After debuting her beautiful and heartbreaking album Dream On in January, Alice Boman is now back with a new single. And like her album debut, her latest track "Wake Me Up" balances light and darkness by contrasting a glowing, ethereal serenity against a deep and dark restlessness. The track builds on repetition: each time she sings “wake me up” she brings you in deeper and deeper into her dream/nightmare. Her heavenly voice is lifted by atmospheric synths that echo some of her Swedish dream-pop compatriots like Anna von Hausswolff or El Perro del Mar. “Tell me it’s a bad dream,” she sings over and over as if trying to comfort herself, “everything will be alright”—but will it? We are left somewhere in between solace and fear. "Wake Me Up" is a mesmerizing track with a beautiful simplicity. It’s hard not to contextualize all new music coming out this summer with our current global predicament but this particular song seems to resonate louder, wishing it’s all just one bad dream we can just wake up from. Photo by Märta Thisner.

Babeheaven’s single “Cassette Beat” will be featured on their debut album Home for Now, out November 6. It’s a blissed-out ramble through a field of trip-hop on a cloudy winter’s day. Nancy Andersen’s voice is an icy river, cool and steady, and I can’t help but imagine that somewhere Imogen Heap and Dido both look up and smile every time I press play on Babeheaven’s music. Even within Babeheaven’s sonic world, “Cassette Beat” has a particularly cinematic sensibility about it. Is the track setting the scene for a post-break-up montage with shots of West London? Or does it accompany a victorious breakthrough panoramic of the English countryside? The slow, bittersweet hit of each snare allows for either in equal measure. In the chorus, Andersen sings, “Behind the cloud there’s a blue sky.” But as for how long the clouds will stick around today—that depends what chapter of your story you’re on.

Slow Dress is the Boston-based duo of Katie Solomon and Bredon Jones. Together they craft contemplative indie-folk songs. Their latest single, “Butterfly,” promises a life saturated with feeling. It is a commitment to experience everything fully, no matter how uncomfortable. “I don’t want to follow their feet. I want bare toes even in the snow and the sleet,” Solomon sings, dedicating herself to the necessary discomfort that comes with open awareness. Better frostbitten than oblivious, she insists. In a statement accompanying the release of “Butterfly,” the band wrote, “...it’s about watching people, especially those with money and privilege, close their hearts and minds to what is happening in the world.” The song illuminates the possibilities that emerge when we turn our focus outward. The butterfly in question isn’t taking flight; its body is fixed to the kitchen wall, like a pressed flower in a frame. “Admire,” Solomon urges, and for a moment, you pause to do just that. “Butterfly” is available for purchase and streaming, with half of all proceeds going to National Bail Out, Black & Pink, and mutual aid funds.

It’s funny how mornings are the most subject to routine. When I wake up, one of the first things I do is take my dog outside. The backyard is always shaded in the mornings, so we play a few rounds of fetch. My pup bounds after his beloved orange ball with so much single-minded joy that it blesses the rest of the day. That’s how "It’s Infinite" by Lomelda feels. The first two-thirds or so of the song weave metaphor, quantifiers, and disqualifiers together in lyrics that draw longing out of your heart. For a little while, you look at joy like a foreign object. Something compelling that you don’t quite understand or half-remember from a dream. You wish you knew what it feels like, to feel like that. Acoustic guitar and keys gently tug your hand towards sunshine and adventure, but your feet stay stuck where they are. Around 2 minutes in, drums come in, your entire soul thaws, and you remember. Life is an art of creation. Joy without reservations feels like grass on your feet and sunshine on your back. How could you ever forget? It feels like chasing after a ball, only to return, and then experience the joy of a chase all over again. You’re not happy because you feel like you should be, but just because you are. It’s as innate as your name, and you know exactly how it feels. It’s infinite, and rediscovery is inevitable no matter how long it appears to go missing.

In the middle of the 2000s—which are also, despite my best efforts, referred to by some as the “noughties”—there was a brilliant onslaught of guitar-driven indie rock records that changed the direction of indie music for the remainder of the decade. To me, the guitar in the earliest albums by bands like Bloc Party, Wolf Parade, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and Rilo Kiley feels uniquely, transcendently energizing. To me, it sounds like using an X-acto knife on a beam of sunlight, like sprinting through a suburban street at midnight. Probably partly because I spent the years 2004–2006 in an emotionally heightened state called “adolescence,” but also partly because that generation of indie rock guitarists tapped into something special, I have spent the last decade missing that sound very much.

Or I should say, I just realized how much I have missed that sound. When you see a good friend for the first time in years, you often miss them even more right after you see them than you did before. That’s what happened when I first heard “Lights Out,” Deep Sea Diver’s first single from their upcoming album, Impossible Weight. Bandleader Jessica Dobson’s guitar work on this track not only provides an immaculate tribute to a forgotten corner of indie rock—it also aptly brings that sonic era into a comfortable relationship with the genre-flexible sensibility of indie music in 2020. About two and a half minutes in, the relentless gallop of Peter Mansen’s drums falls away for a shocking 30-second dream-pop interlude, which, after filling time like a glittering balloon, explodes into the song’s final cathartic guitar solo. Meanwhile, Jessica’s vocals throughout the track act as its emotional barometer, shadowing the mood and providing whatever is appropriate, from an indignant shout to a carefree croon and everywhere in between. Overall, “Lights Out” sounds a (far from silent) alarm that Impossible Weight will be a force to reckon with in October.