Sick of What I Want: The 30 Best Albums of 2025 So Far (#30-11)
Abracadabra Mapambazuko
Michelle Zauner of Japanese Breakfast (Andy Hall via The Observer)
30. GFOTY, Influenzer
A decade before Brat was so Julia, even to the admittedly revitalized Grammys, Polly-Louisa Salmon (now there’s an AI-generated name) was a walking vicious parody of a persona Charli XCX had yet to grow into, and 2016’s Call Him a Doctor is more youthful and hilarious as you’d expect (certainly funnier than SNL’s try). But you might not expect how close she can get nine years on, which may also be the closest we get to another Brat if Charli retires to do film or relax after a tireless decade-plus that finally pushed her over the “I’m famous but not quite” divide. GFOTY is not quite, and she’s contented in her post-PC Music fence-straddling of bangers and balderdash.
29. The Delines, Mr. Luck & Ms. Doom
Unlike Craig Finn, Willy Vlautin’s literary rep precedes his rock’n’roll one — two of his many novels have been adapted into well-received films, whereas Richmond Fontaine’s lone Pitchfork mention is tucked away in a Caitlin Rose review (mind you, “Only a Clown” still slaps). The Delines have none, though sad-bastard country is the only kind that (somewhat) portends coverage. Except they aren’t sad bastards; these are slices of brokedown life that increasingly blur the line between fictional economic disaster and, well, 2025. The title couple didn’t need to get together to mirror their respective homelessnesses, but Vlautin made it sexy: “they wear out every mattress in every room.” Every which way he details fully employed Americans who lose fingers on the job, OD, turn 18 in a hotel, and that’s just track two. The ones who aren’t have a record and need somewhere to sleep. Vlautin’s gifted at leaving holes you can fill in yourself, such as when the narrator of “Maureen’s Gone Missing” finds his car has, too. And Amy Boone sings it all like it poured from her essence. Country-soul can be a little limiting, though, and at the same beat and tempo, these can blur together as music for stretches.
28. Stereolab, Instant Holograms on Metal Film
It’s true that sometime around 2001’s listless Sound-Dust their assembly line caught superfluity charges that they’ll never beat, and they’ve never created anything not instantly recognizable as them. But that doesn’t mean they all sound the same, or that a few of the superfluous ones aren’t worth your time. You already know about the endlessly visitable Emperor Tomato Ketchup and Dots and Loops. We can cosign the heads on Refried Ectoplasm, perhaps even the preposterously titled Cobra and Phases Group Play Voltage in the Milky Night. There’s good stuff from their two-chord years. I’ll bat for their bouncy, allegedly Motown-juiced swan song Chemical Chords (especially “Self-Portrait With Electric Brain”) and also this reunion, which bears a heft and forcefulness I don’t normally associate with floaty Marxist comfort food. Not quite urgency. But a hard, familiar groove thickened by the most in-your-face production of their 35-year existence.
27. Skaiwater, Mia [EP]
Just because I don’t see what the big deal is doesn’t mean they’re not good, and this Lil Nas X/Bktherula associate could be a lot worse, c.f. Drain Gang. They’re not so good that I’m compelled to replay #gigi to check, but this sounds better, grabbier. The blown-out mix of “Pop” is bending and warping a real song, flavored with real samples that contribute to where it travels. Those digital rumblings continue to underpin “Feral” with its acoustic licks and the off-kilter R&B twinkle of “By the Moon” and the ‘80s yacht-rock moves of “You Don’t Feel the Same.” Would be nice to recall a single tune (if that’s what they are) when it’s not on — or a single lyric when it is. Auto-Tune and pitch-shifting gets abused to no special ends as usual. But overall, a nice sampler of the musical upshots in a post-Blonde/hyperpop world.
26. Ale Hop & Titi Bakorta, Mapambazuko
Berlin-based tinkerer Alejandra Cárdenas recorded this lightning-in-a-bottle collab with Congolese guitarist Bakorta in Kampala without a whiff of the avant; nearest I can tell is only the lead “Una Cumbia en Kinshasa” strays into anything resembling Thurston Moore territory only because dissonant minor keys are difficult to come by in Kinshasa, and it’s about as close to Thurston Moore as it is bluegrass. Still, the charm of these slight six compositions and three remixes actually does lie in how little the two principals have to do with each other. Other than the low-slung “Nitaangaza,” they sound like they’re working in separate rooms, with Cárdenas blorping and splattering on various consoles while Bakorta flutters away in trad-soukous mastery, and by some divine grace their workings line up sonically for 34 minutes. Two denizens of two halves of a broken world fine-tuning in harmony is a preferred revisionist history to the onslaught of totalitarianism America isn’t alone in facing.
25. Um, Jennifer?, Um Comma Jennifer Question Mark
Eli Scarpati and Fig Regan aren’t saving the genre or anything with tunes this simple but you know what indie-rock could use right now? Simple tunes. Fresh in more ways than one with a healthy sense of humor, pissed amp noise, quotable sass (lead track cinches it with “I’m so sick of what I want”), ample starpower possibly indistinguishable from the cute, overt insights into trans identity like the one about taking a “Girl Class” — you’re forgiven if a crtn dsgrcd duo pops into your head but they’ll leave just as quickly. Um, Jennifer? will stay. Especially the one about listening to “Old Grimes” that cautions against “too much Ari Aster.”
24. Lady Gaga, Mayhem
I’ve never tried a cigarette, but I reckon this is what it feels like to chain-smoke a pack a day. After the starting nonstarter, almost every one of these 14 songs has the outline of an instant dopamine hit and the increased blood flow of stringing them all together, especially the first 11, which are all miraculously fast. The production mimics the flavor and effect of favorites past, especially “Killah” funking up (and toning down) Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer.” It feels like exactly what you want from her, bolstered by the illusion of scarcity, that you never thought she’d be this pleasurable again. But it never breaks from the formal. She’s plenty inspired, just too big, too everything-to-everyone to be weird enough for personal impact ever again. One after another after another will remind you how good she can make you feel without carving out its own distinct space in your memory. You’ll enjoy start to finish, but you won’t get high.
23. The Tubs, Cotton Crown
They’re getting sophisticated on us, bulking up the sound with new vocal try-ons, less simple routes to the big payoff. It’s not that arena-twee is unheard of, it’s just that the Smiths couldn’t keep it going for a whole album compared to their life-changing singles comps. Best-in-show “Narcissist” bastardizes an Afropop riff worthy of Johnny Marr himself. But this does feels a smidge longer than its half-hour runtime, which highlights what’s lost in the muscular trade-off: lightness.
22. The Convenience, Like Cartoon Vampires
Parquet Courts are positively anthemic by comparison but that doesn’t disprove the Spoon analogies; Britt Daniel could’ve sang “Fake the Feeling.” Spoon’s impenetrable cool has always made more sense than their alleged infallibility, because it’s A that makes people say B, especially people who struggle to advocate for good music with no backstory. And while this isn’t as striking as Spoon’s ready-for-prime-time best, this duo’s second full-length is sure more realized than Telephono or A Series of Sneaks. Blocky pianos and blurty guitars duel in light call-response patterns that give up cool chordings and harmonic dalliances like Palberta. If you like to chew your food, you’ll get off on it.
21. Momma, Welcome to My Blue Sky
At this historical juncture we get the amusing spectacle of what used to be called a major-label alt-rock budget allocated to recreating the towering scale of My Bloody Valentine’s Loveless. Tidal waves of guitar careen and bend like inner-ear lightning while Etta Friedman and Allegra Weingarten shoot Veruca Salt sugar in harmony. “Ohio All the Time” and “Bottle Blonde” skate over those shimmering Jolt Cola drum loops, “Last Kiss” smashes a few pumpkins, and “I Want You (Fever)” swaggers at full force with the riff of 2025 and even a bridge. But as with plenty of shoegaze and even Siamese Dream, the second half gets a little wan, even with all the songwriting.
20. Wolfacejoeyy, Cupid
“I wanna learn all of your kinks” sings this 23-year-old purveyor of “sexy drill” who cares more about pleasing even his most temporary partners than any previous leading lothario I can think of, though I’m sure Usher and Miguel have learned a lot over the years. Pair that tune with a completely separate one, “Nympho,” that evokes what made early Weeknd seductive more than anything else I’ve ever heard and you have a decent postmodern State of the Union for what’s increasingly looking like a post-Drake era even if we can’t even enjoy that because Trump is back. So of course he bites from Drake at times, and plenty of others — “Ronaldinho” masters Fetty Wap’s signature line-ending melisma tic just ten years after no one else actually tried. It’s how he breaks from Drake that’s more crucial, though. At 34 minutes, he’s not only not an asshole but he values your time.
19. Aya, Hexed!
I’ll get personal. I’m an angry, furious, shaking white man. Cis, as far as I know, but I’ve wondered a couple times, and I leave that door open. Would I not be even angrier, more furious, more shaking, if I were a woman? A person of color? A trans person? All three? Or would I lose the ability to give a fuck entirely, maybe smile for the camera with a mouth full of worms because nothing matters anymore and I’m going to burn (sun, not hell) along with everything I know and love as well as everyone I hate who conspired to destroy my existence, my planet? Without even fully registering the many words Aya Sinclair spits through her worm-stained teeth in 34 minutes that begin appropriately and incendiarily with “I Am the Pipe I Hit Myself With,” I felt her digitally augmented rage instantly and had no notes. These aren’t songs per se, and the squirming, crawling sound design is consistently arresting and always shifting shape without ever landing on something you’ve never heard before or anything that would pass for a hook. Sometime soon I’ll parse the content, but for those of us who consider Shaking the Habitual a desert island disc, what’s imperative is the feel. It sounds like Laurie Anderson becoming the Joker. Here’s one I noticed that stuck, though: “I don’t wanna dream anymore.”
18. Ex-Vöid, In Love Again
Samier than the Tubs, yes, and possibly more substantive — the Chisel to their Chubby and the Gang. Here be jangle-pop not just worthy of Flying Nun or vintage New Pornographers but on “July” especially, Lucinda Williams’ “Passionate Kisses.” It’s been a long time since anyone in rock felt almost oppressively songful; frankly you can plug it to my veins. Lan McArdle, always a treat, sings more than Owen “O” Williams, who’s never a problem (in this trying time btw it’s encouraging to revisit her decade-old takedown of Ariel Pink). You’ll be happily chanting “you were a nightmare” around the campfire in no time, and don’t let the samey aura check you out before the smashing late “Strange Insinuation.” If they’re not quite in league with Alvvays, the ex-Joanna Gruesome constellation is more likely to release several more satisfying records before we ever hear a Blue Rev follow-up.
17. Purelink, Faith
¡Purelink es una banda! Look, we all have algorithms to game and it’s always fun to debate whether a Pop Tart is a ravioli. But let’s not give people the wrong idea about “guitars slashing angrily” or “a band you’d want to be in.” Purelink warmly collapse the barely-percussion pops of Pole, the degraded-mp3 incidentals of Oval’s 94diskont, and the hissed-over drones of Huerco S. circa 2016 into one streamlined submarine to be swallowed daily as a before-bed prescription. If you’ve never heard of any of that, maybe start with Robert Ashley or We™ — they’re fans of both — instead of this. Pitchfork’s review has some great, surgical description work, but is it a good thing that the guest vocalists (now attempting to be Huerco S. circa 2022) “have a way of waking the listener up just when the music threatens to drift into the corners of the mind?” Loraine James and Angelina Nonaj go against the function of the music, whereas Sir E.U, the rapper on Huerco opus Plonk, is one of many disruptors in the mix. Of course no one, not even the ambient, proudly identifies as wallpaper or cops to repeating themselves. And you could always choose 2023’s Signs for your sleep loop if you don’t want a “I’m on my way to get fake nails / Not everything beautiful has to be real” voiceover in your dream. As the two vocal cameos are the only ones I could distinguish from Signs in a blind test (and maybe the very quietly hyperactive “Circle of Dust”), I must love this one, too. I guess it’s time for disruption.
16. Buck 65, Keep Moving
“You know what I miss nowadays? Tape hiss!” exclaims this proud finisher of his own sentences with the gusto of a triple-word score when he folds in anachronisms like “heave-ho” or Beck’s roboticized “two turntables and a microphone.” Or when he finds the perfect rhyme by joking (I think) about dating Lydia Lunch. Publicly dissatisfied with his more innovative, Tom Waits-and-Tortoise-compared work from the height of his American visibility, he’s now 53 and on a roll with four of these now in four years nailing a formula that brings Richard Terfry pure delight: sample-crammed funkscapes of Paul’s Boutique-grade density and goofball punchlines somewhat too quick-lipped to call old-school unless we think Rakim. (Only, you know, white and nerdy.) A class clown in a class of his own.
15. Turnstile, Never Enough
They may be popular enough to conquer Paramore and Blink-182’s aging hearts, but Turnstile’s 2020s significance means more to critics who allow themselves but one Fun Album every couple gecs or so as a treat. This band is more youthful than playful, more recombinant than eclectic, and more earnest than deep. Their shows are legendary, which is why it confuses me that they prefer studio production that sounds like each band member is tracking in a different airport gate. They’re also big fans of Andy Summers’ clean tone. In the end, I like this about as much as Glow On, which dressed feelable anthems in genre mischief just enough to keep the overweening at bay. Between the lookalike cover/soundalike opener, wider strides between interjections of their original sound, and songs losing battles to signifiers (was Shabaka’s flute chosen to enhance “Sunshower” or to get his name on their portfolio? The latter is surely why an inaudible Hayley Williams allegedly graces “Seein’ Stars,” and bet they’ll grin when the “Sweet Leaf”-biting “Slowdive” siphons pennies from the shoegaze legends on Spotify), Never Enough is a capital-F follow-up. Competing with the universally reviled Carter VI, I predict it will be their first and final number-one album, though it’s immensely preferable to Sleep Token’s. See how easy it is to write a Turnstile review without mentioning the h-word? It’s only getting easier.
14. tUnE-yArDs, Better Dreaming
Should’ve known that someone wouldn’t write a song like “Hold Yourself” unless starting a family was such a serious consideration that they might fuck around and do it anyway. This is a comparison I’m not meaning to upset anyone with, but i can imagine having a kid being like the religious part of a 12-step program, dedicating oneself to a devotion higher than the self in order to preserve the self, the wits, the “will to live” as the extraordinarily thoughtful Merrill Garbus told me via Zoom is one of the functions of this very album. Having a kid also comes with a bonus in-house music critic, in this case one who requested the weirdness turned down a bit. So instead we get a layer cake of quixotic-not-psychedelic soul hooks, Nate Brenner’s mighty bass, and occasionally notes from a toddler between Garbus’ soaring collaborations between a proudly alarming voice and the fierce mind-body continuum from which it emanates. Possibly her funkiest but not obviously more of anything than anything else in her great catalog except maybe “smoother” which I’d already jotted down before seeing it in the press release, even though “Sanctuary” shares rude synth blurts with amapiano. I’d also scribbled something about “Heartbreak” bearing a shade of Mary Wells.
13. YHWH Nailgun, 45 Pounds
Remember Abe Vigoda (the band, not the big one), what did we call them? Tropical punk? Silly us. But close to 20 years later here’s a wildly percussive analogue with audible vocals, detuned steel pans, and a hyperventilating rhythm design that livens up some of the aluminum siding the solo Kim Gordon’s been passing off as hooks. Hell, it even lives up to N'djila Wa Mudjimo. As for the audible vocals, they convey more feeling than tonal logic, and more grunting than feeling. Could be a lot worse. I mean, the whole record comes in under the length of a Swans cut.
12. Craig Finn, Always Been
Two very different Springsteen imitators who both came up through indie-rock. One is Hold Steady jabberjaw Finn, whom we might as well call one of rock’s greatest lyricists at this point, especially from the fractured scene he came up on. The other is War on Drugs lone gunman Adam Granduciel, whom Robert Christgau once berated me via phone on behalf of my SPIN coworkers for giving him our 2014 Album of the Year honors (I was the only one who didn’t vote for it). Over a decade later, he graded this tuneful and oily slick production a full A. The lyrics are certainly better than the War on Drugs. I wouldn’t say the music’s better than the Hold Steady. But from the reverend who’s leaving in handcuffs to the double-header about one friend who OD’d and another who remembers him with a stone in his shoe, these are true yarns and Finn’s most clergy-obsessed since Separation Sunday which turned 20 this week. They either fill out some of Granduciel’s least empty settings or inspire them towards fullness, even transcendence. Maybe he just spent way too much time around people without any substance.
11. Japanese Breakfast, For Melancholy Brunettes (& sad women)
Friendliest chamber-pop cycle I’ve heard in some time, or maybe I just can’t unhear the unpretentiousness of a Philadelphian whoused to work the Union Transfer coat check. With a healthy dollop of twang, strings that bend a tune rather than slicing it in half, and castanets that bring home the Nilssonness of it all, plus the honey that comes naturally to her own voice, I much prefer this to 2021’s dark-horse Uproxx poll winner Jubilee, from whose highlight “Paprika” this proceeds to unfurl. And she still throws her deserved clout around: The song featuring Jeff Bridges beats the vocal turn by Jeff Bridges, or anything else here for that matter.