DESTROYER, DAN'S BOOGIE

Thirty years into Destroyer, Dan Bejar is still writing, still singing, still figuring it out. There’s a kind of bemused clarity in how he talks about it now. “Usually people go up or go away,” he says. “It’s strange to be still in the trenches, but everyone you know is gone.” That sense of being somewhere in the middle, not a star, not a struggler, just enduring, runs through his fourteenth album. 

Bejar doesn’t glamorize his longevity. In a recent interview, he was frank about the industry’s obsession with youth and candid about the toll of continuing to operate in a space that often seems to have moved on. But he’s still drawn to the work itself, albeit slower now, and maybe a little less certain. “How I do it is so unconscious. I don’t know what I’m doing. Like, I really don’t.” 

That looseness has started to seep into the music in new ways. Where past Destroyer records often carried a stylized aloofness, Dan’s Boogie opens space for humor and unpredictability. He’d never have felt comfortable with that in the past, but now he embraces it, and it shows up in the album’s more madcap moments. 

“As you age, I guess you stop censoring yourself.” 

There’s a spontaneity to songs like “Hydroplaning Off the Edge of the World,” which Bejar essentially improvised in the studio, grabbing surreal lines from the air without knowing what might come next. Still, even amid the chaos, there’s a core to hold onto: that unmistakable voice. A voice Bejar once loathed, but now recognizes as foundational to who he is. “I probably identify myself as a singer more than anything else in the world,” he says. 

If Dan’s Boogie proves anything, it’s that Bejar is still deeply in it—not reinventing himself, but relaxing into the strange, singular role he’s carved out over decades. It’s just the right place and space to experience Bejar. He really is one of a kind and Dan’s Boogie is yet another fantastic album in a storied career.

MDOU MOCTAR, TEARS OF INJUSTICE

Guitarist and singer Mdou Moctar’s musical life took root in Abalak, a small town in central Niger, where he built his first guitar from bicycle cables and scrap wood. What started as solitary experimentation soon turned into a regional phenomenon with his early recordings being circulated across West Africa through Bluetooth swaps and SIM card trades, long before they ever reached a formal release. Over time, that homespun spirit grew louder, sharper, more defiant. By the time Ilana: The Creator dropped in 2019,Moctar’s project had expanded into a full-fledged band, blending searing electric guitar with calls for justice, liberation, and cultural pride. Though still rooted in Agadez, the group’s reach had grown global.

Their new album, Tears of Injustice catches the band in a moment of dislocation. Stranded in the U.S. after a military coup back home, they recorded the album in Brooklyn, untethered from the familiar but tethered still to a collective grief. These are acoustic reworkings of songs from 2024’s Funeral for Justice, but they don’t feel like translations—they feel like returns. Stripped of distortion, the songs find power in quiet resolve: hand drums pulse like slowed heartbeats, Moctar’s guitar playing winds and loops with the precision of ritual, and the vocals carry the ache of distance. There’s clarity here, not just in sound but in intent—a reclamation of space, memory, and identity. It’s an album made in exile, but tied to a place and people with unmistakable force.

GREENTEA PENG, TELL DEM IT'S SUNNY

Greentea Peng is the kind of artist that grabs my attention. Self-describing as a psychedelic R&B artist, her genre-fluid experimentation with neo-soul and alternative R&B and fusion of spiritual consciousness and street realism makes her stand apart from easy categorization. 

Tell Dem It’s Sunny, her third studio album, Peng, whose real name is Aria Wells, turns inward. Where 2021’s Man Made responded to lockdown with outward protest, this record reflects on motherhood, mental health, and a growing skepticism toward mainstream ideas of healing. Despite its title, the album leans grey in both tone and sound. The phrase “Tell Dem It’s Sunny” began as irony but became a reminder of inner light. Moving away from the flower-child image often attached to her, Peng focuses on what she calls “the politics of the personal”—emotional unrest, identity, and staying grounded in a chaotic world. 

Musically, the album follows Peng’s intuitive process. Dub, soul, and psych elements drift through the tracks, with songs like “TARDIS” emerging through what she describes as channelling. The sound is loose and unpolished, with a great groove that’s more concerned with feeling than perfection. 

Reflection on parenthood, inner conflict, and staying present in a restless world, Tell Dem It’s Sunny is full of hope. For Peng, hope isn’t a pose—it’s something practiced. And she practices it here with feeling and great strength.

CHARLEY CROCKETT, LONESOME DRIFTER

It’s hard to keep up with Charley Crockett. He’s a man constantly on the move, recording and touring with the kind of urgency that’s become a signature. That includes rejecting the traditional 18- to 24-month album cycle and instead releasing new music roughly every six months for nearly a decade.

Now, the Texas-born troubadour, long known for his fiercely independent approach, is entering a new chapter with the release of his 15th album, Lonesome Drifter. After years of self-releasing music through his own label, Crockett has signed with Universal Music Group’s Island Records, marking his first major label deal. In a message to fans, he wrote, “Some say time is money. I say time is a train, and I'm running alongside of it on the only highway.” It’s a poetic line that perfectly captures his forward motion and refusal to be fenced in.

Despite the shift to a major label, Crockett secured full creative control and ownership in the deal, ensuring the freedom he’s always prized remains intact. And like his previous recordings, he worked with a sense of urgency and momentum with The Lonesome Drifter, recording it in just 10 days in Los Angeles with producer Shooter Jennings.

Musically, Lonesome Drifter is classic Crockett: storytelling-rich, rooted in country, folk, and blues, and deeply reflective of everyday struggles. “Game I Can’t Win,” inspired by Woody Guthrie, critiques systemic inequity, while “Easy Money,” born from a poem he wrote while watching Midnight Cowboy, explores illusions of fast wealth. The album closes with a bold take on George Strait’s “Amarillo By Morning”—a song Crockett initially hesitated to touch, but ultimately embraced for its honesty and grit. “I’m not George Strait,” he said. “I’m not a rodeo guy. But ‘I’m not rich, but Lord, I’m free’—that’s how I live my life.”

Crockett’s story, from busking on the streets of New Orleans, California, and Paris to handing out homemade CDs, has always been rooted in hustle, instinct, and staying true to his vision. With Lonesome Drifter, he’s not slowing down. In fact, it’s just the beginning of a planned trilogy. The second installment is already complete, and the third is underway.

Charley Crockett may be running alongside time like it’s a train on the only highway, but make no mistake, he’s the one laying down the tracks.

STEVEN WILSON, THE OVERVIEW

To Steven Wilson, 2001: A Space Odyssey is the defining film about space—not as a conquered frontier or a backdrop for adventure, as many movies depict, but as a vast, indifferent expanse of terrifying scale and emptiness where humanity is insignificant. It’s this understanding of space’s true nature that served as the genesis of his new album, The Overview, in which he seeks to capture that of overwhelming perspective.

Inspired by the "overview effect"—the cognitive shift astronauts experience when seeing Earth from space—The Overview mirrors that moment of existential realization. The album consists of two extended compositions: Objects Outlive Us (23 minutes) and The Overview (18 minutes), designed as immersive sonic journeys that take listeners beyond our world. Its structure follows a trajectory from our solar system into deep space, passing celestial landmarks before plunging into the Eridanus Supervoid—a cosmic void spanning 1.8 billion light-years.

Though the album wrestles with existential themes, Wilson does not intend for it to be bleak. Instead, he embraces the idea that humanity’s fleeting existence is something beautiful—a rare and random occurrence in an unfathomably large universe.

Wilson has long been closely associated with progressive rock and often hailed as its torchbearer for decades. Yet he has consistently resisted strict genre classifications. On The Overview, however, he fully embraces progressive rock, citing its grand scale and conceptual ambition as a natural fit for the album’s themes. Still, he avoids predictable prog tropes, favoring dynamic arrangements, melodic motifs, and unexpected production choices.

Lyrically, the album juxtaposes the mundane details of everyday human life with the incomprehensible forces of the cosmos—a contrast he developed with Andy Partridge (XTC), whose observational storytelling helps bridge the two perspectives.

I've always been an enthusiast of long-form musical structures, and this approach naturally fits the album’s themes, reinforcing its cinematic scope. While echoes of Pink Floyd may surface in The Overview, Wilson acknowledges that certain elements might also remind listeners of Blade Runner, a film and soundtrack deeply embedded in his creative DNA. However, he considers his primary influence to be his own evolving body of work, constantly pushing himself to explore new creative terrain without repeating the past.

It’s Wilson’s relentless pursuit of new creative spaces that I admire most about him as an artist. With each new album, he carves out a unique musical world, asking listeners to suspend disbelief—along with their expectations—and embark on a journey with him. With The Overview, that journey becomes a 42-minute celestial odyssey that is immersive, arresting, and a visionary achievement.

THE LATHUMS, MATTER DOES NOT DEFINE

Self-described as "four young whippersnappers" from the town of Wigan, Greater Manchester, England, The Lathums are out to prove that melodic "jangle pop" guitar music lives on. And they do so in great fashion on their third album in four years, Matter Does Not Define.

Since forming in 2018, the band has cultivated a distinctive sound shaped by a diverse array of musical influences. The Smiths, The Housemartins, Arctic Monkeys, and The Beatles have all found their way into The Lathums' unique blend of British rock.

While their inspirations remain clear, The Lathums never sound like imitators. Instead, they channel the spirit of classic British indie rock through a lens that’s their own. Alex Moore’s vocals carry a heartfelt sincerity, whether soaring over shimmering guitars or settling into quieter, contemplative moments. Scott Concepcion’s guitar work, often drawing comparisons to Johnny Marr, provides the band with its bright, intricate melodies, while the rhythm section of Ryan Durrans and Matty Murphy keeps the songs grounded with a tight, dynamic energy.

On Matter Does Not Define, The Lathums continue to build on their signature blend of jangly, melodic guitar work and earnest lyricism, delivering a record that feels both nostalgic and fresh. From the anthemic swell of No Direction to the introspective musings of Reflections of Lessons Left, the album showcases a band growing in both confidence and musical depth.

For me, Matter Does Not Define is The Lathums' best album to date. With each release, they refine their craft, and here, their songwriting is sharper and their arrangements more ambitious. The result is an album that feels like a natural evolution—one that reaffirms their place in the modern indie landscape while paying homage to the timeless sound they so clearly love.