Will Toledo’s music as Car Seat Headrest has always <i>felt</i> like opera whether he called it that or not—at least, few other indie bands have made the droll monotonies of being an outcast sound so grand. A concept album nominally about a med-school student who discovers her secret powers to heal patients by literally absorbing their pain (yep!), <i>The Scholars</i> is both Toledo and his band’s most conventionally “big” album (soaring choruses, dramatic turns, multi-part songs) and its most cryptic, tucking all those big, obvious gestures into the folds of a story that feels just out of reach by design.

The short songs hit hardest (“The Catastrophe,” “Devereaux”), but the long ones are where they get to make their weird stadium-sized dreams come true. Case in point, the 19-minute centerpiece “Planet Desperation”: Toldeo howls, “When I get to the pearly gates, will I see you on the inside pointing at me/Mouthing ‘There he is, officer—there’s the prick I warned you about.” Then they get to sound like The Who. Then a little bit like Genesis. Then the hand-drum section comes in.

RAYE announces her new single ‘Where The Hell Is My Husband!’
Out September 19th.

The retro-futuristic duo (Mica Tenenbaum and Matthew Lewin) hails from LA by way of the uncanny Valley, churning out trippy DIY videos made from random VHS footage and mailing weird brochures to fans like a secretive cult. But on debut full-length <i>Mercurial World</i>, their polished synth-pop demands to be taken seriously, though their playful spirit abides—emulating the effects of a VOCALOID with their mouths, kicking off the album with a track called “The End.” Tenenbaum and Lewin blend the nostalgic with the contemporary, combining Y2K-era bubblegum, the disco grooves of mid-aughts indie-dance crossovers, and the space-age sheen of hyperpop for a 45-minute sugar rush; don’t miss “Chaeri,” 2021’s best pop song about being a bad friend.

Indie electronic that nods to UK dance’s ’90s glory days.

A sample-happy second album from the San Diego indie pop group.

Man's Best Friend is the latest album from multi-hyphenate global popstar Sabrina Carpenter. Coming off her GRAMMY winning project Short n' Sweet & numerous multi-platinum singles added to her resume.

Helen Ballentine’s musical moniker Skullcrusher suggests a far different kind of music than what she writes. On <i>And Your Song Is Like a Circle</i>, the songs sink in like a scalp massage; there’s no physical crushing here. Ballentine’s second album, though, isn’t as light as some of the instrumentals suggest: Inspired by filmmakers like David Lynch and Hayao Miyazaki, Ballentine examines the nature of the human experience—the duality of feeling infinitely alive while knowing that sensation is fleeting. The concept is also reflected in the album title and the riverlike way these songs flow into one another. “Living” features Ballentine’s voice floating disparately against layers of harmonies and abstract synths, before a simple drum groove gives the song forward direction. It eventually concludes right back where it began, though, completing the circle.

A lot has changed for guitarist Royel Maddell and vocalist/guitarist Otis Pavlovic—collectively, Sydney duo Royel Otis—since their 2024 debut album, <i>PRATTS & PAIN</i>. On the back of that record and viral covers of Sophie Ellis-Bextor’s “Murder on the Dancefloor” and The Cranberries’ “Linger” they were propelled headfirst into a blur of overseas touring, high-profile festivals, and late-night TV appearances. That constant roadwork shaped album number two, <i>hickey</i>. “We were definitely more aware of how songs would come across when we played them live,” Maddell tells Apple Music. “We spent so much more time in front of crowds.” The experience, adds Pavlovic, contributed to the “simplicity” of the songs on <i>hickey</i>.

Simple the songs may be, but sonically the album is a more diverse and textured effort than its predecessor, be it in the lush vocal harmonies of “come on home,” the joyous synths in “who’s your boyfriend,” the ’90s slacker vibe of “moody,” the ’80s-inspired pulse of “say something,” or the sumptuous, floating guitars that color “dancing with myself.” A by-product of what Pavlovic says was a desire to “not have any walls or boundaries with whatever we were trying to make,” the diversity also stems from the rich array of collaborators: Amy Allen (Sabrina Carpenter, Harry Styles); Jungle’s Lydia Kitto and Josh Lloyd-Watson; Omer Fedi (Lil Nas X, Sam Smith); Blake Slatkin (SZA, Justin Bieber); and Julian Bunetta (Teddy Swims, One Direction).

Throughout, the duo’s dreamy musical optimism is contrasted by Pavlovic’s melancholy vocals, a neat vehicle for one of the album’s key themes, also inspired by the realities of life on the road. “There’s a few songs about saying goodbyes and missing people,” says Maddell. “I guess we were losing relationships.” Here, Maddell and Pavlovic walk Apple Music through <i>hickey</i>, track by track.

<b>“i hate this tune”</b>
Royel Maddell: “We wrote those lyrics for a different song, sitting in a pub drinking Guinness when we were recording <i>PRATTS & PAIN</i>. We made this instrumental track in Palm Springs with Blake and Omer and were trying to think of vocals, and then Otis started singing the lyrics we did in the UK.”
Otis Pavlovic: “For some reason there’s a few songs, probably for both of us, that come on and remind us of a specific time or person. Can’t listen to it.”
RM: “You love the song but you can’t not think of that time or person.”

<b>“moody”</b>
RM: “It’s kind of about a toxic relationship, not a girl in particular. The guy, the person singing, is the moody one as well ’cause they’re constantly saying something negative. We wrote that with Amy Allen.”

<b>“good times”</b>
OP: “That was the first song we did with Josh from Jungle. It just came out of an old demo we had. When you first meet someone and do a session, you’ve got to just break the ice and do something, and it’s the first idea we worked on. It is uplifting but then in the chorus it says, ‘In good times I doubt myself in front of you.’”
RM: “It sounds fun but it’s negative.”

<b>“torn jeans”</b>
RM: “We did that with Chris Collins, and it was three guitar lines that I had and we just ended up weaving some vocals and stuff over it.”
OP: “Just admiring someone’s torn jeans.”
RM: “Just admiring the imperfections.”

<b>“come on home”</b>
RM: “It’s kind of about being far away from someone. Not really having control of where you are or where you could be. That was with Josh and Lydia from Jungle as well. Those harmonies are very Lydia-ish.”

<b>“who’s your boyfriend”</b>
RM: “The chords are really standard but we wanted to make them as least standard as possible, so added a capo to the guitar and tried to play them as weird as possible so it’s hard for people to figure out. Sonically, we were going for a mix between modern Cure and Joy Division. I don’t think we got anywhere close to either but that’s what we were going for.”

<b>“car”</b>
OP: “We did that one with Omer and Blake. We were talking about being with someone and trying to end [the relationship], but also not.”
RM: “Not wanting the good parts to end.”
OP: “[And] doing it in cars, which is something we’ve both experienced before, trying to break up in a car.”
RM: “It’s weird wanting to break up with someone in a car because it’s claustrophobic and you’re in this small room. Why didn’t you just do it outdoors?”

<b>“shut up”</b>
OP: “We did this one with Blake Slatkin. It was the last song we did on the album. It came as a Hail Mary. That one is saying you don’t want someone to go away. Just shut up, don’t go away.”
RM: “It’s also super dreamy, so it’s funny calling it ‘shut up.’”

<b>“dancing with myself”</b>
RM: “We went in wanting a disco Fleetwood Mac.”
OP: “We wrote it in sections and you can kind of tell.”
RM: “It’s [about] letting yourself be free and not worrying about what other people are thinking.”

<b>“say something”</b>
RM: “When we were planning on working with Blake and Omer, they asked what kind of song we want to make and as a joke, I said, ‘Take on Me’ by a-ha. That drumbeat is kind of a reference to ‘Take on Me.’”

<b>“she’s got a gun”</b>
OP: “We were doing it with Josh after working on ‘good times,’ just seeing what happens with it, throwing ideas down over the bassline. And I remember for the chorus we slowed the song down and sung stuff really slow to see what would happen, and the chorus melody came out of it. I don’t think we would have had that without doing that.”

<b>“more to lose”</b>
OP: “We’ve attempted to put melodies over that piano line since the start of the band.”
RM: “Five years! We did it with Julian Bunetta and Omer. We were in Julian’s place in Calabasas, having fun making cocktails, and I just started playing it on the piano. Every time I sit at a piano I play it and just pray someone comes up with something. And that’s what happened.”

<b>“jazz burger”</b>
RM: “Jazz burger is a real thing. It’s from Jitlada in LA, this Thai restaurant, and you can get different levels of spiciness. We only went with four out of 10. It was so spicy my chest became mutated. I had this lump on my chest that was like a rhinoceros horn. And then we got ice cream and went back into the studio and made that.”
OP: “Royel and I had just come from Sydney and said goodbye to some friends and some relationships.”
RM: “It’s probably the realest song [on the album] with the fakest name; the most unrelated name.”

In the six years since Jay Som’s critically acclaimed sophomore album <i>Anak Ko</i>, Melina Duterte has kept the kind of schedule that would strike fainter hearts with exhaustion. There’s been collaborations with Troye Sivan, beabadoobee and Lucy Dacus; production credits across scores of indie records; a whole album with Palehørse’s El Kempner as Bachelor; and extensive touring as part of boygenius’ live band. With all this palling around, it’s not surprising that her third album as Jay Som features some high-powered collaborations: Jimmy Eat World’s Jim Adkins joins in for the surging emo-pop of “Float”, while the chugging alt-rock anthem “Past Lives” features contributions from Paramore’s Hayley Williams.

But <i>Belong</i> also finds Duterte picking up exactly where she left off with Jay Som’s recorded catalogue, her trademark sense of intimacy and intricate arrangements left fully intact. From the tick-tock guitars of “Casino Stars” to the open-air wistfulness of “Appointments”, Duterte continues to develop her own brand of close-mic’d emotionalism even as her star has grown ever brighter across the 2020s.

“If you understood who I was back then, then you’d understand there was already no box for me,” Rochelle Jordan says of her musical journey in a behind-the-scenes mini-documentary for her album <i>Through the Wall</i>. Since her 2011 debut, the Los Angeles-based British Canadian artist has been carving out her own lane, a vintage yet futuristic fusion of ’90s R&B and pop, hip-hop, soul, and electronic music. Jordan’s fascination with the latter stems back to her childhood, when her older brother blasted jungle, drum ’n’ bass, UK garage, house—all shades of dance—in his bedroom, the rhythms seeping through her walls.

The album’s title nods to those formative experiences, but it also carries spiritual meaning. Among the obstacles Jordan faced in her career, one of the most challenging was internal: impostor syndrome. As she learned to dismantle those mental barriers and step fully into her power, <i>Through the Wall</i> found its roots. Produced mainly by longtime collaborator KLSH (and additionally Byron the Aquarius, Terry Hunter, and DāM FunK), <i>Through the Wall</i> bumps like a night in the club, with luxe house grooves that could take dance floors from midnight to sunrise.

That sparkling feeling of freedom lives in songs like “Sweet Sensation” and “Close 2 Me,” which radiate the exuberance of living in the moment, whether out with friends or wrapped up with a lover. Slipping into a sing-rap flow, Jordan makes room to flex on “Ladida” and “Around,” her earned braggadocio strutting like it’s dripped head-to-toe in the Versace she name-drops. Even after breakups (“Sum,” “Get It Off”), she’s still thriving, looking fly, and living in her exes’ heads rent-free.

<i>Through the Wall</i> also pauses to reflect. On “Eyes Shut,” Jordan observes the struggles of those around her, questioning connection in a digital world and seeking purpose. “Got dopamine and can’t feel my soul/I just feel like there’s something more,” she muses. But the title track (“TTW”) asserts her resilience: “When you really wanna push through, okay/Let them say what they want to/Bussin’ through the wall.”

The Sydney duo of Royel Maddell and Otis Pavlovic maintain a streamlined sense of propulsion on their third EP, keeping each of their giddy indie-pop anthems pruned to less than four minutes (and often less than three). Opener “Kool Aid” evokes the svelte earworms of Phoenix, while the jangle and perky backbeat of “I Wanna Dance With You” similarly recalls The Drums’ compact volleys of romantic directness. “Sofa King” takes the latter sentiment a step forward with the repeated declaration “You’re so fucking gorgeous.” The biggest surprise is hearing the band slow down dramatically on the closing “Farewell Warning,” a gauzy ballad that’s purely instrumental for the first half. It reveals a softer, more melancholy side of Royel Otis, but it’s just as appealing.

For ROSALÍA, her fourth full-length album <i>LUX</i> only has “little pieces” of her in the lyrics of its songs—and she prefers it that way. “I think the best fiction has this blurry line, the sweet spot between what’s personal and what’s universal, what’s detailed and what’s abstract, what’s implicit and what’s explicit,” the Spanish star tells Apple Music. “It’s both. Because I wrote it, there has to be some sort of truth for me in it. But at the same time, I think it’s much more about the other than about myself.”

The “other,” in this case, is a group of saints—Saint Rose of Lima, Anandamayi Ma, Hildegard von Bingen, Sufi mystic Rabia al-Adawiyya, and other martyrs across cultures, centuries, and continents—that ROSALÍA voraciously studied in the wake of her third album, 2022’s <i>MOTOMAMI</i>. Instead of immediately writing about the emotional turmoil she’d weathered in its aftermath—a period that included the end of her engagement to former collaborator Rauw Alejandro—she found the muses of her next project in theology books. After immersing herself in the stories of these women of faith, ROSALÍA blended their experiences, and their tongues, with hers. “Where did they come from? What was the language that would be spoken there?” she says. “There were a lot of women that were extremely interesting to me that were nuns, they were poets. And I was like, ‘Okay, I’m going to read what they actually wrote. I’m going to try to explain these stories.’”

Across <i>LUX</i>, ROSALÍA sings in multiple languages—her native Spanish and Catalan, but also Arabic, Japanese, French, Portuguese, Italian, Ukrainian, and German, among others—to invoke these saints while telling stories of flower-strewn funerals, doomed romance, unrequited love, and crises of faith in multiple forms. If 2018’s <i>EL MAL QUERER</i> introduced her singular fusion of flamenco and pop to the world, and <i>MOTOMAMI</i> brought reggaetón into the mix, <i>LUX</i> builds on that work from a high-drama, operatic foundation, one that pairs her lyrical intensity with vocal prowess and orchestral flourish. A cajón and handclaps blend seamlessly with urbano bass, Auto-Tune, and somber strings, often with many or all of these elements weaving throughout the same track (as they do on “De Madrugá”). Her voice soars over each flamenco run with ease (“La Rumba Del Perdón”), only to growl over sinister cello (“Porcelana”), breathlessly trip through a softly strummed waltz (“La Perla”), or reach the rafters of any grand opera house (the exquisite “Reliquia”; her version of an aria, “Mio Cristo Piange Diamante”; the severe and surreal “Berghain,” which features Björk and Yves Tumor).

ROSALÍA worked with the London Symphony Orchestra to give <i>LUX</i> the symphonic heft it deserves, and at times, the gravity of the undertaking felt insurmountable. “I definitely had chills so many times while recording vocals,” she says. “I don’t think I ever cried so much making an album. I don’t think I’ve ever cried so much recording vocals. I think that I didn’t maybe want to go through this before. I was like, ‘I’m not ready.’ I know I had to do an album like this, but I wasn’t ready.”

Whether or not she realized it at the time, she was, indeed, ready for <i>LUX</i> and all it entails. It’s the destination she’s been writing towards, uninhibited by instrumentation, devastation, or language. “<i>MOTOMAMI</i> was minimalist,” she says. “This is maximalism.”

Ten years later, the Houston band re-records their beguiling debut.