Catholics and Protestants find E-fuelled common ground at a hallowed Portrush club in Ciarán McMenamin’s adaptation of his own 2018 novel

Derry Girls meets Human Traffic in this spirited, larky and at times poignant period piece about raving and drug dealing scamps in Northern Ireland in the 1990s. It doesn’t go quite so far as to suggest that the social revolution that MDMA engendered in youth culture and spread to the rest of the UK in that decade played a causal role in the Northern Irish peace process – the way some people suggest ecstasy put a stop to football hooliganism, for example. But it does note the coincidence of the timing.

The centrepiece of the film is a club night and beachside afterparty at which Carl Cox DJs and “Catholics and Protestants come together and dance, all juiced up on vitamin E” – on the same day in August 1994 that the IRA announces an end to hostilities. At the afterparty, our heroes from the Catholic side of Enniskillen – “Skintown” to the locals – get loved-up and giggly with a British squaddie, and all their troubles, ie the Troubles, seem to melt away. “I love Brits,” one says with a spliff in his mouth. “I love the IRA. I love the RUC … If you love them, you defuse them, they have no reason to fight you.”

The late producer’s gift for bringing in elements from dance music’s cutting edge drew all manner of music royalty – and he often made them sound better than ever before

• William Orbit, pop producer for Madonna, All Saints and more, dies aged 69

William Orbit’s first band were a curious business. Torch Song had one foot in the pop mainstream – their biggest success came about when one of their tracks was featured on the soundtrack of the Tom Hanks-starring sex comedy Bachelor Party – and one in the left field: they recorded at London’s anarchist hub Centro Iberico, famed for staging gigs by Crass and Throbbing Gristle; they covered the Velvet Underground’s Venus in Furs. Mothdoom Ecstasy is very much of its time – stuttering samples, booming drums – but in its hazy synth textures and ethereal female vocals, you can definitely hear intimations of Orbit’s future approach.

​She faced racist bullying as a child – then pigeonholing as an artist. Now following up a hit debut album championed by the A-list, the Croydon singer-songwriter says she finally understands who she really is

In October 2017, Rachel Chinouriri had her first panic attack. It couldn’t have come at a worse time. She’d just landed her first major gig as a professional musician, supporting Celeste at the London members’ club Laylow. Out of nowhere, she began to spiral. “I don’t know what happened,” she says. “I just started having a mental breakdown.” Her manager told her to go home, try again next time. But that only made things worse. “I started feeling like I was wasting everyone’s time,” she says. “I started feeling ashamed.” It would be better, she decided, to go on stage and sing, “half crying”.

Tears were already a familiar response to Chinouriri’s performance anxiety: the first time she sang in front of her classmates at the Brit school – the performing arts institution that trained Adele, Amy Winehouse and more – she burst into sobs afterwards. A rather inconvenient habit for an aspiring pop star, but at least she front-loaded the humiliation at the start of her career. “That was a big milestone for me,” she says of the Celeste show. “The fact that I could stand up there completely embarrassed, with people looking at me like, ‘Don’t really know what’s up with this girl’, but I still got through it and everything was fine.” The experience taught her that the catastrophic scenarios in her head rarely come to pass. “I’d given myself this pressure of, ‘This is the music industry. If they think I’m rubbish, I’m never gonna perform again.’” Chinouriri rolls her eyes at herself.

The trip-hop star doesn’t believe in getting jiggy to songs and would choose Cyndi Lauper at karaoke. But which classic reminds him of his mum?

The first song I fell in love with
I was going out with this Jamaican girl when we were about 15, and would listen to Night Nurse by Gregory Isaacs all the time. We had a daughter together when we were 17 – she’s 35 now and works as a social worker in Bristol – so that song has always stayed with me.

The song that makes me cry
Astral Weeks by Van Morrison, because it reminds me of my mum and growing up in Bristol. He sings about his mum dressing him and showing him pictures, and my mum was exactly like that. In every childhood photo I’m in a shirt and tie and looking proper.

(Island)
On the Bradford-born producer’s self-assured second album, drum’n’bass rhythms power up angsty odes with shades of Arctic Monkeys, Kate Nash and myriad genres

Like another of the year’s biggest pop records, Olivia Rodrigo’s You Seem Pretty Sad for a Girl So in Love, the second full-length from the self-proclaimed “emotional junglist” Nia Archives is an album of two halves. The first documents its protagonist falling in love at breakneck speed; the second, the whiplash of sudden heartbreak. Unlike Rodrigo, Archives didn’t grow up starring on Disney Channel, a predestined route to success, but in Bradford, cutting her teeth on early 00s pirate radio, dancehall and landfill indie.

More than most major artists, Archives has carved out her own path. After leaving home at just 16 to move into a youth hostel in Manchester, she started teaching herself to make beats; eventually, she uprooted to Hackney and studied music production, and used her student loan to fund the promotion of her self-released debut single. Since then, she’s made history as the first electronic/dance act to win a Mobo in decades (after publicly campaigning for the inclusion of dance music at the awards in 2022). With her 2024 debut album Silence Is Loud, she became the first junglist to be nominated for three Brit awards, and the first to be nominated for the Mercury prize since 1997 – before she was born.

The annual rundown of Guardian writers picking their most played tracks of the season goes from club-ready pop to sunny tech house

• Check out a Spotify playlist of the choices

Kim Petras’ greatest song to date is also the best outsider country song in recent memory: if Ethel Cain and Lana Del Rey could ever put the beef behind them and duet, the dusty gutter romance of Jeep is exactly how you’d want it to sound. The song creates a flyover state love story in a strangely effective union of hyperpop and Americana, creating a windswept fantasy of “doing some middle America shit” with your man: Four Loko-fueled hookups, gas station canoodling and screaming along to rage music beneath the stars. The truly audacious thing is the bridge, a whispered and impressionistic slur that feels like Petras is eight drinks deep, doing donuts in her car until everything blurs. It’s total make-believe, but Petras is so good at making you feel her longing that it gets me choked up. When she recently came out at a Charli xcx show to perform Jeep unannounced, it already felt like an anthem. Owen Myers

After the Guardian’s music critics chose their best of the half-year, we asked you for your picks – from Brian Jackson and Arlo Parks to Maya Hawke, Flea and more

• The best albums of 2026 so far
• ‘I saw it seven times in the cinema’: readers’ favourite films of 2026 so far

The album is a fun, punchy dance record that will definitely be the soundtrack of my summer. It’s propulsive, full of queer joy, cheeky lyricism, and relatable insecurities as they ruminate on “being past their prime” as pop stars in their early 30s. It will undoubtedly be an amazing live show and is a testament to the importance of artists taking breaks, going out and living and resting before coming back with new things to say and experiences to detail. Jane Tytla, New England, US

He beat brain cancer. Now your favourite DJ’s favourite DJ is on a UK tour, armed with experimental techno, Beastie Boys and Taylor Swift

Ten years ago this month, Japanese DJ Yousuke Yukimatsu had an epileptic seizure. When he didn’t show up for a festival booking, organisers got in touch with his friends in Osaka, who found him collapsed at home. He was taken to hospital where doctors diagnosed a brain tumour. “If no one had contacted me, I might have died,” he posted on a crowdfunding platform several months later.

In the black-and-white photograph accompanying the crowdfunder to support his work, Yukimatsu leans his head towards the camera, his buzz cut growing out around a thick ragged scar that curves from his left ear to the top of his hairline: he’d been through two craniotomies, plus extensive chemo and radiation therapy. The illness also left him with a realisation that he needed to make DJing his full-time job; to dedicate himself to his craft and make the world a better place. “If we can keep living [for] tomorrow, if I can encourage people … that’s what I’m always trying to do,” he says now. “The world is getting much worse than the time when techno was born [in the mid 1980s]. Weapons are being developed; it’s getting easier to commit a massacre. In Japan, if a musician speaks about politics, they can be hugely criticised. But I think it’s really important to speak up.”

Speaking at a Guardian Live event at Love Supreme festival, the band tell us about lessons with Tony Allen, mayhem in Lagos and why musicians should be ‘pillars of the community’

At Sussex’s Love Supreme festival last weekend, Femi Koleoso and James Mollison of British jazz figureheads Ezra Collective joined me for a wide-ranging conversation on their artistry, the power of the dancefloor and hopes for the future of British music.

With Koleoso noting that “dancefloors are dancefloors, whether it’s people with instruments or people with turntables, there’s a synergy between all those spaces”, the pair reminisced about some of their own favourite dancefloor memories. Mollison mentioned east London’s now-shuttered Passing Clouds, while Koleoso remembered north London’s University of Dub night at the Scala, as well as Sunday sessions at the Haggerston pub, where a jazz jam would take place at the same time as a disco night: “I was so conflicted on which room to go to!”

As she tours the UK, we pick the best of an artist who defined the ‘sad banger’ – but also radiates joy and strength from her perfect pop songs

Robyn has written and recorded more striking and melodically rich songs than this, but the opening track of Body Talk Part 1 might be this famously unbiddable pop star’s mission statement: an appealingly minimal bit of house music that dismisses a list of eye-rolling complaints aimed at everything from the music industry to uncomfortable shoes by repeating the title over and over again.

(Warner)
After years spent chasing trends like trap and Latin pop, Madonna settles back​ nicely into​ old-school dance music to tell vivid vignettes of life in 80s New York

‘Ask yourself this – what are you doing it for? / Is it for you? Is it for them?” ponders Madonna during Bring Your Love, a collaboration with Sabrina Carpenter from Confessions II. It’s a question you could ask of her decision to release a follow-up to 2005’s Confessions on a Dance Floor 21 years on.

The official line is, of course, that it’s for her. Confessions II was inspired by Madonna’s 2023 Celebration tour, a rampage through her back catalogue – with staging that recreated the videos for old hits including Don’t Tell Me and Human Nature – that apparently set the singer thinking about her past. Certainly, Confessions II is rich with references to Madonna’s history, and not only the album from which it borrows its title and its initial structure, a sequence of house-influenced tracks that segue into each other like a DJ mix. There’s also the trip-hop-inspired Madonna of Bedtime Stories (the album concludes with a suite of slower, more introspective material); the club-hopping, fame-hungry Madonna of her 1982 debut single Everybody, who keeps cropping up in the lyrics; and the maternal, spiritually inclined Madonna of Ray of Light. The Test, a duet with her daughter Lourdes, is an older, wiser sequel to that album’s lullaby-like Little Star, alluded to in its opening lines.

As he prepares to play the UK, the 25-Grammy-winning musician (and Harvard law graduate) looks back on his astonishing journey from the barrios of Panama City to global stardom

“Well, I’ve been around,” says Rubén Blades, accurately. One of the most influential Latin musicians of the past half-century, the Panamanian singer-songwriter, 77, has been a defining force in salsa, collecting 25 Grammy awards – 13 Latin, 12 mainstream – and getting shout-outs from a new generation including Rosalía and Bad Bunny.

Blades has moved between music, law, politics and film as if they were all part of the same conversation. He has a Harvard law degree, made a presidential bid in Panama – he was also the country’s minister of tourism from 2004 to 2009 – and has had film roles alongside Jack Nicholson, Brad Pitt and Denzel Washington, all of which he sorted out on his own. “A manager would go crazy,” he laughs, his grey eyes crinkling on a video call from his home in New York City, ahead of a gig he’s playing in London.

(Flee)
A treasure trove of field recordings are reshaped into pulsating floor-fillers and sparse baile funk by a range of producers

The Brazilian religious and musical tradition of candomblé is a rhythmic barrage. Originating in the 19th century among enslaved west Africans, candomblé manifested in music as a ritual practice of drumming circles, where polyrhythms were hammered out to induce possession by spirits. Athens-based archival label Flee presents a treasure trove of this ceremonial music from a community in Salvador in the late 1980s, alongside a series of ingenious remixes made by contemporary artists.

Side one of the album hosts the field recordings. Hazy, unbalanced and full of tape hiss, the 10 ritual compositions pull listeners into the frenetic environment in which they were recorded. It is as if we are sitting next to the tape recorder witnessing the overlapping, joyous voices glimpsed in the distance on Ossaim or the singular male voice that wails movingly before disappearing on Xangô. The experience can feel frustratingly fragmented, but if melody is fleeting, the drumming is not. Clattering, clave-style hits produce infectious movement on Ogum, while bells and a mid-tempo swing create the feel of undulating waves on Entrada dos Orixás.

Begun in 1982, the festival is now a magnet for Black Britons, who spill across Paris enjoying genres from amapiano to zouk. But can it resist commercialisation – and is it getting too big?

At 4.45pm in Châtelet, central Paris, a man leans out of his third-floor balcony, blasting EDM from his speakers. A makeshift cardboard sign is strapped to his decks, detailing his Instagram account in capital letters. On both sides of him, his friends hype him up from opened windows, and on the ground a crowd has started to gather. Completely spontaneous, slightly ridiculous and entirely alive, this is typical of Fête de la Musique.

Born in 1982 as a free, France-wide, government-sanctioned initiative to encourage citizens to pick up instruments and play for their neighbours, the Fête has long since outgrown its origins. Word of mouth, TikTok and the growing allure of French language music have propelled it to heights no arts ministry could have planned for, and Black Francophone culture has become the heartbeat of the weekend. Bouyon, shatta, zouk, French Afrobeats, trap, hip-hop and R&B are the sounds that have travelled farthest, enticing fresh crowds of Brits, predominantly Black, to Paris every June.

The Brazilian musician, who collaborates with Indigenous artists and puts millions into philanthropy, explains his mission – and defends his jetsetting

When Alok, the most successful Brazilian DJ of his generation, was brainstorming the concept for his new live show, he considered calling it Rave New World. “But when I asked a gen Z kid, the daughter of my creative director, she made me realise how pretentious my idea was,” he says. “The grownups trying to find an easy way out for all of our problems.” Instead, “I started figuring out that it’s not about a new world, it’s about this world. We need to ‘Rave the World’.”

That new title might still seem trite to some, or hypocritical, coming from someone at the heart of a dance music industry with a heavy carbon footprint from constant flying: when I meet Alok, he’s about to board another plane at a private airport outside São Paulo. But dance music has often had a utopian bent to it, and Alok – who champions Indigenous Brazilians in his work and has partnered with the UN on climate initiatives – is certainly making efforts to better the world.

Hearing their in-your-face banger was a turning point for me – and I’ve never looked back

At the end of 2011, party season was under way but I was in no mood for festivities. Two years into fertility treatment, my body was pumped full of synthetic hormones and felt like a pin cushion, while my head was filled with both the fragile hope of having a baby, and the exhaustion of failed clinical attempts to do so.

I was in my late 20s. I met my husband when I was 22; we got married when I was 25. “I want to have kids young,” I’d told him. It was a feeling I’d harboured since my teenage years. But I’d also had the nagging sense that it might not come easily to me. As it turned out, my intuition was right. Approaching 28, I was a regular on the infertility merry-go-round.

(Pussy Riot)
On a disappointing record helmed by co-founder Nadya Tolokonnikova, corny guitars and generically moody synths undermine the activist group’s political acuity

Great music rarely makes for great activism, and the reverse is true on Pussy Riot’s official debut album. A scattergun mix of icy electronics, pumping EDM and whispered rap, CYKA (“bitch” in Russian) follows a decade of musical protest performances from the activist collective. Made by co-founder Nadya Tolokonnikova (she and Maria Alyokhina were imprisoned in separate penal colonies between 2012 and 2013), CYKA’s powerful point of view is diluted by weak delivery.

Lead single Candy Dopamine, with metal band Avenged Sevenfold, disguises its critique of big pharma with cutesy lyrics, corny electric guitar and inconsequential key changes. Generically moody synths and cliched siren sounds run through much of the record, as does blunt-force EDM: Nothing to Lose is both a cluttered trance track, and about being hated by Russia’s “liberal intelligentsia” for supporting Ukraine.

What will life be like in 2034? Will kids surf in quarries – or live in the woods since they think Earth is hollow? We meet the film-maker behind Gener8ion, whose dark predictions have a habit of going viral

One of the standout videos of Visions of 2034, a new audio-visual exhibition from film-maker Romain Gavras and musician Benoit Heitz (AKA Surkin), is a blackly comic twist on conspiracy theory culture. In God Hates Space, some young people have defected to the woods somewhere in middle America due to their fringe beliefs, chiefly the idea that the Earth is actually hollow: trenchant stuff in an age when twentysomethings are becoming off-grid libertarian homesteaders, and popular influencers claim that Kendrick Lamar sent “demons through the TV screen” during his Super Bowl half-time performance.

But here’s the rub: God Hates Space, with its creepy-crazy images of fascism and crackpot conspiracy, was made more than six years ago in Ukraine, before the war. Its aesthetic – which Surkin describes as a combination of “confederate” and “Monster energy drink” – is prescient, not referential. “We shoot these videos and sometimes it takes a while for them to get released,” Surkin says. “The future is catching up with us. It gets dumber way quicker than before!”

In an extract from Aftershock, a definitive new history of dubstep, DMZ’s Mala, Coki and Loefah recall the bass drops and pacifist mentality that went into their creation

By the turn of the millennium, British electronic music had some growing pains. The jungle and drum’n’bass scenes that energised the 1990s were running out of creative gas, and garage had shifted from the moody underground into champagne flash and chart hits. Across pockets of London, Croydon and Essex, a tiny group of artists coalesced around a new idea. After 15 years of high-octane beats, they decided to strip the breakbeats, hard partying and cliquishness out of dance music, focusing instead on soundsystem fundamentals: bass, space and togetherness. From there, dubstep was born.

As we approach the 25-year anniversary of dubstep’s beginnings, I’ve documented the genre in my book, Aftershock: The Seismic Impact of Dubstep: an oral history of its origin story told through 28 artists and key figures. Some of the most influential are part of DMZ, a record label and party series led by south London DJ-producers Mala, Coki and Loefah, and MC Sgt Pokes. With its anti-VIP ethos, DMZ became one of dubstep’s driving forces, and earlier this year, Mala and Coki performed at Fred Again’s residency at London’s Alexandra Palace: their influence is shifting to a new generation of fans.

He moved from Nigeria to middle England and was swept up into the rave scene – then battled through incarceration and near-death illness. After making 500 tracks while living on porridge and lettuce, he explains how he kept going

Ibrahim Alfa Jr had been feeling unwell for a while – he’d been coughing up blood – but he says he only realised how ill he was when the facial recognition on his phone stopped working, because it could no longer recognise his face. When he went to visit his sister in 2022, she was so shocked by his appearance, she took him straight to A&E. He was suffering from anaphylaxis, a severe and potentially fatal allergic reaction: moreover, he had a pulmonary embolism that was causing his lung to fill up with blood. “I thought: oh my God, that’s literally what killed Andy Weatherall,” he says today. Like Weatherall once was, Alfa Jr is a veteran star of British rave culture. “So, like, wow.”

The embolism treated, he was sent home, but still wasn’t feeling right. The weekend after, a second pulmonary embolism was found on his other lung. The weekend after that, he had a heart attack. Then he had a second heart attack. Returning home, he discovered he’d become “allergic to everything. Even water was swelling my face,” he says. “You just don’t know what you can eat, so I just lived on porridge and lettuce leaves for three months, and didn’t see anybody. I just locked myself in a room, and a friend would bring me porridge and lettuce leaves. I only went out to go to the doctors. Any type of social life, of seeing other humans just disappeared. It was that visceral.”