“As I got older I learned I’m a drinker/Sometimes a drink feels like family,” Mitski confides with disarming honesty on “Bug Like an Angel,” the strummy, slow-build opening salvo from her seventh studio album that also serves as its lead single. Moments later, the song breaks open into its expansive chorus: a convergence of cooed harmonies and acoustic guitar. There’s more cracked-heart vulnerability and sonic contradiction where that came from—no surprise considering that Mitski has become one of the finest practitioners of confessional, deeply textured indie rock. Recorded between studios in Los Angeles and her recently adopted home city of Nashville, *The Land Is Inhospitable and So Are We* mostly leaves behind the giddy synth-pop experiments of her last release, 2022’s *Laurel Hell*, for something more intimate and dreamlike: “Buffalo Replaced” dabbles in a domestic poetry of mosquitoes, moonlight, and “fireflies zooming through the yard like highway cars”; the swooning lullaby “Heaven,” drenched in fluttering strings and slide guitar, revels in the heady pleasures of new love. The similarly swaying “I Don’t Like My Mind” pithily explores the daily anxiety of being alive (sometimes you have to eat a whole cake just to get by). The pretty syncopations of “The Deal” build to a thrilling clatter of drums and vocals, while “When Memories Snow” ropes an entire cacophonous orchestra—French horn, woodwinds, cello—into its vivid winter metaphors, and the languid balladry of “My Love Mine All Mine” makes romantic possessiveness sound like a gift. The album’s fuzzed-up closer, “I Love Me After You,” paints a different kind of picture, either postcoital or defiantly post-relationship: “Stride through the house naked/Don’t even care that the curtains are open/Let the darkness see me… How I love me after you.” Mitski has seen the darkness, and on *The Land Is Inhospitable and So Are We*, she stares right back into the void.
For the last two decades, Sufjan Stevens’ music has taken on two distinct forms. On one end, you have the ornate, orchestral, and positively stuffed style that he’s excelled at since the conceptual fantasias of 2003’s star-making *Michigan*. On the other, there’s the sparse and close-to-the-bone narrative folk-pop songwriting that’s marked some of his most well-known singles and albums, first fully realized on the stark and revelatory *Seven Swans* from 2004. His 10th studio full-length, *Javelin*, represents the fullest and richest merging of those two approaches that Stevens has achieved to date. Even as it’s been billed as his first proper “songwriter’s album” since 2015’s autobiographical and devastating *Carrie & Lowell*, *Javelin* is a kaleidoscopic distillation of everything Stevens has achieved in his career so far, resulting in some of the most emotionally affecting and grandiose-sounding music he’s ever made. *Javelin* is Stevens’ first solo record of vocal-based music since 2020’s *The Ascension*, and it’s relatively straightforward compared to its predecessor’s complexity. Featuring contributions from vocalists and frequent collaborators like Nedelle Torrisi, adrienne maree brown, Hannah Cohen, and The National’s Bryce Dessner (who adds his guitar skills to the heart-bursting epic “Shit Talk”), the record certainly sounds like a full-group effort in opposition to the angsty isolation that streaked *The Ascension*. But at the heart of *Javelin* is Stevens’ vocals, the intimacy of which makes listeners feel as if they’re mere feet away from him. There’s callbacks to Stevens’ discography throughout, from the *Age of Adz*-esque digital dissolve that closes out “Genuflecting Ghost” to the rustic Flannery O’Connor evocations of “Everything That Rises,” recalling *Seven Swans*’ inspirational cues from the late fiction writer. Ultimately, though, *Javelin* finds Stevens emerging from the depressive cloud of *The Ascension* armed with pleas for peace and a distinct yearning to belong and be embraced—powerful messages delivered on high, from one of the 21st century’s most empathetic songwriters.
Where the ’60s-ish folk singer Jessica Pratt’s first few albums had the insular feel of music transmitted from deep within someone’s psyche, *Here in the Pitch* is open and ready—cautiously, gently—to be heard. The sounds aren’t any bigger, nor are they jockeying any harder for your attention. (There is no jockeying here, this is a jockey-free space.) But they do take up a little more room, or at least seem more comfortable in their quiet grandeur—whether it’s the lonesome western-movie percussion of “Life Is” or the way the featherlight *sha-la-la*s of “Better Hate” drift like a dazzled girl out for a walk among the bright city lights. This isn’t private-press psychedelia anymore, it’s *Pet Sounds* by The Beach Boys and the rainy-day ballads of Burt Bacharach—music whose restraint and sophistication concealed a sense of yearning rock ’n’ roll couldn’t quite express (“World on a String”). And should you worry that her head is in the clouds, she levels nine blows in a tidy, professional 27 minutes. They don’t make them like they used to—except that she does.
Listening to Adrianne Lenker’s music can feel like finding an old love letter in a library book: somehow both painfully direct and totally mysterious at the same time, filled with gaps in logic and narrative that only confirm how intimate the connection between writer and reader is. Made with a small group in what one imagines is a warm and secluded room, *Bright Future* captures the same folksy wonder and open-hearted intensity of Big Thief but with a slightly quieter approach, conjuring visions of creeks and twilights, dead dogs (“Real House”) and doomed relationships (“Vampire Empire”) so vivid you can feel the humidity pouring in through the screen door. She’s vulnerable enough to let her voice warble and crack and confident enough to linger there for as long as it takes to get her often devastating emotional point across. “Just when I thought I couldn’t feel more/I feel a little more,” she sings on “Free Treasure.” Believe her.
As Olivia Rodrigo set out to write her second album, she froze. “I couldn\'t sit at the piano without thinking about what other people were going to think about what I was playing,” she tells Apple Music. “I would sing anything and I\'d just be like, ‘Oh, but will people say this and that, will people speculate about whatever?’” Given the outsized reception to 2021’s *SOUR*—which rightly earned her three Grammys and three Apple Music Awards that year, including Top Album and Breakthrough Artist—and the chatter that followed its devastating, extremely viral first single, “drivers license,” you can understand her anxiety. She’d written much of that record in her bedroom, free of expectation, having never played a show. The week before it was finally released, the then-18-year-old singer-songwriter would get to perform for the first time, only to televised audiences in the millions, at the BRIT Awards in London and on *SNL* in New York. Some artists debut—Rodrigo *arrived*. But looking past the hype and the hoo-ha and the pressures of a famously sold-out first tour (during a pandemic, no less), trying to write as anticipated a follow-up album as there’s been in a very long time, she had a realization: “All I have to do is make music that I would like to hear on the radio, that I would add to my playlist,” she says. “That\'s my sole job as an artist making music; everything else is out of my control. Once I started really believing that, things became a lot easier.” Written alongside trusted producer Dan Nigro, *GUTS* is both natural progression and highly confident next step. Boasting bigger and sleeker arrangements, the high-stakes piano ballads here feel high-stakes-ier (“vampire”), and the pop-punk even punkier (“all-american bitch,” which somehow splits the difference between Hole and Cat Stevens’ “Here Comes My Baby”). If *SOUR* was, in part, the sound of Rodrigo picking up the pieces post-heartbreak, *GUTS* finds her fully healed and wholly liberated—laughing at herself (“love is embarrassing”), playing chicken with disaster (the Go-Go’s-y “bad idea right?”), not so much seeking vengeance as delighting in it (“get him back!”). This is Anthem Country, joyride music, a set of smart and immediately satisfying pop songs informed by time spent onstage, figuring out what translates when you’re face-to-face with a crowd. “Something that can resonate on a recording maybe doesn\'t always resonate in a room full of people,” she says. “I think I wrote this album with the tour in mind.” And yet there are still moments of real vulnerability, the sort of intimate and sharply rendered emotional terrain that made Rodrigo so relatable from the start. She’s straining to keep it together on “making the bed,” bereft of good answers on “logical,” in search of hope and herself on gargantuan closer “teenage dream.” Alone at a piano again, she tries to make sense of a betrayal on “the grudge,” gathering speed and altitude as she goes, each note heavier than the last, “drivers license”-style. But then she offers an admission that doesn’t come easy if you’re sweating a reaction: “It takes strength to forgive, but I don’t feel strong.” In hindsight, she says, this album is “about the confusion that comes with becoming a young adult and figuring out your place in this world and figuring out who you want to be. I think that that\'s probably an experience that everyone has had in their life before, just rising from that disillusionment.” Read on as Rodrigo takes us inside a few songs from *GUTS*. **“all-american bitch”** “It\'s one of my favorite songs I\'ve ever written. I really love the lyrics of it and I think it expresses something that I\'ve been trying to express since I was 15 years old—this repressed anger and feeling of confusion, or trying to be put into a box as a girl.” **“vampire”** “I wrote the song on the piano, super chill, in December of \[2022\]. And Dan and I finished writing it in January. I\'ve just always been really obsessed with songs that are very dynamic. My favorite songs are high and low, and reel you in and spit you back out. And so we wanted to do a song where it just crescendoed the entire time and it reflects the pent-up anger that you have for a situation.” **“get him back!”** “Dan and I were at Electric Lady Studios in New York and we were writing all day. We wrote a song that I didn\'t like and I had a total breakdown. I was like, ‘God, I can\'t write songs. I\'m so bad at this. I don\'t want to.’ Being really negative. Then we took a break and we came back and we wrote ‘get him back!’ Just goes to show you: Never give up.” **“teenage dream”** “Ironically, that\'s actually the first song we wrote for the record. The last line is a line that I really love and it ends the album on a question mark: ‘They all say that it gets better/It gets better the more you grow/They all say that it gets better/What if I don\'t?’ I like that it’s like an ending, but it\'s also a question mark and it\'s leaving it up in the air what this next chapter is going to be. It\'s still confused, but it feels like a final note to that confusion, a final question.”
ANOHNI’s music revolves around the strength found in vulnerability, whether it’s the naked trembling of her voice or the way her lyrics—“It’s my fault”; “Why am I alive?”; “You are an addict/Go ahead, hate yourself”—cut deeper the simpler they get. Her first album of new material with her band the Johnsons since 2010’s *Swanlights* sets aside the more experimental/electronic quality of 2016’s *HOPELESSNESS* for the tender avant-soul most listeners came to know her by. She mourns her friends (“Sliver of Ice”), mourns herself (“It’s My Fault”), and catalogs the seemingly limitless cruelty of humankind (“It Must Change”) with the quiet resolve of someone who knows that anger is fine but the true warriors are the ones who kneel down and open their hearts.
Faye Webster’s fifth album marks the point of full immersion when it comes to the Atlanta songwriting prodigy’s sly, shifting aesthetic. The tones are richer and deeper; the arrangements expand and breathe like massive lungs; her voice layers over itself and ripples, decadent and deeply felt. Webster’s genre-blending approach may have been slightly overstated in the past—a result of her early association with Atlanta’s rascally, defunct hip-hop crew Awful Records—but her sonic playfulness has never been more fully realized than it is on on *Underdressed at the Symphony*. Slinky, flute-dotted R&B is situated up against sumptuous country pop and grungy flips on ’50s sock-hop rock music; longtime friend and rap chameleon Lil Yachty pops up on “Lego Ring” as the pair switch off from a Weezer-esque chug to spacey, astral psych-rock. Lyrically, *Underdressed at the Symphony*—which was written and recorded coming off of a breakup—carries Webster’s now-trademarked mixture of emotional intimacy and straightforward humor. She finds potency in simple sentiments (“Thinking About You,” “He Loves Me Yeah!”), and on the sparse hyperpop “Feeling Good Today,” she details the small pleasures that come with moving through one’s daily existence. “I used to be self-conscious/Well, really, I still am/I’m just better at figuring out why,” Webster ruminates over the lush guitars of “Wanna Quit All the Time,” one of several songs that feature Wilco guitarist Nels Cline. This is music that’s as mesmerizing as it is disarmingly personal, and *Underdressed at the Symphony* represents an artist who, similar to cosmic kin Cass McCombs, seems increasingly intent on proving she really can do anything.
“Real life is a funny thing, you know,” Taylor Swift wrote in the liner notes of 2010’s *Speak Now*, her third album and the third she’s rerecorded as part of a sweeping effort to regain her master tapes. “There is a time for silence. There is a time for waiting your turn. But if you know how you feel, and you so clearly know what you need to say, you’ll know it.” Swift was in her early twenties when she wrote *Speak Now*, still finding her voice as an artist and as an adult. But she’s faithful to her originals here—all of them written on her own, on tour, without co-writers—and faithful to a much younger version of herself. She pays tribute to early influences like Fall Out Boy and Paramore’s Hayley Williams, teaming up with them on the reimagined “from the vault” tracks “Electric Touch” and “Castles Crumbling,” respectively. And though she swaps Nashville producer Nathan Chapman for more recent collaborators Jack Antonoff and Aaron Dessner, the arrangements are still warm and clear—minus a coat of varnish or two—with an eye towards the sort of all-encompassing pop she’d inevitably, wholeheartedly embrace. We all know what came next for Swift with 2012’s *Red*, but, looking back, you can easily see and hear what’s on the horizon in these songs. The grace of *Speak Now* is in how it makes simple work out of feelings that are anything but. Swift is vulnerable here, but she’s also self-empowered (“Mean”). She’s innocent, but knows when to take responsibility (“Dear John”). She’s wise enough to regret her mistakes (“Back to December”), but not too jaded see the best in people (“Innocent”). Does she want to grow up? Yes, if that means more agency and independence (“Speak Now”). But when you’re all alone in that new apartment, you still might cry—not just for the childhood home you left, but for the knowledge that you can never go back (“Never Grow Up”). The sound is big, but the details are extremely specific—at one point, Swift says her rival thinks she’s crazy because Swift likes to rhyme her name with things (pop-punk blowout “Better Than Revenge”). It’s that balance—the universal and the specific, the accessible and the obscure—that not only sets Swift apart from most contemporary pop songwriters, but makes her a guide for anyone trying to sort out the impossible avalanche of feelings early adulthood brings. Not that you have to be a teenager to resonate with her. If anything, what makes Swift special is her hunch that everyone has had their turn at the heartache she writes about, whether they’re ready to admit it or not. In her liner notes for *Fearless*, she described the power of believing in Prince Charmings and happily-ever-afters. On *Speak Now*, most of the Prince Charmings turn out to be duds, and the real happily-ever-after is the wisdom and resilience you find in falling for them anyway.
“My Saturn has returned,” the cosmic country singer-songwriter proclaimed to announce her fifth album (apologies to *A Very Kacey Christmas*), *Deeper Well*. If you’re reading this, odds are you know what that means: About every 30 years, the sixth planet from the sun comes back to the place in the sky where it was when you were born, and with it, ostensibly, comes growth. At 35, the chill princess of rule-breaking country/pop/what-have-you has caught up with Saturn and taken its lessons to heart. OUT: energy vampires, self-sabotaging habits, surface-level conversations. IN: jade stones, moon baths, long dinners with friends, listening closely to the whispered messages of the cosmos. (As for the wake-and-bake sessions she mentions on the title track—out, but wistfully so.) Musgraves followed her 2018 breakthrough album, the gently trippy *Golden Hour*, with 2021’s *star-crossed*, a divorce album billed as a “tragedy in three parts,” where electronic flourishes added to the drama. On *Deeper Well*, the songwriter’s feet are firmly planted on the ground, reflected in its warm, wooden, organic instrumentation—fingerpicked acoustic guitar, banjo, pedal steel. Here, Musgraves turns to nature for the answers to her ever-probing questions. “Heart of the Woods,” a campfire sing-along inspired by mycologist Paul Stamets and his *Fantastic Fungi* documentary, looks to mushroom networks beneath the forest floor for lessons on connectivity. And on “Cardinal,” a gorgeous ode to her late friend and mentor John Prine in the paisley mode of The Mamas & The Papas, potential dispatches from the beyond arrive as a bird outside her window in the morning. As Musgraves’ trust in herself and the universe deepens, so do her songwriting chops. On “Dinner With Friends,” a gratitude journal entry given the cosmic country treatment, she honors her roots in perfectly sly Musgravian fashion: “My home state of Texas, the sky there, the horses and dogs, but none of their laws.” And on the simple, searching “The Architect,” she condenses the big mysteries of human nature into one elegant, good-natured question: “Can I pray it away, am I shapeable clay/Or is this as good as it gets?”
One of Icelandic singer-songwriter-pianist Laufey’s primary concerns beyond just making her style of vocal jazz is to bring jazz, in general, to a younger audience. Hosting live sessions on TikTok and Instagram and getting co-signs from Billie Eilish and WILLOW are a couple ways she’s managed to connect to her peers, but it is the music—and, more specifically, the lyrics—that really does the heavy lifting. Laufey (pronounced *LAY-vay*) is a traditionalist at heart, and her influences (think Billie Holiday and Chet Baker) shine through in the melancholic torch songs that make up her second album. (She also regularly covers the standards, and includes a version of Erroll Garner and Johnny Burke’s “Misty” here.) But it’s in the decidedly modern words she sings where she makes new breakthroughs. A tune like “While You Were Sleeping” could be a lost Songbook addition, but its lyrics—“I\'m dancing down streets/Smiling to strangers/Idiotic things/I trace it all back/3:30 am”—draw a solid line between today and the past. Yet still, her voice’s richness and her phrasing are as spellbinding as those of many of her icons. Her songs can be inventive and playful, forlorn and wrenching, and she sings of love and lack thereof with a depth beyond her 24 years. But it’s in those unexpected, fanciful twists where Laufey really impresses. In “Letter to My 13 Year Old Self,” she sings about the awkwardness of teenage years with a sensitivity and frankness that’s very much a product of the present day.
As Olivia Rodrigo set out to write her second album, she froze. “I couldn\'t sit at the piano without thinking about what other people were going to think about what I was playing,” she tells Apple Music. “I would sing anything and I\'d just be like, ‘Oh, but will people say this and that, will people speculate about whatever?’” Given the outsized reception to 2021’s *SOUR*—which rightly earned her three Grammys and three Apple Music Awards that year, including Top Album and Breakthrough Artist—and the chatter that followed its devastating, extremely viral first single, “drivers license,” you can understand her anxiety. She’d written much of that record in her bedroom, free of expectation, having never played a show. The week before it was finally released, the then-18-year-old singer-songwriter would get to perform for the first time, only to televised audiences in the millions, at the BRIT Awards in London and on *SNL* in New York. Some artists debut—Rodrigo *arrived*. But looking past the hype and the hoo-ha and the pressures of a famously sold-out first tour (during a pandemic, no less), trying to write as anticipated a follow-up album as there’s been in a very long time, she had a realization: “All I have to do is make music that I would like to hear on the radio, that I would add to my playlist,” she says. “That\'s my sole job as an artist making music; everything else is out of my control. Once I started really believing that, things became a lot easier.” Written alongside trusted producer Dan Nigro, *GUTS* is both natural progression and highly confident next step. Boasting bigger and sleeker arrangements, the high-stakes piano ballads here feel high-stakes-ier (“vampire”), and the pop-punk even punkier (“all-american bitch,” which somehow splits the difference between Hole and Cat Stevens’ “Here Comes My Baby”). If *SOUR* was, in part, the sound of Rodrigo picking up the pieces post-heartbreak, *GUTS* finds her fully healed and wholly liberated—laughing at herself (“love is embarrassing”), playing chicken with disaster (the Go-Go’s-y “bad idea right?”), not so much seeking vengeance as delighting in it (“get him back!”). This is Anthem Country, joyride music, a set of smart and immediately satisfying pop songs informed by time spent onstage, figuring out what translates when you’re face-to-face with a crowd. “Something that can resonate on a recording maybe doesn\'t always resonate in a room full of people,” she says. “I think I wrote this album with the tour in mind.” And yet there are still moments of real vulnerability, the sort of intimate and sharply rendered emotional terrain that made Rodrigo so relatable from the start. She’s straining to keep it together on “making the bed,” bereft of good answers on “logical,” in search of hope and herself on gargantuan closer “teenage dream.” Alone at a piano again, she tries to make sense of a betrayal on “the grudge,” gathering speed and altitude as she goes, each note heavier than the last, “drivers license”-style. But then she offers an admission that doesn’t come easy if you’re sweating a reaction: “It takes strength to forgive, but I don’t feel strong.” In hindsight, she says, this album is “about the confusion that comes with becoming a young adult and figuring out your place in this world and figuring out who you want to be. I think that that\'s probably an experience that everyone has had in their life before, just rising from that disillusionment.” Read on as Rodrigo takes us inside a few songs from *GUTS*. **“all-american bitch”** “It\'s one of my favorite songs I\'ve ever written. I really love the lyrics of it and I think it expresses something that I\'ve been trying to express since I was 15 years old—this repressed anger and feeling of confusion, or trying to be put into a box as a girl.” **“vampire”** “I wrote the song on the piano, super chill, in December of \[2022\]. And Dan and I finished writing it in January. I\'ve just always been really obsessed with songs that are very dynamic. My favorite songs are high and low, and reel you in and spit you back out. And so we wanted to do a song where it just crescendoed the entire time and it reflects the pent-up anger that you have for a situation.” **“get him back!”** “Dan and I were at Electric Lady Studios in New York and we were writing all day. We wrote a song that I didn\'t like and I had a total breakdown. I was like, ‘God, I can\'t write songs. I\'m so bad at this. I don\'t want to.’ Being really negative. Then we took a break and we came back and we wrote ‘get him back!’ Just goes to show you: Never give up.” **“teenage dream”** “Ironically, that\'s actually the first song we wrote for the record. The last line is a line that I really love and it ends the album on a question mark: ‘They all say that it gets better/It gets better the more you grow/They all say that it gets better/What if I don\'t?’ I like that it’s like an ending, but it\'s also a question mark and it\'s leaving it up in the air what this next chapter is going to be. It\'s still confused, but it feels like a final note to that confusion, a final question.”
In April 2023, Bill Ryder-Jones was playing the second of two acoustic shows in the compact theater space at East London’s Hoxton Hall. Halfway through, he asked the crowd of a couple of hundred if they had any requests. Song titles were volleyed back at him but no one bid for “Daniel,” despite it being one of his most popular songs. From 2016’s *West Kirby County Primary* album, it describes how Ryder-Jones and his family became unmoored by the loss of his older brother, aged just nine, during a family holiday in 1991. Tonight in that intimate room, it felt too invasive to ask for, perhaps, too searing a flame of grief and trauma to stand so close to. Nevertheless, Ryder-Jones played “Daniel” later in the show, his audience listening in damp-eyed stillness. As the song finished and applause erupted, Ryder-Jones gently raised his fist in salute and said thank you. Alongside the new songs he played that night, that moment offered a clue to where the former The Coral guitarist is on this fifth solo album, released nine months later. He’s still contending with difficult times and regrets, creating beautiful music in the gloaming, but he’s also pulling out moments of strength, gratitude, and hope. As a solo artist, Ryder-Jones has proved satisfyingly restless, ricocheting from orchestral instrumentals (2011’s *If…*) and wistful bedroom folk (*A Bad Wind Blows in My Heart*, 2013) to the unkempt alt-rock of *West Kirby…* and the glacially paced sorrow of 2018’s *Yawn*. He’s been softly dismissive of those final two, despite their excellence, stating that he’s always been striving to match *A Bad Wind…*. *Iechyd Da* achieves this and more by returning to that album’s delicacy and melody and decorating them with magnetic layers of sound—including children’s choirs, disco samples, and fellow Scouse singer-songwriter Michael Head reading from *Ulysses*. The songs were written in lockdown, a difficult period for anyone—not least those like Ryder-Jones who live with depression and anxiety. It was also a time in his life when a relatively new relationship grew and then withered, and a prescribed course of Valium slipped into dependency. So there’s understandable vulnerability and self-doubt here. “While I’m too much, I’ll never be enough for you, I know,” he concedes on opener “I Know That It’s Like This (Baby).” Despair reaches its depths on lead single “This Can’t Go On.” Its blend of disoriented fragility and night-sky expanse recalls Mercury Rev’s *Deserter’s Songs* as Ryder-Jones walks his coastal town of West Kirby after dark, listening to Echo & The Bunnymen and yearning for something more, something different, something everyday—kids, companionship, a driving license. In these intimate songs, it’s the little things—biographical details, nuggets of sound—that pull you in. “I keep the good times closer than the bad/Running your baths before *American Dad*,” he tells a departed lover on “Christinha.” A sample of Brazilian tropicália pioneer Gal Costa’s “Baby” floats through “I Know That It’s Like This (Baby)” like a ghost from better times. And it’s flooring to hear Ryder-Jones’ brittle whisper crumble to a sigh at the final syllable of “Oh, how I loved you” on “A Bad Wind Blows in My Heart Pt. 3.” The ambivalence of “There’s something great about life/But there’s something not quite right” (“It’s Today Again”) doesn’t suggest a man who’s found his peace but there’s also stoic acceptance of some things passed. “’Cause I don’t think I could’ve given any more/A sun just sank into some sea” he tells that absent lover on “Christinha.” One of the most difficult memories revisited is on “Thankfully for Anthony,” which recalls the day a bad dose of tranquilizers unfastened Ryder-Jones to the point that the song opens with “I’m thinking this might just be it/I’ve waited a lifetime for this.” Anthony is the friend who drives him to hospital to get checked out, and here in his oldest pal’s car—in his *care*—clarity and purpose arrives. “I felt loved/I’m still lost/But I know love/And I know loss/But I chose love,” sings Ryder-Jones amid a heart-bursting orchestral swell. When the music fades out, you can hear a faint voice from the studio say, “Thought that was pretty good,” before the album ends with “Nos Da.” Named after the Welsh for “goodnight,” it’s 90 seconds of soothing piano and strings—a soft landing, a gently raised salute.
When artists experience the kind of career-defining breakthrough that Waxahatchee’s Katie Crutchfield enjoyed with 2020’s *Saint Cloud*, they’re typically faced with a difficult choice: lean further into the sound that landed you there, or risk disappointing your newfound audience by setting off into new territory. On *Tigers Blood*, the Kansas City-based singer-songwriter chooses the former, with a set of country-indebted indie rock that reaches the same, often dizzying heights as its predecessor. But that doesn’t mean its songs came from the same emotional source. “When I made *Saint Cloud*, I\'d just gotten sober and I was just this raw nerve—I was burgeoning with anxiety,” she tells Apple Music. “And on this record, it sounds so boring, but I really feel like I was searching for normal. I think I\'ve really settled into my thirties.” Working again with longtime producer Brad Cook (Bon Iver, Snail Mail, Hurray for the Riff Raff), Crutchfield enlisted the help of rising guitar hero MJ Lenderman, with whom she duets on the quietly romantic lead single (and future classic) “Right Back to It.” Originally written for Wynonna Judd—a recent collaborator—“365” finds Crutchfield falling into a song of forgiveness, her voice suspended in air, arching over the soft, heart-like thump of an acoustic guitar. Just as simple but no less moving: the Southern rock of “Ice Cold,” in which Crutchfield seeks equilibrium and Lenderman transcendence, via solo. In the absence of inner tumult, Crutchfield says she had to learn that the songs will still come. “I really do feel like I\'ve reached this point where I have a comfort knowing that they will show up,” she says. “When it\'s time, they\'ll show up and they\'ll show up fast. And if they\'re not showing up, then it\'s just not time yet.”
Like it did for listeners, Polly Jean Harvey’s 10th album came to her by surprise. “I\'d come off tour after \[2016’s\] *Hope Six Demolition Project*, and I was taking some time where I was just reassessing everything,” she tells Apple Music of what would become a seven-year break between records, during which it was rumored the iconic singer-songwriter might retire altogether. “Maybe something that we all do in our early fifties, but I\'d really wanted to see if I still felt I was doing the best that I could be with my life. Not wanting to sound doom-laden, but at 50, you do start thinking about a finite amount of time and maximizing what you do with that. I wanted to see what arose in me, see where I felt I needed to go with this last chapter of my life.” Harvey turned her attention to soundtrack work and poetry. In 2022, she published *Orlam*, a magical realist novel-in-verse set in the western English countryside where she grew up, written in a rare regional dialect. To stay sharp, she’d make time to practice scales on piano and guitar, to dig into theory. “Then I just started,” she says. “Melodies would arise, and instead of making up vowel sounds and consonant sounds, I\'d just pull at some of the poems. I wasn\'t trying to write a song, but then I had all these poems everywhere, overflowing out of my brain and on tables everywhere, bits of paper and drawings. Everything got mixed up together.” Written over the course of three weeks—one song a day—*I Inside the Old Year Dying* combines Harvey’s latest disciplines, lacing 12 of *Orlam*’s poems through similarly dreamy and atmospheric backdrops. The language is obscure but evocative, the arrangements (longtime collaborators Flood and John Parish produced) often vaporous and spare. But the feeling in her voice (especially on the title track and opener “Prayer at the Gate”) is inescapable. “I stopped thinking about songs in terms of traditional song structure or having to meet certain expectations, and I viewed them like I do the freedom of soundtrack work—it was just to create the right emotional underscore to the scene,” she says. “It was almost like the songs were just there, really wanting to come out. It fell out of me very easily. I felt a lot freer as a writer—from this album and hopefully onwards from now.”
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.”
From the stark gospel soul of his 2013 breakthrough “Take Me to Church,” to the T.S. Eliot-inspired visions of 2019’s *Wasteland, Baby!*, Andrew Hozier-Byrne traverses literature, religion, and classical imagery to chart his own musical course. For the third Hozier album, *Unreal Unearth*, he’s followed that impulse further than ever before. During the pandemic Hozier found himself catching up on literature that had long been on his to-read pile, including Dante Alighieri’s *Inferno*. Not the lightest of reading, but a line from Dante stuck a chord. “There’s a passage in Dante’s *Inferno*, when he’s describing what’s above the door to Hell. The third line is: ‘Through me, you enter into the population of loss,’” the Irishman tells Apple Music. “That line just resonated with me. It felt like the world we were in. The news reports were just numbers of deaths, numbers of cases. It was a surreal moment.” It struck him that the format and themes of Dante’s 14th-century epic, in which the poet descends through the nine circles of Hell, could be the perfect prism through which to write about both the unreal experience of the pandemic and the upheavals in his personal life. “There’s such a rich tapestry there. I didn’t study classics and I’m not an academic, but for me, all those myths are happening around us all the time,” he says. “You can play with them a lot and reinterpret them and then subvert them as well.” The result is Hozier’s most ambitious and emotionally powerful album to date. It’s a remarkable journey, taking in pastoral folk, soaring epics, and tracks addressing the devastation caused by colonialism. Here, Hozier guides us through, one track at a time. **“De Selby (Part 1)”** “I didn’t know the song was going to reference de Selby until it started taking shape. He’s a character in a book by Flann O’Brien called *The Third Policeman* \[written in 1939 but not published until after O’Brien’s death in 1967\]. The book is like *Alice in Wonderland*, and it’s a classic piece of surreal Irish storytelling. De Selby is this lunatic philosopher who—and I don’t want to spoil the ending—doesn’t know he’s dead and in the afterlife. It felt like an appropriate reference for the opening track, to reflect on this darkness that he’s entering into, this infinite space.” **“De Selby (Part 2)”** “Part two comes out in a totally different place. It was always in this funk, rock place, even in the early demos. Part one ends in the Irish language, it’s basically saying: ‘You arrive to me like nightfall. Although you’re a being of great lightness, I experience you like nighttime.’ It’s that idea of ‘I don’t know where you begin and I end,’ and the song explores that a bit lyrically.” **“First Time”** “It felt like a nice place to come out of the heaviness of the previous track. It represents limbo. This cycle of birth and death, of being lifted by an experience and then that experience ending and it feeling like your world collapsing in on you, and then going again. Alex Ryan, my buddy who is also my bass player, sent me this bassline one day and it was really colorful and light and playful to work with. I really enjoyed writing the lyrics, they’re not too structured. It’s almost like talk-singing and I hadn’t really explored that much before this album, so I wanted to try it out.” **“Francesca”** “I had written a song that was very specific to Francesca \[from the Second Circle (Lust) in Dante’s *Inferno*\], that was written from her perspective. I was even trying to write it in terza rima, which is the interlocking triplets that Dante wrote in. But that’s where I was a like, ‘OK, I have to step back a little bit from this.’ When this song came around, it started from personal experience and then I allowed those themes and some of the imagery from that character in and then let the two mix. It’s an example of letting the song have a life above ground and resonate with a life below ground in regard to that character.” **“I, Carrion (Icarian)”** “It’s trying to capture that feeling when you’re lifting off. That sometimes when you’re falling in love with somebody, you’re met with this new lightness that you haven’t experienced ever before, but it’s also terrifying. To fully experience the best of that, you have to take into account that it could all collapse inwards and that you’re OK with that. It’s trying to hold those two realities in both hands and just playing with the imagery of it. It felt appropriate to come out of the hurricane of ‘Francesca,’ where two characters are trapped in a hurricane forever, into someone who is just on the wind.” **“Eat Your Young”** “I don’t know how intentional the reference to Jonathan Swift was in this. That essay \[Swift’s 1729 satirical essay *A Modest Proposal* in which he suggests the Irish poor sell their children as food\] is such a cultural landmark that it’s just hanging in the air. I was more reflecting on what I felt now in this spirit of the times of perpetual short-term gain and a long-term blindness. The increasing levels of precarious living, poverty, job insecurity, rental crisis, property crisis, climate crisis, and a generation that’s inheriting all of that and one generation that’s enjoyed the spoils of it. The lyrics are direct, but the voice is playful. There’s this unreliable narrator who relishes in this thing which was fun to write.” **“Damage Gets Done” (feat. Brandi Carlile)** “I’ve known Brandi Carlile for years, she’s an incredible artist and I’m lucky to call her a friend. As that song was taking shape, I wanted it to be a duet. It’s kind of like a runaway song. It’s not as easy to access that joy, that sense of wonder when you’re young that captures your enjoyment for a moment and then it’s gone. Brandi has one of those voices that is powerful enough to really achieve that feeling of a classic, almost power ballad. There’s very few artists that I know that have voices like that, who can just swing at notes the way Brandi swings at notes and hit them so perfectly with this immaculate energy and optimism.” **“Who We Are”** “This song was like a sneeze. Once we had the structure down, we jammed it and I just started wailing melodies that felt right at the time, and then took that away and came back with a song very quickly. Something I wanted to get into the album was this idea of being born at night, of starting in complete darkness. It’s a song that starts in childhood in this cold and dark hour, being lost and then just scraping and carving your way through the dark. It’s an idea that I wanted to put into a song for years, but never did.” **“Son of Nyx”** “A real collaboration between my bass player Alex Ryan, \[producer\] Daniel Tannenbaum \[aka Bekon\], and myself. Alex sent me a piano piece he recorded when he was at home in County Kerry. What you hear at the beginning is the phone memo, you can hear the clock ticking in his family’s living room. Alex’s dad is called Nick, so the song’s name is a play on words. In Greek fable, Nyx is the goddess of night and one of her sons is said to be Charon, the boatman who brings people to the underworld. All those voices that you hear are the choruses or the hooks from the other songs on the album distorted or de-tuned, so you’re hearing the other songs spinning around in that space.” **“All Things End”** “‘All Things End’ started from a personal place. There was a number of songs that could have taken the place of Heresy \[the Sixth Circle\]. In the medieval or the classic sense of heresy, ‘All Things End’ took that place. In those moments as a relationship is crumbling and it’s slipping away from you, it was something that you truly believed in and you had all your faith in and you had all of your belief in. In approaching that concept of that not happening it feels like something heretical. It’s a song about accepting, about giving up your faith in something.” **“To Someone From a Warm Climate (Uiscefhuaraithe)”** “The previous song reflects upon a parting of ways. I suppose in that context, this reflects upon the great loss of this experience and making sense of love after the fact, which is very often the case. If you’ve grown up in a cold climate like Ireland, you learn to warm up the bed quickly so you’re not shivering for too long. It’s a song I wrote for somebody who is from a warm climate who had never experienced that before. \[It’s about\] the significance of something so mundane but so remarkable—to experience a bed that has been warmed by somebody else in a space that you now share now with somebody new. It’s a love song.” **“Butchered Tongue”** “This reflects upon what is lost when languages are lost off the face of the earth. I’ve been lucky enough to travel the world for the last 10 years, going into places that had either Native American or Australian place names—some of the places I mention in the song—and asking people what the place name means and being surprised that no one is able to tell you. The song nods to some of the actions, some of the processes that are behind the loss of culture, the loss of language. There is a legacy of terrible violence, but we have to acknowledge not just that, but also bear witness to this generosity and welcomeness that I experience in those places.” **“Anything But”** “This one falls into the circle of Fraud. It was fun working with American producers on this. They thought it was a very sweet, caring love song. The lyrics in the verses are like, ‘If I was a rip tide/I wouldn’t take you out...If I was a stampede/You wouldn’t get a kick,’ The song is saying on paper that these are kindnesses, but the actual meaning is a joke—what you’re saying is I want nothing to do with you. The third verse says, ‘If I had death’s job, you would live forever.’ So that’s where it fits into the circle of Fraud. I was having fun with that.” **“Abstract (Psychopomp)”** “As a kid I saw somebody running into traffic to try and pick up an animal that had just been hit by a car. This song looks at that memory in an abstract way and sees all of this tenderness and somebody going to great risk to try and offer some futile gesture of care towards a suffering thing. But it’s also about acceptance and letting go. The alternate title is ‘Psychopomp,’ which is a Greek term for a spirit guide—somebody who moves somebody from one part of life into the next. Charon the boatman would be a psychopomp, so it seemed appropriate for a memory of seeing somebody pick up a dead animal off a road and then place it on the sidewalk where it dies.” **“Unknown/Nth”** “This is pretty much just me and a guitar which is what I enjoy about this. It’s very similar to the approach of my first record. I really enjoyed the space that’s in that song and then letting that space be something that had a lot of stillness and a lot of coldness in it.” **“First Light”** “It seemed like an appropriate ending song—of coming out and seeing the sunlight for the first time. Dante talks a lot about how he misses the sky, how he hasn’t seen the stars for so long. He hasn’t seen clouds, he hasn’t seen the sun. I wanted to put that feeling of being in this very oppressive space for a long time and then to see the sky, as if for the first time. I was writing this song with that feeling in mind, of this great opening, a great sense of furtherance and great open space. The record needed something like that. It needed this conclusive deep breath out, this renewing of the wind in the sails and then going on from there.”
Lizzy McAlpine’s third full-length began as a classic breakup album—which is to say, “tunnel vision,” she tells Apple Music. “Everything was about that.” It wasn’t until she wrote the runaway hit “Older” that she realized what the project was *really* about: personal growth, trusting your instincts, seeing the bigger picture. “That song recontextualized everything,” she said. “Suddenly I saw what those three years had really been for.” *Older* is a portrait of an artist in her early twenties, falling out of love and stepping into her power. Creating it required her to get out of her comfort zone. After making the tough decision to part ways with her producer, she surrounded herself with a full band, re-recorded most of the songs, and assembled a project that confronts a breakup’s gray areas (on “Drunk, Running,” she wonders if she’s partly to blame for an ex’s struggles with sobriety). McAlpine ordered the songs on the album to trace the arc of the relationship, culminating in four tracks that illustrate the perspective she gained. Read on to discover the story behind each song. **“The Elevator”** “When I decided to remake the album with a band, I knew I wanted it to have a proper, cool intro. This song was the first one we recorded together. We didn’t even have a drummer yet. But it felt right. And it was proof of concept, like, ‘OK, we’re going to be able to do this.’” **“Come Down Soon”** “This was one of the first songs that I wrote for the album in 2021. It’s gone through a lot of different iterations, and only when I brought it to the band did it begin to make sense. Prior to that, we were just putting pieces together one by one, and it wasn’t working. Finally, I realized this music needs a band behind it. A collective force.” **“Like It Tends To Do”** “This was the first song I wrote for this project, back when I was finishing up *five seconds flat*. Immediately it was my favorite song I’d ever written. It felt like some of my best songwriting. I knew it deserved its own place on a different project.” **“Movie Star”** “I wrote this with my friend Olivia Barton who opened for me on my last tour. We initially had a wild outro that was full of electric guitars and big drums. But when we got into the studio with the band, we realized that ‘Elevator’ had a similar arc and sound. So we cut the whole outro out of this one and now it’s just a short, simple little song. I think it’s so much better this way.” **“All Falls Down”** “I wrote this one when I was on tour, which is weird. I never write songs on the road because I hate touring, so I’m usually pretty miserable and uninspired. But I guess this was different because I was writing it about *that feeling*. Originally, it was slow and ballad-y because that’s what the lyrics feel like, but it evolved into this fun, upbeat number. I love that juxtaposition.” **“Staying”** “This was supposed to be a really short interlude, and it had this outro section that I had written that my old producer suggested we cut. But later, when I took it to the band and they jammed on it, I was like, ‘You know what, I’m actually going to add the outro back in. I think it could be cool.’ And now it’s my favorite part of the song. I’m so glad I decided to do that, and that I didn’t let that producer’s opinion sway me.” **“I Guess”** “Most of the time, in my revisions with the band, we were taking a lot of stuff out. It didn’t feel like the original recordings had enough space, had room to breathe. This one was sort of the opposite. It had a lot we wanted to keep—strings, drums, horns. Instead, we just layered in some additional elements—guitar, piano, and bass chords—to try to make it cooler.” **“Drunk, Running”** “I wrote this song after I was out of the relationship \[that this album is about\] and pretty far removed from it. I went out with my friends one night and my ex was there; we were at a bar and he was ignoring me and just looked really miserable. I was like, ‘Damn, this is hard to watch.’ This song is about that experience, and our time together before that. I ordered the tracks in a very specific way to carry you from the beginning of the relationship into the second half, where things start to devolve and get really toxic. ‘Drunk, Running’ is the beginning of that toxic chapter. The bridge is kind of like, ‘Oh God, what if I did this to you? What if I made you this way? I’m so sorry for staying when I should have left.’ It’s me realizing my part that I played.” **“Broken Glass”** “I played this one on my last tour. The original version was done. I love this song so much and think it fits perfectly in this spot on the album. It’s just really dark.” **“You Forced Me To”** “I wrote this song during a recording session when I stepped outside to take a break. I went home that night and recorded it on my laptop, and that’s what you hear. We didn’t re-record anything. When I went to the band and I played them this demo, they were like, ‘That’s it. We don’t need to do anything.’ And Mason \[Stoops\] in particular—he’s our guitar player, and kind of the leader of the band—he was adamant about me being the only person credited.” **“Older”** “This song changed everything for me. I had the first verse and chorus written in a voice memo that I’d kind of forgotten about because my first producer thought it might be too Disney. But when I played it for Mason and Taylor \[Mackall\], they were immediately like, ‘No, this is amazing.’ The only issue was that I didn’t know how to finish it, since by the time we revisited it, I was so far removed from the intensity of that breakup. They suggested I write about where I am now. Doing that tied the whole song together for me, and cemented the album’s entire concept. It unlocked everything. We finished the song in 20 minutes, did three takes, used the third one, and never looked back.” **“Better Than This”** “I knew I wanted to update this song from the original version, so the band and I did a bunch of live takes. That was generally our process throughout. We’d do a bunch of live takes, pick one, and then pepper stuff on top of it. I loved that the core of the album was live recordings—everyone huddled in a room. It felt like that was the only way to approach this project, and this song in particular.” **“March”** “This song is about my dad, who passed away in 2020. Every 13th track on all of my albums is about him. He passed away on the 13th of March, and my first album came out on the 13th, and there were 13 tracks, and the 13th track was about him. I didn’t really plan that, but it created a tradition. I don’t really write about my dad with anyone because it’s just really heavy and personal, but I wrote this song with \[songwriter/composer\] Ethan \[Gruska\] who made me feel safe and open. Recording it was amazing. It feels so warm when the band comes in. It’s a hug for your ears.” **“Vortex”** “This song was supposed to be the title of the album for so long, but again, it felt like tunnel vision. This album is, ultimately, about so much more than a breakup. But I still thought it was a perfect way to end the project. I love that the lyrics are forward-facing and hopeful, like, ‘Someday I will be strong enough to say no to you,’ or ‘Someday I’ll be strong enough to let this go.’ The gist is: I may not be there yet, but I know I will be.”
Title aside, this bookend EP to Julien Baker, Phoebe Bridgers, and Lucy Dacus’ full-length debut isn’t a dustpan full of cutting-room-floor detritus released to clear the vaults, but a volume unto itself. “These are songs that weren\'t ready for *the record* and then we spent time on them and they\'re ready now,” Dacus tells Apple Music\'s Zane Lowe. While 2023\'s full-length debut was the sound of three accomplished artists and friends figuring out how to work together, *the rest*, coming six months and a world tour later, is the product of their natural chemistry developing into something more innate. “We\'re getting really good at recording with each other,” Bridgers says. “Our communication got so streamlined by the time we went to record this, we knew it was going to be great.” The four songs are on the pared-back and quieter side compared to forebears “$20” and “Satanist,” but no less striking or unsparing in their eye for detail. The Dacus-led “Afraid of Heights” is a romantic testament to risk avoidance, while “Voyager” is vintage Bridgers in melancholy mode, and the minimalism feels like a statement of intent rather than the hallmark of unfinished castoffs. “There\'s an immediacy to the decision-making that came out of it being three days in the studio and then trying to be sparse with the arrangements,” says Baker. “We had never had the experience of allowing ourselves a wealth of time to be ambitious, to fully maximize a track and then edit it down. And so this is slightly adorned scaffolding.”
During the pandemic, Fontaines D.C. singer Grian Chatten returned to Skerries, the town on Ireland’s East Coast where he’d spent his teenage years. One night, walking along the beach, something came to him. “It was when the moon conjures a strip of light along the horizon towards you, like a path to heaven,” he tells Apple Music. “And there’s the gentle ebb and flow of an invisible ocean around it.” As he looked to sea, new music seeped into his head—a sort of pier-end lounge pop played out on brass and strings. It didn’t really fit with the ideas Fontaines had been fermenting for their next record; instead it opened up inspiration for a solo album. There were, thought Chatten, stories to be told about lives being etched out in coastal areas like Skerries. “The whole atmosphere of the place, there’s something slightly set about it,” he says. “I’m really into fantasy, the Muppets movies and *The Dark Crystal*, or even *Sweeney Todd*, where they demand a slight suspension of disbelief of the audience in order to achieve, or embellish on, a very human emotion. I wanted to live the town through those kind of lenses.” By late 2022, as Chatten endured some heavy personal turbulence, the songs he was writing helped process his own experiences. “It was like, ‘How do I actually feel right now?’” he says. “Just by painting a picture of the darkness, I gleaned an understanding from it. I was then able to cordon it off.” Unsurprisingly then, *Chaos for the Fly* is as intimate as Chatten has sounded on record. Built from mostly acoustic foundations, the songs explore grief, isolation, betrayal, and escapism—but their intensity is a little more insidious and measured than on Fontaines’ sinewy music. Even the corrosively jaundiced “All of the People” is delivered with steady calm, Chatten warning, “People are scum/I will say it again” under a soft shroud of piano and precisely picked guitar. “There’s probably times on the record where it becomes almost self-indulgent, the personal nature of it,” he says. “It’s a startlingly fair reflection of me, I suppose. I didn’t really realize that was possible.” Read on for his track-by-track guide. **“The Score”** “I had a 10-day break in between two tours. I find it very difficult to switch off, and my manager said, ‘You need to go off somewhere,’ so I went to Madrid. I got antsy without being able to write music—the whole point, really, of me being away—and I actually asked Carlotta \[Cosials, singer/guitarist\] from Hinds if she knew any good guitar shops, so I could grab a Spanish guitar, a nylon. She sent me the name of a place that was just around the corner, and I had ‘The Score’ later on that day. When it comes to the second chord, I think that opens the curtain a bit. There’s a sort of subverted cabaret about it, which I really like. And there’s also a misdirection of the modalities of the chords. It goes to a kind of surprising chord. There’s a nice sleight of hand to the first few seconds of it. I really wanted that to be the tone-setter of the album.” **“Last Time Every Time Forever”** “This was inspired by the sound of these fruit machines and slot machines that I grew up with. There was this casino in town, called Bob’s Casino. It’s about addiction or dependence on something, and I’m not really talking specifically about drugs and booze or anything like that. I’m just talking about compulsive behavior and escapism, which are things that kind of shift my gears—I can relate to the pursuit of another world. It has that weird push that it does in the drums. I think it sounds kind of like stunted growth, like it’s glitching.” **“Fairlies”** “After Madrid, we went down to a town called Jerez, which was the birthplace of flamenco, I believe. We were going to go out to get a beer or something, myself and my fiancée. She was getting ready and I wrote that tune. There’s loads of bootleg recordings of The La’s, and I think they really affected me when I was slightly younger, when we were setting off the band. There’s a tune, ‘Tears in the Rain.’ There’s something about the way Lee Mavers does all that weird stuff with his vocals that really affected the way I write a lot of melodies. The snappy, jaunty, almost poke-y, edgy melody of the chorus, that was inspired by Lee Mavers. The verses are more Lee Hazlewood and Leonard Cohen, maybe.” **“Bob’s Casino”** “I heard the intro to ‘Bob’s Casino’ \[that night on the beach\]. Similar to ‘Last Time Every Time Forever,’ ‘Bob’s Casino’ is a tune about a kind of addiction and inertia and isolation. I wanted it to sound as beautiful as it sounds in the addict’s head, or the isolated person’s head, when they achieve those moments of respite. I think that’s a much more realistic picture than a tune that sounds scared straight or something. A play, or any good piece of screenwriting, is usually helped by the bad guys or the antagonist being relatable, or seeing a side of them that makes you empathize with them, or even love them, briefly. It creates this nice 3D effect. I enjoyed writing from that character’s perspective because I feel like I’m expressing something. I’m not saying that I am that character. But the character has a good chance of winning sometimes within me. The more I write about it and express it, then maybe the less chance that character has of taking over.” **“All of the People”** “This is probably my proudest moment from the album. I’m giving myself compliments here, but I think there’s a surgical kind of precision to it. There’s nothing wasted. I really like the natural swells. I like how it swells when the lyric swells. I really do feel that fucking shit sometimes, as do a lot of people. I’m grateful for that song, for what it did for my head when I wrote it. I can stand back and look at it now. It’s like I’ve blown that poison into a bottle and I’ve sealed the bottle, and now I’ve put it on a shelf.” **“East Coast Bed”** “‘East Coast Bed’ is about the death of my beloved hurling coach, who was like a second mother to me growing up, a woman called Ronnie Fay. The whole idea of the East Coast bed is firstly this refuge that she offered me when I was growing up. And then eventually, we laid her in her own East Coast bed when we buried her. The song is essentially about death. Not necessarily in a grim way, but in a sad, melancholic, moving-on way. That synth part that Dan Carey \[producer\] did sounds like the soul moving on for me. That was him exercising his great sympathy for the music that he works on.” **“Salt Throwers off a Truck”** “I remember the title coming to me when we were writing \[2022 Fontaines D.C. album\] *Skinty Fia*. There were lads on the back of a truck, salting the road outside the rehearsal space. I thought that was an interesting sight: ‘Oh, that’s a good title to have to justify with a good lyric.’ I like the fact that it scours the world a little bit. There’s New York in there and, although they’re not mentioned explicitly, other places too. The last verse is inspired by my own granddad’s death last year in Barrow-in-Furness. It’s different people at different stages. To me, it feels like when a director puts the audience in the eyes of a bird. There’s an omnipresence to it that I really like. It’s like when Scrooge is visited by the Ghosts of Christmas Past and Present and Future, and he gets to fly around, and visit all of these different vignettes, or all these different families in their houses.” **“I Am so Far”** “I wrote that one during the dreaded and not-very-aesthetic-to-talk-about lockdown. It was this kind of bleak and beautiful, ‘all the time in the world and nothing to do’ sort of thing that interested me then. That’s why there’s so much drudgery on the track. I wrote that on the East Coast again. It does sound to me a little bit like water, with light on it.” **“Season for Pain”** “I think it’s an abdication. It’s like cutting something you love out of your life. It sounds sad, and it is sad, and it is dark, but it’s putting up a necessary wall. It’s terminating a friendship or relationship with someone that you truly love. It’s not going to be easy for anyone, but it’s gone too far. I think there’s something about the production that slightly isolates it from the album. It feels slightly afterthought-ish, which I like. I like the end, which came from a jam. We’d finished recording the track, the tape was still rolling, and we just started playing, and then that became the outro. The song is about moving on and it sounds like I’m moving on at the end.”
Zach Bryan has very quickly achieved Ubiquitous Pop-Mythology Origin Story status. The Oklahoma singer-songwriter’s trajectory, from Navy cadet with a preternatural talent for storytelling and a YouTube following to honorable dischargee with a massive grassroots following to, now, major-label superstar selling out 100 or so arenas a year, was both dizzyingly fast and seemingly preordained. His self-titled follow-up to 2022’s triple-LP Warners debut *American Heartbreak* doesn’t necessarily advance Bryan’s story or status so much as cement it, moving past the introduction phase into something more permanent and more meaningful. One way or another, Zach Bryan—and *Zach Bryan*—is going to be with us for a while. The album—a lean 16 tracks compared to *Heartbreak*’s 34—begins with a double-barrel mission statement. The first is the spoken-word opening track, “Fear and Friday’s (Poem),” which distills Bryan’s everyman charm and philosophy into a benediction (“I think fear and Fridays got an awful lot in common/They are overdone and glorified and always leave you wanting”). This is followed immediately by a Hendrixesque “Star-Spangled Banner” guitar lick and the shout-along bravado of “Overtime,” complete with horn section and empowered nods to his aforementioned mythology: “They said I\'s a wannabe cowboy from a cutthroat town/With tattooed skin and nobody around/Your songs sound the same, you\'ll never make a name for yourself.” Bryan’s three-year whirlwind of making a name for himself has only sharpened his eye for detail—the songs only sound the same in that they all share this quality. A slick turn of phrase like “If you need a tourniquet or if you want to turn and quit/Know that I\'ll be by your side” is delivered like someone who knows what he\'s doing. The songs comfortably inhabit traditional country, Americana, and, on relative barn burners like the veteran’s tale “East Side of Sorrow” and “Jake’s Piano - Long Island,” at least one boot in Springsteen-anthem story-song terrain. And at a moment when country music, possibly more than any other genre, is roiled by reactionary entrenchment in the face of long-overdue advancement, Bryan has managed to stake himself to the center without alienating anyone or, chiefly, himself. He preaches love and tolerance and sings about hard drinking and ’88 Fords, and they don’t sound like opposing energies, because why should they? He goes toe-to-toe with Nashville-outsider kindred spirit Kacey Musgraves on “I Remember Everything,” and even the most intimate songs, like the solo acoustic closer “Oklahoman Son,” sound built for the back row, which gets further away each tour leg. The sum of these parts is nothing less than a confident, headstrong star turn from someone who seems a little ambivalent about stardom, at least on any terms other than his own.
As Ed Sheeran was crafting his sixth studio album, 2023’s *-* (pronounced “subtract,” the last in his mathematical album series), something else began to take shape. Just three months after *-*’s arrival, Sheeran unveiled *Autumn Variations*, made in tandem with the most personal record he’d ever produced. But if *-* was about the seismic life events Sheeran had weathered—the sudden death of his best friend, the discovery that his wife had a tumor while pregnant with their second child, Sheeran’s experiences of depression and anxiety—*Autumn Variations* was shaped by events occurring in his friends’ worlds, too. “Last autumn \[in 2022\], I found that my friends and I were going through so many life changes,” said Sheeran in a statement. “After the heat of the summer, everything either calmed, settled, fell apart, came to a head, or imploded.” Perhaps surprisingly for a megastar singer-songwriter most commonly associated with pop, hip-hop, and folk, inspiration for the shape of *Autumn Variations* came from the classical world. The album’s title is a nod to Elgar’s *Enigma Variations*, a work of 14 compositions about the English composer’s friends, which Sheeran’s father and composer brother Matthew had told him about. Sheeran’s compositions were made alongside The National’s Aaron Dessner—the producer who collaborated with Taylor Swift on *folklore* and *evermore*, and who Sheeran tapped up for *-*. Announcing the album, Sheeran spoke of how he “clicked immediately” with Dessner: “We wrote and recorded non-stop and this album was born out of that partnership.” *Autumn Variations* still finds Sheeran in *-*’s intimate, string-laden, and often acoustic settings, fueled by Dessner’s intricate, organic, and appropriately cozy production. Yet things feel brighter, lighter, as though the dark clouds that hung over *-* have largely cleared. There are light-footed guitars (“Midnight”; “England,” which heralds the cobweb-clearing power of the British coastline against crashing-wave-like drums), Sheeran’s trademark rapping (“That’s on Me,” which layers Sheeran’s voice over Dessner’s characteristically sinewy strings), and sing-along choruses (“Amazing”). But there are also soft, whispered acoustic ballads (“When Will I Be Alright,” “Blue”) and minor-chord outpourings (“Punchline”). And the stories Sheeran tells move from new love (“Magical”) and fresh starts (the sweet, *Friends*-referencing “American Town”) to harder times laced with regret, loneliness, and wishing you could just get out of your own way. “Every time I crack a smile I can sense another tear coming,” he sings on “Amazing.” Since 2021’s *=*, Sheeran’s music has often concerned itself with the realities of getting older, from the good (becoming a father, turning 30, feeling more at one with the person you’ve chosen to spend your life with) to the painful: loss, ill health, grief. On *Autumn Variations*, Sheeran doesn’t shy away from those complexities (“Is this just getting older?” he muses on “That’s on Me”; on “Punchline,” he similarly asks, “Is this just growing up?”), but there’s also optimism that sunnier times will come back round; that, eventually, the seasons do change. “I’m holding out for spring,” sings Sheeran on “Spring.” “We can’t let winter win.”
“It was very easy to do,” Joanna Sternberg tells Apple Music of making their second full-length. “I was having fun and as comfortable as could be. It felt like the right thing.” Recorded over five days in the cartoonist/singer-songwriter’s native New York—with indie guitar hero Matt Sweeney producing—*I’ve Got Me* certainly sounds like it came easy. But Sternberg—a virtuoso musician who studied jazz, blues, and ragtime at The New School for Jazz and Contemporary Music—has a way of making difficult things sound simple and obvious, whether it’s self-acceptance (the huglike title track), resilience (“Mountains High”), or playing every instrument here. Yet, somehow, every line feels like it might weigh a ton, too. “It’s hard for me to get up the courage to show people one of my songs,” Sternberg says. “I have to really, really, really, really consider if I show people. I haven’t shown people a lot of them, but I have, like, 200.” **“I’ve Got Me”** “It’s kind of just about what it says it’s about—being very isolated and not having any friends. I think it’s kind of the theme of the whole album, because writing songs and stuff is what got me to have people wanting to be my friend. I mean, the song is about not feeling lonely—like I stopped being upset about being alone.” **“I Will Be With You”** “I just wrote the song while I was waiting for an orchestra rehearsal to start. I was at the piano, just having fun. I was trying to write an Irish love ballad. I wrote it in, like, three minutes; it was fine.” **“Mountains High”** “I was listening to lots of Cajun music with accordion in it, where they’re repeating accordion patterns. In my building, there’s a practice room in the basement because it’s artist housing. And after 11, you could go in as long as you want, so I would just go in and try to write songs. And I wrote this song in one of the rooms—just came up with the melody, and it kind of just wrote itself very fast.” **“I’ll Make You Mine”** “My mom wanted me to put that on the record, so I did. But that was one of the first songs I wrote, because I just kind of made it up on the piano. I don’t really like the song very much because it’s cheesy, but she said I had to put it on the record.” **“Stockholm Syndrome”** “I thought it kind of sounded like something that reminds me of middle school and the music everyone liked in middle school, and I didn’t like it. So, I didn’t think it was even good. But then all my friends were loving it. So, then I just forced myself to get used to it, and now I like it. I’m very lucky to play my songs, and I love to do it, but that song took a while to write because I thought it was really, really annoying and embarrassing. Then I just kind of accepted it.” **“The Love I Give”** “Sometimes, when I’m walking around, I come up with melodies. My producer Matt Sweeney really encourages me to take walks, so I can come up with melodies. So, that’s really, really helpful that he does that, because I forget to do it. I wrote that song while I was just walking to the train, and I just wrote it really fast. It was just about being around people who are hurtful to you, but you don’t want to change who you are.” **“She Dreams”** “I wrote that song when I was asleep. I wrote it in a dream, and I woke up, and it was all written. It was the only time that’s ever happened. And I think it was the first song I ever wrote. It’s pretty.” **“The Song”** “I kind of wrote it based on the first melody in Dvořák’s *New World Symphony*, of the English horn solo. It was a really nice melody, and then I just went off of that. That was all I needed to just write the whole thing.”
In spring 2022, Ben Howard was in his garden in Ibiza when he suddenly found himself unable to speak for an hour. It was a terrifying experience—one that recurred a month later. It eventually transpired that Howard had suffered two transient ischemic attacks—also known as mini strokes—caused when the blood flow to the brain becomes temporarily restricted. These episodes dramatically shaped the songs he was working on for his fifth album, *Is It?*. “My emotional approach to the songs changed,” the London singer-songwriter tells Apple Music. “My acceptance of the songs for what they were, rather than pondering them too much. It was a great opportunity to just get the songs down and realize that each record is a picture of where you are at a time and a place. And if you can be honest with that, then often it’s a better record that comes out, rather than picking it to pieces.” This more relaxed approach has resulted in perhaps the most fluid, sonically adventurous record of Howard’s career. Recorded with producer Nathan Jenkins, aka Bullion (Orlando Weeks, Westerman), *Is It?* shines and shimmers with a newfound spaciousness and light—its surfaces reflecting influences one might not have heard on Howard’s more guitar-driven records, including The Blue Nile, Arthur Russell, and Brian Eno and John Cale’s 1990 collaboration, *Wrong Way Up*. From opener “Couldn’t Make It Up” (which directly references Howard’s first mini stroke) via the mechanic tessellations of “Life in the Time” to the reflective ambience of “Spirit,” Howard has reached a place where he sounds more at ease and creatively free than ever before. Here, he talks us through the record, track by track. **“Couldn’t Make It Up”** “I wanted to make a song on the harmonium—it feels like bringing sunshine to a room sometimes. They’re quite simple arrangements on this album. I think I was less precious, melodically. I was more free, melodically, and was singing more. That’s a feature on this album, a letting go of that serious singer-songwriter thing that always rears its ugly head.” **“Walking Backwards”** “The stuttering guitar part with the double delay on it was the basis of this. It had this endless delay on it that had such an urgency to it that I thought really played against the nature of the song, which is a mantra to sitting still and having acceptance, being able to settle into your own ways. After that it seemed that every instrument we put on this record had to be either affected by delay or have some sort of stutter or punctuated time signature to it.” **“Days of Lantana”** “I think this song in a nutshell is about trying to find a gentle peace with yourself. The vocal sample on this song is Linda Thompson singing \[‘Les Troix Beaux Oiseaux de Paradis’\]. I felt it was great umbrella of my day-to-day life, the beauty and wonder around us, and then the restlessness that comes and goes. I live in Ibiza, and lantana is sort of like the flowering weed of Spain. They call it the flag of Spain because of its colors.” **“Life in the Time”** “This was written in full before I recorded it, but there was a scattering of couplets throughout the verses that were constantly being interchanged and moved around, and you can hear that on the record. I quite like that you can hear this really decisive but also indecisive and interchangeable thing. It’s a monologue essentially, but I’ve hacked a few verses out of it because it could have gone on forever.” **“Moonraker”** “I was climbing the mountains in the Sierra Nevada \[in Spain\] with my sister, but it’s not necessarily about climbing, more that vantage or viewpoint. Moonraker is a reference to people bootlegging liquor. There’s an old Wiltshire folk tale of guys who told the police they were raking the moon out of the lake in the middle of the night when they were actually bootlegging liquor. The policeman let them off and thought they were just foolish, but actually there was a point to their endeavors. It’s about the joy of fruitless things. So many things in this life are pointless and futile, but in the end seem to have a great reason or a great impact on us.” **“Richmond Avenue”** “It’s a song very much about nostalgia. I grew up in West London and it really sings to me that song about hot summer days. For some reason, London for me in the heat is more nostalgic than anywhere else. When the heat grows in the city, it’s such a palpable thing. Michael McGoldrick plays uilleann pipes on it. We were so lucky to get that on the record—it’s an incredible instrument.” **“Interim of Sense”** “I wanted to call this ‘Byzantium Leaving’ but changed the title at the last minute. I did feel unsure about what had happened to me, and I think often when you tune in, you realize that these holes and gaps appear anyway. You make so many decisions of such great intentions and then as time moves, as those plates shift, you realize the true intentions or the reasons you made those decisions weren’t necessarily what you thought they were on surface level. I often find myself in that state.” **“Total Eclipse”** “The notes I had for this one were about the minor stroke, this black-hole repetition of nothingness. It’s not replicating that moment, but the feeling. All these songs are grasping at feelings. I try and write about feelings, not about specifics. I’m just trying to touch on feelings. I’m trying to explain feelings all the way through. I guess some people are a bit more specific than others, but you’re always trying to allude to something that you can’t quite put your finger on.” **“Spirit”** “Arthur Russell has always been a big influence for me, and, if anything, we almost shied away from the string arpeggio on this because it was perhaps *too* similar to him, but it took a hold and you couldn’t get away from it. But there’s always Arthur Russell there somewhere. I’m always trying to find my own little space in music and inevitably you step on toes. Credit to Nathan \[Jenkins, aka producer Bullion\]: He took the song into a beautiful new world and away from potentially being just another modern act ripping off Arthur Russell.” **“Little Plant”** “This song is the slow down, the cooling off at the end of the record. It was quite a straight-up song, there’s not too much running around on this one. Three chords and happy days. Maybe a slight pitch shift in the middle. It’s about reality versus expectation and a grappling with the constant spark in lives of other people. In my head, there was also the idea of a young man joining the army, and why we’re pressured to do anything. Why we’re always in this constant movement towards achievement and goals and being encouraged to send ourselves over the front in various different ways—why on earth we do that, what it means and how does it make us feel? That’s only one line, though, all these songs have a lot of different interpretations. I never want to close someone’s interpretation of a song by giving them a definition. That’s my greatest fear.”
After Maisie Peters released her 2021 debut, *You Signed Up for This*, she was hit by a feeling of anticlimax. “It was honestly a bit of a strange time for me,” she tells Apple Music. “I’d been so proud of the album. I’d worked so hard on it, but it was done and I found it very difficult to fathom that. I didn’t know what to do, actually physically, with myself.” Naturally, Peters—who’s always been a prolific songwriter—got straight back into the studio. And it soon turned out she had a lot to write about: There was a big breakup, the slow and careful process of piecing herself together again, and, in 2022, a tour, with Peters writing the rest of her second LP in between live dates. “I had so much to say because I was going through a personal crisis, one could say,” she says. “I just wanted to have it down on paper, how I felt, what had happened. I was trying to be honest.” When Peters says that, you know she means it. This is a singer-songwriter whose trademark is radical candor. Here, you can expect songs about crushing insecurity (the superb “Body Better”), missing someone even though they’ve hurt you (“Want You Back”), and wishing you could go back to before any of this happened (“Two Weeks Ago”). But there are also clear-skies moments, as Peters slowly moves on (see “There It Goes,” a poignant moment about the healing power of time passing) and realizes she’s better off without. And it’s all set against assured, infectious, and often synth-led pop laced with tender piano ballads and sassy anthems inspired by Shania Twain or Britney Spears. “This is my big life lesson of 2022,” adds Peters of the material here. Read on as the singer lets us in on the record’s creation—and what it, and the 12 months that inspired it, taught her. **You know what you’re doing more with album two.** “After the first album, I felt like I’d done a round of the track in my F1 car. This time it was like, ‘OK, I know what I’m doing a little bit now. I’ve done this before.’ I was touring so much that I just didn’t have time to think about it—I just had to make it. But there was a pressure for myself. I loved my first album and know it meant so much to my fans. I just felt this huge pressure to make something else that meant as much. When people ask me who I’m making music for, it’s primarily me, but there are also about 30 girls on Instagram too. I think about them constantly. But there was a point when I was probably doing it too much and had to say, ‘I can’t have these people on my mind.’ They love me because it’s me, so I need to trust that.” **Going to Sweden taught me about pushing boundaries.** “After the first album came out, I went to Sweden for the first time in October 2021. I worked with Fat Max Gsus (Tove Lo, Lewis Capaldi, Zara Larsson), Oscar Görres (Troye Sivan, Taylor Swift, Britney Spears), and First Aid Kit’s Klara Söderberg. It was a game changer for me, and I was so in love with the way these guys write music. The cliché of Sweden is that it’s pop by numbers—and obviously they’ve written some of the biggest hits in the world. But out of everyone I’ve ever worked with, the Swedish crew were the most open and the most interested in pushing boundaries. It’s easy to feel like you have to work within a set of guidelines—and I very much learned not to do that.” **You don’t realize how lyrically honest you can be until you go there.** “With a song like ‘Body Better,’ we’re sat there dissecting my innermost insecurities and deepest fears. There is a separation between feeling something deeply and writing it—I don’t write songs sitting there and sobbing. But this album taught me that I could do that \[be so lyrically honest\] and that I could go to those places.” **It also taught me that I won’t feel like this forever.** “There’s a Lucy Dacus song, ‘Night Shift,’ where she goes, ‘In five years, I hope the songs feel like covers.’ At some stage, it does—and you can’t believe you once felt like that. When I released ‘Two Weeks Ago,’ it was a year on from when I wrote it. It was an accurate reflection of who I was then, just a transcript of my brain. It was interesting to release it when I was in such a different place. I can recognize who I was and I’m very fond of the girl who wrote that song. It’s sort of like a shadow you have that’s walked off on its own. This album is the coolest reminder of what’s passed—it was an era of my life that I’m out of now and grateful for, but I don’t miss it.” **I needed a song to tie the bow.** “‘There It Goes’ is almost a sister song to ‘Two Weeks Ago.’ It was another screenshot of my mind. I’d just gone back to London after touring, we’d thrown a house party and I’d gone to a yoga class to try to get better. We were hanging up art. I was going on dates. And that song was so important to me, because this whole album was a reflection of my life, and I needed a song that tied the bow. I couldn’t let this record exist without a song that reminds me—and tells everyone else—that there is an ending to this. There’s a lyric on the song: ‘The comedown of closure/The girls and I do yoga/I wake up and it’s October/The loss is yours.’ Suddenly everything is a bit boring in the nicest way ever. You’re not angry. You’re not bitter. You’re just going to yoga or going on a walk. I find it really moving to talk about that song. I also learned that you can dig your heels in and think, ‘I refuse to feel anything apart from this. I only want to feel this way forever, for good or for bad.’ But the fact is, you just can’t. One day you will just wake up and you won’t feel the way you did. And that’s a good thing. It’s good to move along with the tide.” **The person you love isn’t your whole world.** “There’s a song on this album called ‘Coming of Age,’ which is a song about the fact that—how to put this?—sometimes I give magic to people. I think they’re magic, but they’re not: I just wrote them that way or I created them that way. You pin all your hopes and dreams on them. And the song, to me, is about seeing that actually I was the magic. The other person was there, but it was me that made this what it was and made this so special and shiny and glittery and beautiful. There’s another lyric on this album I think of a lot, which is on ‘BSC,’ where I go, ‘I can write you out the way I wrote you in.’ It doesn’t mean the person wasn’t great and didn’t teach me something. But it’s also knowing the person isn’t your whole world. You are your whole world.” **If a man tells you he wants you in his life forever, run!** “I’d had a conversation with another friend where one of us said, ‘Next time a man says I want you in my life forever—and then proceeds to act in the most atrocious way any man has ever acted ever—we’re out.’ I wrote the song ‘Run’ in January/February 2022, just after that conversation, with one of my best friends, \[songwriter\] Ines Dunn. We had that line going. In my own heart, I was no longer sad about it—I was just trying to take the lesson from it. I really tried to get that song right. I kept referencing Britney Spears and ‘If U Seek Amy.’ I wanted to do a song like Britney did, or like Gwen Stefani did.” **There are some songs that can only be written once about a moment in your life.** “On the first album, that was ‘Brooklyn,’ and on this one, it’s ‘The Band and I.’ It was almost ‘Brooklyn Part Two’ for me, because I remember when I was trying to put that song on my first record, I had someone I worked with say, ‘It’s so specific. I’m not sure it’s for an album—who can understand this?’ But those are the most important songs. For me, I had to have ‘The Band and I’ on this album because \[touring\] was such an integral part of my year. It just captured a moment in time that I’ll never be able to do again.” **I learned how special it is to be doing what you dreamed of when you were nine.** “There’s a lyric on ‘The Band and I’ where I say, ‘It was a far-flung wish when we were young/Now we’re living the dream and I hope we never wake up.’ I think about all of us \[Peters and her band\] on these tour buses and how it’s absolutely ludicrous that we’re allowed to do this. It’s such a one-in-a-billion chance to do music the way I do it. And I feel crushed under the weight of that sometimes—of how lucky I am. How dare I live my dream? That song is, I think, my favorite on the album, because of exactly that.” **I don’t know if I’d recommend writing an album to get over a breakup. But I’d do it all again.** “I definitely don’t write for catharsis. I do it for documentation purposes, which is kind of useful. Plus—and I’m sorry to say this, I *really* am—but there’s no breakup hack. You can’t speed yourself through it. At the time, it feels difficult and sad and you wonder what that was for. But, in \[the relationship\] not going like I wanted it to, I made this album. I learned innumerable things about myself. You grow for the better. Every time I write something that I really deeply love and believe in, I learn something about myself. And that’s the greatest, coolest gift ever. That’s why I’d do it all again.”
Does Zach Bryan ever sleep? The wildly popular country singer-songwriter is also wildly prolific, dropping this surprise quintet of songs just weeks after releasing his massive self-titled album, itself coming on the heels of the string of loosies and EPs Bryan released in the year since blowing up with 2022’s *American Heartbreak*. *Boys of Faith* opens with “Nine Ball,” a new song whose roots-rock production hews closely to *Zach Bryan* tracks like “Overtime” and “Fear and Friday’s.” The tune is also reminiscent of Jason Isbell, a major influence on Bryan—particularly *Southeastern* deep cut “Super 8,” with its devil-may-care attitude, and *The Nashville Sound*’s wistful “Last of My Kind.” Noah Kahan joins Bryan on “Sarah’s Place,” the “Stick Season” singer-songwriter lending harmony vocals and sounding like he’s having a great time doing it. Bryan teased the title track, a collaboration with Bon Iver, on social media in advance of *Boys of Faith*’s release, with the somewhat surprising pairing sounding like two sides of the same downtrodden coin. While that collaboration may grab all the headlines, the EP also boasts a recorded version of “Deep Satin,” a fan favorite song of Bryan’s that many fans begged for after it didn’t make the tracklist on that self-titled LP. Its studio incarnation crackles with the same urgency found in the live versions floating around online, with gritty, off-the-cuff-sounding production to flesh it out. Bryan closes *Boys of Faith* with “Pain, Sweet, Pain,” another deserving unreleased tune getting the long-awaited studio treatment.
Noah Kahan’s third album, October 2022’s *Stick Season*, was never meant to be a full-length project. Kahan was looking to take a break from the more polished, pop-leaning writing sessions he’d been doing and found himself gravitating towards the music of his childhood. Bon Iver and James Blake were the soundtrack of his long, snowy winters in Vermont, and the term “stick season” refers to the time between autumnal splendor and the season’s first snowfall. For some, this period, with its changing leaves and trick-or-treating in New England, is idyllic. According to Kahan, it’s “super depressing”—but it was also super inspiring. “It wasn\'t until I wrote the song ‘Stick Season’ after a session that I realized I was making an album,” Kahan shared with Apple Music’s Hanuman Welch. “I looked back at the rest of the tunes, and they all fit this theme about home and about isolation. Once I had three or four songs that I thought could make up an album, telling the rest of the story became very natural, and a really focused experience. I was really happy to have that narrative through line figured out early on. Those things were present before I finished, which was really nice and helpful to guide the whole process.” Winters in New England are famously brutal. The sun vanishes, the temperatures plummet, and the world slows to a crawl. Kahan is deeply familiar with this cycle of transition and rebirth, but it wasn’t until much later that he realized how deeply he was impacted by the changing of the seasons. “Every year growing up, my entire family would really, really dread winter coming,” Kahan explains. “I had the worst times in my childhood, in my life, in the wintertime. It was always something that was foreboding, and stick season, in that time between the stunning autumn in Vermont and New Hampshire, became this cold, gray, empty place.” Those experiences are the narrative thread of *Stick Season*, which unfolds as equal parts eulogy and exhumation—a layer-by-layer cataloging of childhood memories, heartbreak, and resentments toward the claustrophobia of small-town living. “When I was living at home in Vermont after high school, I was super, super lonely, obviously, but also just kind of socially not developed,” he says. “And then I thought, ‘Man, I\'m alone, and that\'s why I\'m feeling all these terrible things.’ I moved to New York City and I felt just as alone there as I had in Vermont. I realized that what was going on was a lot of internal things that I needed to work out, a lot of problems that I had to work on in therapy, and also discover through writing some of the songs about this stuff. Finally, when I started singing about being alone and being out in Vermont, I felt like I could come to terms with some of those things.”
Irish singer-songwriter CMAT had a very clear idea of what her second record was going to be about when she started making it, but somewhere along the line, it morphed into something else. “It’s about the breakup and the fallout of a breakup,” Ciara Mary-Alice Thompson tells Apple Music. “I was in a relationship with someone who’s much older than me, and it was about trying to look at that as objectively as possible, and give time and space to my feelings about it.” CMAT set out to write what she describes as “a record of forgiveness,” but as she put that into practice, she discovered it wasn’t the album she needed to make. “As I was making the record, I realized I’m actually just still really fucking angry about everything that happened, and I became more \[so\] as I went on and went through it. So it’s not really an album about forgiveness, it’s an album about the fact that shit happens, these things happen, and it doesn’t make any sense and there’s no point to it.” The end result is *Crazymad, for Me*, a second record that builds on the country-pop sway of her debut with lush strings, ’70s grooves, melodious hooks, uplifting harmonies (a glorious duet with John Grant on “Where Are Your Kids Tonight?” will have you shimmying your way to the dance floor), and an Americana twang. Somewhere inside these songs of anger, sadness, and contemplation, CMAT started to make sense of everything. “Nothing good comes from suffering,” she says. “But it has to happen and you just have to learn how to move on with it.” These things happen, but at least they’ve got a great soundtrack. Read on as CMAT guides us through *Crazymad, for Me*, track by track. **“California”** “Every time I started on the topic and every time I started writing about it, I had this voice in the back of my head that was like, ‘Everybody that was there is going to know that you’re exaggerating and everybody is going to think you’re so sad. Him, and all of his friends, and everyone that knows you is going to think you’re such a pathetic loser for even talking about this in the first place.’ I probably should have made this album before my first record. I’ve wanted to make this record for six or seven years, but it really took a lot of pep-talking—and this song is me going through all of that and trying to be like, ‘I need to do it anyway.’” **“Phone Me”** “This is about the paranoia of feeling like you’re being cheated on, but the other person isn’t admitting to it. I was making up really weird images in my head, like, ‘What lengths would I have gone to to figure out if this person’s cheating on me?’ One of them was raising a Greek goddess from the dead, Cassandra, the goddess of prophecy. Her curse was that she was always going to tell the truth and know the truth and know what was coming before it happened, but nobody was ever going to believe her. I also make reference to the Rebekah Vardy incident, where Coleen Rooney had to remove everyone off her \[Instagram\] stories except for Rebekah Vardy, and plant fake stories to figure out if she was the person leaking her stories. I liked taking those two things and matching them together. In my head, there is a conference of girls all standing around trying to figure out the truth about something, and it’s me, Coleen Rooney, and Cassandra, the Greek goddess of prophecy.” **“Vincent Kompany”** “This is about the fact that I tend to have a relationship with myself and my own mental illnesses, where time is a very important thing. I like to tell stories about terrible, scary, maybe worrying things that I did when I was very mentally ill, but only if they happened three years ago, so that I can be, ‘I was crazy back then, but I’d never do that now.’ As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that I’m always doing something insane, and it’s only time and foresight and whatever else that makes me realize that I was always the crazy person. There’s a line in it where I say, ‘Cut all my hair off trying to look like Vincent Kompany.’ I wrote this song with my friend Declan McKenna and we spent maybe two hours going through a list of bald celebrities that I could use in the simile. Eventually, he was like, ‘\[Burnley FC manager\] Vincent Kompany!’ I was like, ‘Oh, if he’s a dodgy bastard, I don’t really want to put him in a song,’ so I had to research him very thoroughly. Turns out, lovely man. Family guy.” **“Such a Miranda”** “When I first really started a relationship with this person, I was 18 and I’d moved to Denmark. I moved back to Ireland to be in a relationship with him and I also stopped watching *Sex and the City*; I stopped doing all of these things that were for me and that I was supposed to be doing for me. I look back on that time with a lot of regret. It’s not a very profound \[or\] logical song, or anything, it’s just literally me talking about how much I regret doing that.” **“Rent”** “This song is kind of the second part to ‘Such a Miranda’ in the sense that it fast-forwards into the middle of the relationship and is me telling the story of being in it. It’s probably the saddest song I’ve ever written. It’s about being in a relationship with someone and realizing you’ve dedicated your whole life to someone who doesn’t even know you, and you don’t even know them, and how isolating and awful that feeling is, and how chaotic it is as well; how your life looks a bit different every day because you don’t know who you’re getting.” **“Where Are Your Kids Tonight?” (feat. John Grant)** “This is a song about realizing that I’ve turned into my mother. For me, there are three scenes on the record. The first sequence of songs is a bit angry, the second sequence of songs \[where this one sits\] is very reflective and ‘Maybe I’ve done something wrong,’ and then the third sequence is trying to make peace and move on. ‘Where Are Your Kids Tonight?’ is a song about the passing of time and how quickly it’s gone, because I feel like people often get to their mid to late twenties and they’re like, ‘Fuck, I was 12 two weeks ago. What the fuck happened?!’” **“Can’t Make up My Mind”** “I wanted to really capture that fuzzy-headedness of indecisiveness and lack of commitment, because I’m definitely a commitment-phobe in life. I don’t know how people buy houses, I don’t know how people get married. That concept to me is very confusing. I don’t even know how people decide where they’re going to live for the rest of their life. I have specifically chosen a path where I move around all the time, and that suits me perfectly well, because I need to be constantly stimulated, like a toddler with an iPad. I need to be constantly scrolling or something. And I can’t make up my mind.” **“Whatever’s Inconvenient”** “This one is about being bad at romance and human relationships. I’m definitely a bit of a Madame Bovary about things. I always think something could be a bit better and a bit more romantic and a bit more crazy and a bit more wild, and that will fuck me up and put me into terrible, terrible positions. I’m definitely guilty of going for the craziest or the most rebellious, wild option, even into my adulthood, and it just runs a train through your life. You have to just not be a narcissist, and take people for what they are and enjoy them and commit to them and see the best in them—instead of always picking the worst option possible to live on the edge.” **“I…Hate Who I Am When I’m Horny”** “I wanted to put this feeling into a song because I had never heard anyone else ever talk about it in a poetic sense. I have so many friends that have been very hurt and confused by their own feelings towards someone they love. They’ll love this person and be so committed to this person, but after a while, the sexual attraction completely leaves them and they find anything new attractive. Quite a lot of my friends who are gay men suffered a lot in their early to mid twenties or thirties with this exact same feeling, where they’ve found someone and they love them, but they just want to have sex with anyone else. I think there’s a lot of shame associated with this feeling, and there’s a lot of shame associated with sex in general. But if I was to add a positive note, I would say there are other solutions to the problem rather than hating yourself. As a very famous drag queen, Trixie Mattel, once said, ‘If having sex with someone who isn’t my husband is illegal, then lock me up and throw away the key.’” **“Torn Apart”** “This is going back to the Cassandra prophecy thing, but it’s the other end of the prophecy here, where shit has hit the fan and everything has gone wrong, and you’re at the end of the relationship and there’s always a feeling of, ‘Well, I knew it was always going to happen, so why did I even bother?’ It’s about running through the past and looking for signs that it was always going to end. But if you look for that in anything, you’ll find it.” **“Stay for Something”** “‘Stay for Something’ is also about running back through the minutiae of a relationship that you’ve exited and looking to make sense out of it. I think this is also a very important song in the record for me because it really sums up that super-chaotic feeling of something terrible has happened, so I have to find reasoning for it, and I have to make sense out of it and it has to be a chapter that factors into the story of my life overall. I can’t have suffered for nothing, I can’t have stayed for nothing, I can’t have just stayed in this terrible relationship and not benefited from it in some way, but the truth is that I did and I think, in general, people do. There’s no reason for suffering, there’s no point to it, and these things don’t really make sense.” **“Have Fun!”** “I think the minute that it was written, I remember thinking it sounds like the last song on an album. It sounds like the exit song from a sitcom or something, it’s quite a jovial, jaunty number. I liked the idea of ending on something uplifting when I knew so much of the record was going to be so dramatic. Thematically, it makes sense as well because it’s the closest thing to a forgiveness song on the record. It’s not even really about forgiving and forgetting, but it’s more just about being like, ‘Well, that happened and now it’s not happening anymore, so I’m going to go have some fun,’ because that was what was missing for the last five years or whatever it was. I think it’s nice to end on a hopeful note.”
Bob Dylan has always seemed to take unusual pleasure in turning whatever it is the public thinks he is inside-out. Acoustic to electric, *Self Portrait*, the bard of American counterculture embracing the repertoire of Frank Sinatra (*Shadows in the Night*): None of it fits, which is to say that all of it does. The first thing you notice about this early-works retrospective is how sparse and mysterious it is: a “Tombstone Blues” delivered like a radio noir, an “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue” with the hovering gravitas of a dramatic reading. At 79, his sexual urgency sounds both funnier and more mortal than it did 50 years earlier (“I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight”) and his cosmic ease validated by the long road already behind him (“When I Paint My Masterpiece”). In the absence of drums, four guitars organize themselves around an upright bass and an accordion whose reedy wheeze rustles in the drapes like a ghost. The conviction of youth gives way to the ambivalence of age, and what once sounded grave now sounds like a cold beer amid a warm breeze, and in one mellow hour, he makes the past feel like what it probably ends up being: unknown country.
