The tale of Sonny Moore’s career is a long and unpredictable one: Emo kid from LA makes a name as leader of a screamo band, then pivots in the late 2000s to effectively redefine dubstep for millions of raging revelers at the exact moment the EDM economy exploded. Early 2010s EPs like *Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites* are now considered canon; along the way, he had a hand in some of the best pure pop tunes of the decade, scored a Harmony Korine film (2012’s *Spring Breakers*), and circled back to reunite with his old band, From First to Last. But for his outsized impact on the past two decades of pop culture, his studio albums have been few and, well, not always far between. Nine years passed between his full-length debut, 2014’s *Recess*, and his second album, 2023’s *Quest for Fire*; one day later, he released his third album, *Don’t Get Too Close*. Naturally, it follows that the roguish superproducer would drop his fourth album out of the sky with no warning on April Fools’ Day. But the appeal of the so-called “brostep” disrupter has long been his ability to balance his prankster impulses with technical wizardry and boundary-pushing ideas. And though the title’s all-caps rant is delivered with a wink, there is a case for *F\*CK U SKRILLEX...* as a work of bona fide pop art. In this case, replace soup cans with DJ drops, which Skrillex incorporates gratuitously in a way you might call avant-garde as the album’s 34 tracks gallop into one another, then disappear just as you’ve started to wrap your head around them. Cacophonous Brazilian phonk wails into classic dubstep, hardcore techno, trance, and less-than-a-minute bursts of pop-EDM perfection. Meanwhile, increasingly unhinged Trap-A-holics-type DJ drops hint playfully at Skrillex’s mindset at this juncture in his career. “REJECT SOCIETY! RETURN TO NATURE!” bellows one such drop over the mystic-sounding “KORABU,” which crams six collaborators into two minutes (among them Drain Gang affiliates Whitearmor and Varg2™). “I SOLD MY SOUL TO GIVE YOU THIS SONG!” proclaims another one on “ZEET NOISE,” whose breakneck beat is co-produced by Boys Noize and 100 gecs’ Dylan Brady. “THIS BEAT DROP HAS BEEN SEIZED BY ATLANTIC RECORDS AND HAS BEEN REPLACED WITH SILENCE!” the cartoonish voice announces a minute into “BIGGY BAP” before the build-up ratchets back and the narration continues: “MY LIFE IS IN SHAMBLES! I HAVE SEVERE DEPRESSION!” Yet on “VOLTAGE,” the Platonic ideal of “filthy dubstep” erupts into a sentimental chorus: “Gotta believe there’s something more!” Of course, that’s before our ringleader brings things back to earth on closing track “AZASU” with a hearty thank-you to “the unknown graffiti artist who vandalized our wall,” as pictured on the album cover. These days, you never know where you might stumble upon a bold new work of pop art.
For their first album in seven years, and first as a trio, the British folk-rockers Mumford & Sons went back to their roots. *RUSHMERE*, their fifth album, is named after the pub in southwest London where Marcus Mumford, Ted Dwane, and Ben Lovett first got to know each other as friends and eventual creative collaborators. They were humble days, coming years before tracks like “Little Lion Man” helped define a strand of optimistic folk pop that dominated the early 2010s and influenced 2020s stadium-fillers like Noah Kahan and Zach Bryan. *RUSHMERE* pulls back from the pomp and splendor of folk-rock stardom and gets back to basics: furiously played guitars and rousing vocal harmonies, with Marcus Mumford’s sincere, resolute burr leading the way. Produced by Nashville straight-shooter Dave Cobb, who’s known for his unfussy, song-forward approach to the studio, *RUSHMERE* places the powerful songwriting and strong musical chemistry of Mumford & Sons front and center. “Monochrome” is a hushed hymn to a long-gone muse, with Mumford rueful about time’s passage yet generous to someone who has faded to “monochrome out of sight.” The stirring “Surrender” is propelled by stomps and strummed strings, moving briskly forward even as Mumford sings of his world-weariness. “Blood on the Page,” a collaboration with next-generation folk-rocker Madison Cunningham, is delicate and ghostly in a way that amplifies the pain in its lyrics. “Time, don’t let us down again/’Cause I won’t wait,” the trio wails near the end of the title track, with ferocious banjos driving home the plea’s urgency. It’s a sly callback to “I Will Wait,” the 2012 song that cemented Mumford & Sons as leaders of the 2010s’ folk-rock vanguard. But it’s also a signal of the urgency and hope underpinning *RUSHMERE*, making it a taut, potent statement of reintroduction that doubles as a declaration of intent to stick around.
The producer born Brian Piñeyro has spent the past decade forging his own serpentine lane in underground dance music, recontextualizing reggaetón’s iconic dembow rhythm as something heady and ethereal, though no less sensual. Past releases have seen Python incorporate elements of dub, deep house, and shoegaze for tracks that fill the dance floor while floating just above it. But on his first solo release since 2022’s *Club Sentimientos, Vol. 2* EP (and his first for XL Records), the producer reintroduces himself as a vocalist, too, murmuring sweet nothings on tracks like the IDM-inspired “Marry Me Maia” and the slinky “Coquine.” Elsewhere, he links with club luminaries worldwide—Honduran reggaetón sensation Isabella Lovestory, London rapper Jawnino, and NYC nightlife hero Total Freedom, who co-produces the euphoric “Elio’s Lived Behind My House Forever.”
Alison Krauss and her band Union Station aren’t what you’d call prolific. After all, this eighth studio album from the bluegrass outfit comes 14 years after its predecessor, the critically acclaimed *Paper Airplane*. As any Krauss fan knows, though, the 27-time Grammy-winning multi-hyphenate prioritizes quality over quantity, and the 10 new songs comprising this collection are no exception to that rule. Krauss and the band produced *Arcadia* alongside fellow Grammy winner Gary Paczosa (Dolly Parton, Sierra Ferrell), with IIIrd Tyme Out’s Russell Moore joining Union Station in place of longtime guitarist Dan Tyminski, whose own solo and side projects have picked up significantly in the near decade and a half since *Paper Airplane*’s release. *Arcadia* opens with the Jeremy Lister-penned “Looks Like the End of the Road,” a dusky and dramatic ballad with a sparkling vocal from Krauss, whose voice sounds as pristine as it ever has. Moore’s guitar retains the Southern gothic moodiness once brought by Tyminski, and his lead vocal on tracks like “The Hangman” offers a sturdy, soulful counterpoint to Krauss’s honeyed soprano—notably, Moore is the most decorated male vocalist in International Bluegrass Music Association history. Other highlights include the Tyminski co-write “The Wrong Way,” which lets Jerry Douglas shine on dobro and lap steel guitar, and closer “There’s a Light Up Ahead,” another Lister tune with gorgeously atmospheric production that really gives Krauss space to soar.
Aotearoa New Zealand trio Alien Weaponry continue to honor Māori culture and lament the current state of the world on their third album of diverse, textured metal. The hammering single “Mau Moko” is inspired by traditional Māori tattoo art (tā moko) and how the practice nearly vanished due to colonization. That and many other tracks see vocalist/guitarist Lewis Raharuhi de Jong sing in te reo Māori, while fewer than half are delivered in English. “Blackened Sky” features radio presenter Tūwhenuaroa Natanahira contributing ominous warnings about global warfare, while Lamb of God singer Randy Blythe guests on the loud-quiet-loud stunner “Taniwha,” named after a water monster from Māori legend. Alien Weaponry also takes aim at more current concerns, railing against the siloed nature of social media in “1000 Friends.” Produced, mixed, and mastered by American multihyphenate Josh Wilbur (Korn, Megadeth), *Te Rā* broadens and deepens the scope of the band’s volatile sound. de Jong has admitted to tapping into “difficult emotional places and mental states” while writing the album’s lyrics, but the songs’ collective sense of catharsis makes for a rewarding listen in the end.
Playboi Carti has hardly been absent in the roughly four years since *Whole Lotta Red*, appearing alongside the likes of Future, Latto, and Trippie Redd in the interim. Still, that didn’t keep his enormous fanbase from persistently clamoring over the prospect of *I AM MUSIC*, ultimately released with the truncated title of, simply, *MUSIC*. Its substantial length seems to acknowledge the wait, opening with a flurry of rage-rap tracks like “POP OUT” and “CRUSH” that herald the raconteur’s welcome arrival. Over its 30-track, 77-minute runtime, his sonics shift between the aggressively blown-out, synth-heavy post-trap he became infamous for and something markedly poppier, yet all of it undeniably within his stylistic range. Carti initially kept his choice of guests close to the vest, as has become custom for high-profile album drops. Yet it would be impossible not to recognize Kendrick Lamar spitting on “GOOD CREDIT,” Future emoting over “TRIM,” or collaborative career mainstay Lil Uzi Vert gliding triumphantly through “TWIN TRIM.” The Weeknd’s prominent feature on “RATHER LIE” makes for perhaps the most overt example of his envelope-pushing here, though appearances by Travis Scott on “PHILLY” and the tag team of Young Thug and Ty Dolla $ign on “WE NEED ALL DA VIBES” make the pivot even more plausible. Even with friends like these, Carti shines brighter on his own, his breathy near-falsetto vocal booming through the escalating video game arpeggios of “I SEEEEEE YOU BABY BOI” and his raspy snarl swerving around the cinematic noise of “COCAINE NOSE.” Not exclusively looking towards the future, there’s an almost nostalgic appreciation for Atlanta’s early 2010s sound evoked on “RADAR,” its beat reminiscent of classic 1017 Brick Squad tapes.
Rising from the last remnants of Chicago’s first wave of drill music, BloodHound Q50 has helped take the sound in a new direction. On his 2025 debut album, the evocatively titled *Long Live My Brudda He Prolly Kilt Yo Brudda*, Q50 paints the Chicago streets in a bloody red, telling tales of taking down opps with a cold, calculated nihilism that honors some of the genre’s forebears, like Lil Durk, G Herbo, and Chief Keef. Despite *Long Live My Brudda* being his debut full-length, BloodHound’s sound is fully formed, his bars sharp and clever. The Windy City spitter operates by a different code, where being skilled on the mic can get you only so far. Rapping is an escape for BloodHound, who outlines his origin story on the Lil Tjay-assisted “See Red”: “I’m the youngest, but a vet/Old n\*\*\*\*s show me my respect/Been had a name before the fame, I got my name from catching hats.”
Throughout his career, LA-via-Toronto singer-songwriter JP Saxe has struck a delicate balance between soul-baring sensitivity and self-lacerating humor. But he doesn’t so much juxtapose gravity and levity as fuse them to reflect the perpetually unsettled sensation of being alive and extremely online in the 2020s, where the churn of relentless doomscrolling leaves you unsure of whether to laugh or weep. *Articulate Excuses* is the first of two mini albums Saxe is unveiling over the course of 2025, after deciding to divide his large stockpile of songs into separate works organized by theme. And judging by this first installment, he’s been spending a lot of time reflecting on his worst behaviors and the cultural influences that encourage them. The opening piano hymn “SMARTPHONE MAKE ME DUMB” is a Sunday-morning plea for salvation from the myriad vices—social-media addiction, drinking, meaningless sex—that force him to admit, “My subconscious is a fucking monster.” But *Articulate Excuses* isn’t all sad-sack introspection: Saxe may inhabit the role of a manipulative ex-boyfriend on “LET A GINGER MAKE YOU CRY,” but the song’s playful, ping-ponging R&B beat lends his villainous portrayal a cartoonish quality. And with “SOFT ASS BITCH,” Saxe interrogates the inability of men to express their true feelings before scaling a Coldplay-sized emotional peak that could make any grown man cry.
