BIRDS” feels like a thesis statement for the record, with Oladokun admitting she’d like to ditch the “Proud Boys and their women” and a “world on fire” in favor of peace, quiet, and acceptance in nature. Oladokun wraps the record with “GOODBYE,” a quietly epic ballad with soulful, old-school production and wrenchingly emotional vocals. Spoken-word interludes are sprinkled throughout the album, making for an especially immersive front-to-back listen.

Chat Pile’s sludgy mix of nu metal and ’90s underground rock isn’t anything new, but it’s hard to imagine it existing so comfortably at any other time. Part of it’s their willingness to traverse what in another era would’ve been uncrossable cultural lines: Pledging your allegiance to the funny, post-punk surrealism of a band like Pere Ubu (“Camcorder”) at the same time as the single-entendre misery of Korn (“Funny Man”), for example. If metal is, on some level, guitar-country, Chat Pile is firmly set in its rhythm section, which is as rumbling and inescapable as the power lines and strip-mined hills of the Middle America outside their window, leaving the guitars primarily to peel paint. Where guys this misanthropic might’ve been considered social liabilities in their past (or at least dangers to their parents and church youth group), now they sound content to stay in their rooms and pig out on memes about the world they’ve always known was in ruin. “Tape” is the peak here not because it’s the hardest but because it’s the funkiest, whatever funk means to bands like this. Forget alienation—they’re laughing.

DIIV has always been a musical shape-shifter—subtly mutating into new forms that are deeply felt by those who pay close attention to its sonic textures. The band’s debut album, 2012’s *Oshin*, was double-dipped in the chiming guitars of classic indie pop and post-punk’s intense persistence; *Is the Is Are*, from 2016, stretched lush dream-pop weavings across its wide canvas, while 2019’s *Deceiver* dove headlong into shoegaze’s bottomless bliss. For its first album in five years, the quartet led by Zachary Cole Smith takes its catalog into several thrilling new turns: At various points, *Frog in Boiling Water* conjures the sweeping drama of goth à la *Seventeen Seconds*-era The Cure, slowcore’s crushing and hypnotic beauty, and the metallic textures of vintage grunge. DIIV has never sounded so devastating, so ominous, and so utterly pristine as it does on *Frog in Boiling Water*—a triumph in fidelity that’s owed as much to veteran indie-rock producer Chris Coady (Beach House, Future Islands) as it is to the band’s locked-in interplay. Smith and Andrew Bailey’s guitars drip like melted candles over the vast expanse of “Soul-net,” while “Brown Paper Bag” stomps and splashes with every cymbal crash, courtesy of drummer Ben Newman. This might be the heaviest music DIIV has ever put to tape, and its doomy sound perfectly matches the album’s foreboding themes. Borrowing its title from a central metaphor in Daniel Quinn’s 1996 novel *The Story of B*, *Frog in Boiling Water* takes aim at what the band refers to as “the slow, sick, and overwhelmingly banal collapse of society under end-stage capitalism,” and a close read of Smith’s lyrics indeed reveals a sense of wide-scale distrust, as well as general societal malaise. But even at its most despairing, DIIV never forgets that retaining a sense of humanity is key to surviving what lies ahead: “The worst of times/Leave them behind,” Smith implores over the soaring riffs of “Reflected.” “But keep that lump in your throat.”