With a sound inspired by the San Francisco tech boom, the hyperpop musician is entering the big leagues, and has a slot on Charli xcx’s tour. First she needs to get over her own shyness – not to mention a fear of love songs

The life of a rising pop star: One day, you’re performing your own song with Charli xcx, her dancers emulating your choreography, an arena’s worth of fans screaming along. The next, you’re on a surgery table, with a healthcare professional yanking four superfluous teeth out of your mouth. Even pop stars need emergency dental work sometimes.

It’s all par for the course for April Grey, the San Francisco-born, Chicago-based musician who records as Underscores. Her 2026 has been, plainly, wild: her third album, U, released in March, was met with acclaim and attracted a small army of new fans. Many of the shows on her tour in support of U, earlier this year, were upgraded due to demand, and one expects the bump she’ll get from her current run supporting Charli xcx’s Music, Fashion, Film tour will push her into even bigger rooms. It’s a blow-up befitting the level of ambition Grey put into U, which is a taut, compulsively listenable pop record that sounds like a mid-2000s Now That’s What I Call Music! compilation as recreated by Aphex Twin. “As I was making it, it felt like a very big swing for the fences,” she says. “I wanted it to be big.”

(WPDMT)
Bringing back the hyperliterate sound design of their acclaimed 2025 debut, the London duo explore childhood with whimsical humour and terrific musicality

One of last year’s surprise highlights was The Velvet Underground & Rowan, the debut album by the wacky, hyperliterate London duo Worldpeace DMT. That irreverent album title summed up their approach to their references: Leo Fincham and Rowan Miles – also of the Femcels – buttressed nods to Fleetwood Mac and the Beach Boys with a palette straight out of NME circa 2011. If it isn’t a coup to make the sound of Grouplove and Darwin Deez sound cool and urbane in 2025, I don’t know what is.

This year, Worldpeace DMT have changed tack, perhaps in response to suggestions that they’re at the forefront of an emergent genre called “laptop twee”. The duo’s August mixtape Flowers Powers mostly eschewed plunderphonics and heavy sampling in favour of live instrumentation that ran the gamut from Spiritualized to outlaw country; Stick Around for Tea, their second album, brings back a shade of the goofy, Sung Tongs-esque sound design that made their debut such a joy, while pulling Fincham and Miles’ songwriting to the fore.

Stick Around for Tea seems, loosely, to be a concept album about childhood. The inherent whimsy of the Worldpeace DMT project suits these songs, which wring dry humour from lyrics about spiders, tigers and anthropomorphised guitars. Fincham and Miles sing in a self-consciously childish way that belies their taut musicality: a lush, almost Van Dyke Parks jauntiness on Munich Gyaru, for example, or a knack for bulletproof pop structure on the title track. The result is the kind of devastatingly contemporary record that even arch classicists couldn’t possibly turn up their noses at.

(Transgressive)
The Maryland singer-songwriter’s third album has an impressive sense of scale compared to last year’s breakout Burnover, but is less immediately appealing

Greg Freeman’s third album All Set the Bone feels, at its best and most nervy, like an off-brand pressure cooker: too hot, bursting at its seams, rattling with kinetic energy. The Maryland-born singer-songwriter has a voice that often sounds like it’s straining at its limits, and although he is ostensibly part of a growing indierock revival that’s been taking hold over the past few years – a cosy perennial – there’s nothing particularly comfortable about the songs on this double album. On Marooned, frantic stabs of guitar and drums create queasy unease; opener Cahokia muddles up the catharsis of a great American road song, descending into proggy bedlam. And his lyrics most often drum up anxieties big and small: “Who do you look to when you’re all on your own?” he asks on Culture. “When all your heroes lost their microphones?”

Freeman broke out with last year’s Burnover, a set of taut story-songs that were at turns witty, delirious and devastating. Freeman’s secret was in his ability to weld that literary streak to loud, bolshy, riff-heavy music that wouldn’t sound out of place on mainstream rock radio. All Set the Bone is several orders more ambitious in its scale, and its songwriting, which is more imagistic and diffuse. The result is an impressive record but one that’s less immediately appealing. Freeman wrote it while travelling through the US and reckoning with “a lot of change in my personal sense of … everything”, and you can hear that searching quality in the final product. All Set the Bone contains fewer fireworks than Burnover, but Freeman still has plenty of spark.

(Def Jam)
After five EPs in in seven years, the Dallas native with the big voice pours everything into this bonkers cauldron of maximalist R&B and hyperactive pop

There is so, so much happening on Jae Stephens’ debut album Audacity. Thankfully, it seems like mess is her medium. Although the 29-year-old Dallas native is often sold as a big voice – and she undoubtedly does have a big voice – her debut album has more in common with hyperactive, magnetic records such as PinkPantheress’s Fancy That or Salute’s True Magic: recent albums whose need for speed and sweetly toned maximalism fostered an irrepressible sense of personality.

Stephens is an apt case study of a career in the contemporary pop industry: she started writing, producing and performing alone in her room, and dropped a whopping five EPs in the seven years before Audacity’s release. She has written with a host of pop also-rans and, inexplicably, hosts a music interview podcast. But listening to Audacity forces me into that age-old cliche: why isn’t this artist a bigger star?

Rick Rubin’s eight-part interview series with the MC is irritatingly unstructured, has portions that feel like filler and would hugely benefit from a different medium – which encourages use of the pause button

Jay-Z in 8 does what it says on the can: the docuseries, released by Mubi, finds influential, mercurial superproducer Rick Rubin interviewing rap titan Jay-Z over the course of eight meandering, freeform episodes. Directed by Rubin himself and shot in black and white, the series is ostensibly designed to give viewers a look inside the brain of a godlike musical figure as he celebrates 30 years in music.

As it makes eminently clear, this is a deeply reflective time for Jay-Z: in any given episode, he is liable to make reference to old collaborators such as Biggie and Jaz-O, reminisce on his upbringing in the Marcy Projects (the public housing units in Brooklyn where he grew up), and speak with astonishment about his rapid rise from crack dealer to generational rapper, often swinging between anecdotes with free-associative ease.

Omar and Jamal Ikram, 21-year-old brothers, are making lo-fi glitchy dance-pop with the melodic sensibilities of Bollywood music

From Aldershot, Hampshire
Recommended if you like 2hollis, the Hellp, Jai Paul
Up next New single Wish U out now

You, like me, may be growing tired of the 2020s’ so-called “indie sleaze” revival, which has so far yielded a few good parties and not that much good music. But the music of the Twins – Aldershot-born brothers Omar and Jamal Ikram – is made of sturdier stuff. The 21-year-olds are progenitors of a sound they call “Bollywood electronic” – a strain of loud, lo-fi, ultra-glitchy dance-pop that sounds like 2hollis if his songs were heavy with screwy samples of south Asian pop. Their debut album, last year’s Turmeric, captures the still-potent appeal of Jai Paul’s classic Str8 Outta Mumbai – which fused the lackadaisical sheen of 2010s electronic pop with the shining rhythmic and melodic sensibilities of Bollywood music – and, as is de rigueur for the contemporary era, makes it bolshie and frenetic, taking in the euphoric aggression of early Skrillex and unnerving noise of Aphex Twin.

Turmeric was a minor hit, thanks in part to Fuckersby, a collaboration with on-the-rise British rapper Fakemink, as well as the Twins’ monthly NTS show, also called Turmeric, which turns one this month. (Its combination of classic British pop stars such as Lily Allen, Punjabi artists such as Sukshinder Shinda, and contemporary electronic acts the Hellp and Sophia Stel gives it the feeling of a late-night pirate radio station totally out of time and place.) The duo’s follow-up EP There&Back, released in May, polishes up the Twins’ sound a little, but not that much – if anything, their collaborations with Rada and Varg2TM on There&Back are even louder and wilder than anything on Turmeric. The duo’s future plans aren’t clear, but their mission is: “We don’t want brown kids to feel like they have to fit into anything,” Jamal said in an interview. “People are always gonna try to label what you’re doing, but you don’t have to move like that.” Shaad D’Souza

Why do the Texan innovator’s records take so long to make? ‘It’s important to gather the data,’ she says: the death, dating and dopamine behind her exquisite comeback alongside the Alchemist

Erykah Badu needs the lights down low. The singer, producer, actor and registered doula shuffles into a private room at London’s Soho hotel and quietly asks for some changes to the atmosphere: lights dimmed, soft seat. A green juice would be great.

As it turns out, Badu was out last night with Dave Chappelle, sitting with the comedian at a grand piano and playing songs into the wee hours. She looks mischievous when she thinks about the impromptu party, but declines to go into detail about what, exactly, went on. Instead, the 55-year-old smiles at me, eyes wide, her gold teeth glinting in the low light: “Oh yes,” she says slowly and quietly, like some kind of mysterious warlock. “It was a late one …”

(Island)
Even a couple of bafflingly misguided social commentary songs can’t detract from the joys of Flowers’ classically full-throated commitment to the Nashville bit

Here are three immutable facts about Brandon Richard Flowers: he was born just outside Las Vegas, Nevada. He is 45 years old. And he never does anything by halves. When he and his band the Killers debuted in the early 2000s, as disaffected New York cool was on the rise, he was writing scream-along choruses sung in his upper register. When the Killers were searching for a sound even bigger and grander than the euphoric Springsteen pastiche of 2006’s Sam’s Town, they didn’t think twice before recruiting Stuart Price to produce the spangly 2008 disco-rock record Day & Age.

That’s how you get a record like Thrasher. Flowers’ third solo album finds Vegas’s chosen son decamping to Nashville for a full-throated exploration of country music – not subtle, trendy Americana, but rip-snorting, honky-tonking, Nudie suit-wearing country. In many ways, Thrasher is a stylistic follow-up to the Killers’ maudlin 2021 Pressure Machine, which saw Flowers explore windswept balladry and tasteful story-songs. But that record was as forgettable as Thrasher is a hoot; Flowers wilts when he doesn’t fully commit, as was the case on Pressure Machine, and he doesn’t make that mistake here. Thrasher features many of Nashville’s most revered country musicians, including pedal steel legend Bruce Bouton, 85-year-old harmonica player Charlie McCoy, Gillian Welch’s musical partner Dave Rawlings and lauded Americana musician Margo Price.

(XL)
In the follow-up to her Kick series, Arca jumbles the building blocks of electronic music to create a beautiful, disorienting sound world

XXXXX, the new album by Venezuelan producer-vocalist Arca, is reportedly laden with meaning: a press release claims that “suspended between posthuman augmentation and raw emotion, XXXXX exposes the mainframe”. But the reason Arca, real name Alejandra Ghersi, has become such a star of electronic music – and a mainstream-adjacent one at that – is not because she lets philosophy postgrads in Berlin write her marketing copy: it’s because, for well over a decade, she has been putting out records like XXXXX, which seem to tap into the body’s most primal, feral frequencies better than nearly anyone else. That ability has resulted in recent callups to collaborate on Madonna’s Confessions II and remix pop singer Addison Rae, and she has amassed a large, loyal fanbase – uncommon for someone making such outre music.

The follow-up to her phenomenal Kick series – five albums, each highlighting a different side of Arca’s work – XXXXX sometimes channels the frenetic feel of Aphex Twin (as on Everything) and zeroes in on the wild, footwork-y high-tempo club music she made her name with (like on Fxck, a breathless and grimy rebuke to patriarchy). But it also delves more deeply into worlds the musician has previously skirted around. The sound of a tolling bell on Willow rings into a song that’s harsh and uncompromising; Raver jumbles the building blocks of classic mainstream EDM into a piece of beautiful, disorienting sound design.

(RCA/Cult)
Allying the crackpot strangeness of Julian Casablancas’ side projects with his band’s gift for pop minimalism, the New Yorkers are on playful, joyous form

Here’s a sentence no old-head Strokes fan wants to hear: to understand Reality Awaits, the stalwart NYC group’s seventh album and first in six years, you first have to understand the Voidz. Julian Casablancas’s other band has been taking up more and more of his time in recent years, much to the chagrin of fans who may have dipped into the group’s painfully, awkwardly proggy 2014 debut Tyranny and decided to just let the old legend have his fun (away from their own speakers, of course). Anyone who decided to listen further will have found that the Voidz have turned into a great, crowd-pleasing, safely experimental zone for Casablancas to pull out some of the most energised, goofy work of his career. If you’re thinking I come to this guy for cool, not goof, I don’t know what to tell you: this is a man who spends interviews discussing his theories about ancient Sumerian culture.

The 2018 Voidz record Virtue is a high point of Casablancas’s entire catalogue: a gentle stylistic mixed bag that covers winsome pop-rock, yacht rock, bedroom pop and much more. That album seemed to clear the decks for the Strokes’ last record, 2020’s The New Abnormal, on which they sounded the most like their 2001 selves since Is This It. That album is now the definitive Strokes album for gen Z – go to any Strokes show and watch the younger contingent light up during The Adults Are Talking – but it didn’t presage a long-term back-to-basics route for Casablancas and co. On Reality Awaits, by sheer force of will, he fuses the crackpot strangeness and, ahem, fondness for AutoTune of the Voidz with the Strokes’ minimalism and pop melodicism.

(Third Man)
Following the superb No Name, White continues his fan service with stripped back songs and nasty, anarchic riffs – though it all ends up feeling a little samey

It’s a strange thing to say about one of the most prolific artists of his – or any – generation, but: Jack White has been undergoing something of a career renaissance of late. After firmly establishing himself as one of the most beloved and defining figures of 21st-century rock with his early-00s blues duo the White Stripes, White seemed to get bigger and bigger over the next decade-plus, releasing albums with well-liked side projects the Raconteurs and the Dead Weather, dropping a couple of fine solo albums, and helping spark the music industry’s vinyl revival with his label and pressing plant Third Man Records.

But, at some point in the mid-2010s – around the release of his third solo album, 2018’s Boarding House Reach, let’s say – White’s influence and celebrity seemed to be outweighing his actual output, with rising pop stars like Billie Eilish and Olivia Rodrigo naming him a prime influence. Record plants the world over became backed-up, thanks to pop stars releasing dozens of gimmicky vinyl variants of their own albums, resulting in months-long delays for indie artists – hardly a problem White was responsible for (and likely one he himself was annoyed by), but certainly the result of a craze he had helped spark. At the same time, all the quirks and codes of White’s output – the specific colour schemes and sometimes arcane guiding opinions – threatened to overwhelm the immediacy and sharpness that had once been the core of White’s actual music.

She was a member of the influential rap collective, then the alt-R&B hitmakers – but struggled to find her own voice. Now, after realising she ‘didn’t like anybody else’s beats’, she’s made a solo album that is truly hers

There was a time when Sydney Bennett really wanted “something to show for all of my hard work”. The 34-year-old singer-rapper-producer-engineer was a member of Odd Future, the anarchic Los Angeles rap collective that also included Tyler, the Creator, Frank Ocean and Earl Sweatshirt. In 2011, that group birthed the Internet, the indie-R&B band Bennett formed with her best friend, Matt Martians. Since then, Bennett has released two acclaimed solo records, collaborated with Beyoncé and Kehlani, and been nominated for a Grammy, alongside the Internet.

Still, around the time of her last album, 2022’s Broken Hearts Club, she started hoping for an award or public recognition. But then she bought a house – a nice spot on the same street she grew up on in Mid-City, LA – “and now I’m happy”. I look at her quizzically, sitting across from me in a private room in a hotel in east London, as she takes a sip of pineapple juice. It was as simple as that, I ask? She lets out a guffaw, flashing a set of perfect teeth. “I’m afraid it was,” she says, grinning conspiratorially.

Riya Mahesh is the ‘insanely Texas girl’ and medical student whose music splits the difference between dazed ambient production and big-tent pop melody

From Boston, via Texas
Recommended if you like Grace Ives, Porter Robinson, Grimes
Up next Touring EU/UK in November

Riya Mahesh has perfected her own sweet, whimsical brand of plunderphonics; her seventh project as Quiet Light in six years, this year’s Blue Angel Sparkling Silver 2, sounds a little as if it’s been chopped together from samples of Mahesh’s own memory. On Berlin, she sings to a wayward love interest over a moony breakbeat and IDM glitches, as a spoken-word part – what sounds to me like a recording of a lecture – floats in the background. Star100 starts all whispers and garbled laughter, before ceding space to Mahesh’s multitracked harmonies. Sometimes, Mahesh will suddenly deliver a wildly catchy chorus, something she clearly has an aptitude for – check Dealerz, her collab with Danish band A Good Year.

Eras. Easter eggs. Masters. Monoculture. It has been 20 years since Swift released her debut single, setting in motion a career so extraordinary, it permanently redefined the concept of pop stardom. Not only did her fight to own her music educate a generation of fans in how the music industry works, she also bent that industry to her will, outwitting the competition and defying norms to reset its terms. This is how she did it

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!”

(Verve)
Sounding characteristically virtuosic but unbothered, Vile is more forward-thinking than ever on a record that surveys the bliss and bumps of life in his mid-40s

These days, Kurt Vile songs begin in the middle of the story. In the third decade of his career, the journeyman musician seems even more content than ever to ride his own wave, to let his laid-back koans sit in the air without explanation or context, waiting for a listener to find the right frequency to understand or absorb them in their own time. The Philadelphia guitarist and songwriter opens his 10th record – an auspicious number for any musician – in the least auspicious, most Vile of ways, mumbling his way through the moment: “Smoke on my lip / I wrote a song / Some people said / I was doin’ it wrong,” he sings, his plainspoken warble as familiar, at this point, as the taste of Coca-Cola, or the smell of a summer thunderstorm.

Philadelphia’s Been Good to Me relies on the fact that Vile, 46, is an elder statesman of indie rock at this point, and that it would be downright strange for him to put on any airs, or even for him to sound as if he was performing for any kind of audience. The album never labours its points or trades in anything so tacky as radical departures in sound or style. It is, emphatically, a Kurt Vile record – loose, lush, ambling, aimless, and totally, deeply poetic, bruh.

Inspired in part by Zohran Mamdani’s NY mayorship, Rostam Batmanglij’s gorgeous new album fuses Americana with sounds of the Middle East. So why isn’t his mum happy?

The first song Rostam Batmanglij ever learned to play on guitar was Chuck Berry’s Johnny B Goode, the quintessentially American rock’n’roll hit about being an American rock’n’roll star. “It doesn’t get more American than that,” he says, with a smile.

The 42-year-old superproducer (Frank Ocean, Charli xcx, Carly Rae Jepsen) and former Vampire Weekend member is sitting across from me in a coworking cafe in London, trying to explain the fixation he’s always had with US culture. “My brother was born in France, my parents were born in Iran,” he says. “But I was in my mum’s womb when I first came to America. My position is different. So what is my relationship to the American flag? What is my relationship to American citizenship?”

Companies such as Chaotic Good are confecting social media buzz to promote Geese, Oklou and other indie darlings. Industry insiders reveal how widespread the practice is – even if no-one is sure it actually works

Did you get more fomo than usual from last year’s Glastonbury? Did you see a video of Overmono or Lorde or Self Esteem that made you seethe with jealousy? That may have been because more of your friends genuinely did attend the festival last year – or it could be because those acts, and 25 others including Fatboy Slim, Charli xcx and Doechii, paid a digital marketing agency that sent influencers and content creators to watch their sets and upload organic-looking clips to social media.

Take a quick look at Your Culture’s Instagram page and you’ll find that the boutique UK agency had a hand in disseminating some of 2025’s most viral live music moments: the Last Dinner Party’s raucous “medieval sleaze” album launch party; Chappell Roan’s headline set at Reading festival. If you saw video from Calum Scott’s surprise set at St Pancras International last year, or Alex Warren’s outside Warren Street, it’s likely because of Your Culture. An Instagram post from January boasts that the brand “worked with 55% of the nominees” of the most recent Brit awards.

The hip-hop producer, remixer and crate-digger on staying fresh creatively, the influence of David Lynch and giving away his most valuable record

Can you share any regrets or missed opportunities from your career? nnagewad
In 1999, I was approached by Deftones to work on White Pony, but I had just come off of Unkle’s Psyence Fiction album. I was nursing a hip-hop image and reputation, so I was wary of working with anything that felt like it was too alternative or rock-oriented. So I missed out on being a part of a pretty seminal album. I wouldn’t say it’s a regret, necessarily, because I feel like my rationale was sound, but it’s kind of a missed opportunity.

Was your move towards sample-free production on your recent albums driven by the headache and costliness of sample clearance, a desire to keep the creative process fresh, or a bit of both? EditorialJoe
Definitely both. There have been times in my career where I’ve wondered: at the end of the day, am I going to own only 15% of my catalogue because of all the samples? So that was part of it. But equally, I became known as somebody who was trying to be on the vanguard of making music with samples but I always knew I would want to make music in as many different ways as possible.

Pushing his winsome songwriting into rootsier territory with a little help from co-producer MJ Lenderman, the New Yorker’s debut album is primed to soundtrack your summer

From New York City, New York
Recommended if you like The Clean, This is Lorelei, The Feelies
Up next Debut album Hercules out 10 July

Tracey Nelson’s self-titled 2025 debut EP was one of the year’s best lesser-heard gems: Five tracks of sparkling, winsome indie-rock that recalled classic antipodean jangle bands the Clean, Twerps and Dick Diver. Tracks such as New Years Flowers and Just Shoot Me Now suggested that Austin Noll – the NYC-based singer-songwriter behind the project – was a classicist with a keen sense for bright melodies and self-deprecating one-liners.