I’m sitting here listening to a ghost rise from my speakers while my body responds physically to the familiar sound of distortion pedals; with every whine of guitar, an old tremor of hormonal angst climbs up the ribcage to my heart while my arms slowly and rigidly begin crossing themselves. Before I know it, 15-year-old me is huffing and puffing at the door, and she’s back with a vengeance. I spent my teens like a lot of isolated kids do, scribbling in my journal, rolling my eyes at anything that moved and crushing on boys and girls who looked straight through me. The only method of keeping the unpalatable world at bay was the pair of headphones secured tightly around my ears blasting the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, BRMC and The Killers on heavy rotation. That is to say, in a time before kids my age had any sense of self beyond malaise and wretchedness, we had early 2000s indie. 

“Impossible Weight,” the title track off of Deep Sea Diver’s forthcoming October album, embodies that era. It’s The White Stripes meets Sleater-Kinney, meets a cool glass of water with a cruel and jagged lip, meets a hole I want to crawl into headfirst, partly because of nostalgia, and partly because I'm so glad you can still find it somewhere. Frontwoman Jessica Dobson’s vocals prick like needles alongside the jaunty four-on-the-floor drumline. They dance through the verses, pushing the sound up and out towards the epic. A meek wail of guitar is layered in and around the chorus right before Our Lady Sharon Van Etten enters, her steady rich voice ringing out and grounding us against the bouncing instrumentals. The two singers move together in harmony before the music strips down once more, this time to only Van Etten’s low murmur—then the layers build back up again into a thunderous bridge. There’s something about the way that she draws out the last vowel in the line, “So I’ll just let you down now,” that creeps me out and electrifies me at the same time. Kind of like looking back at how formative music from a certain timeframe can be to a generation, how it accompanied us during that period and therefore shaped us as well. Yes, it’s true time (and therapy) heals all, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t run to preorder the LP from my local record shop immediately after listening. Photo by Matt Wignall.

On “Overkill," Holly Humberstone is preparing to do something brave. Maybe you’ve had to be brave before too, so you’re probably familiar with how it works. Once you realize you can do it—the brave thing—time starts moving more quickly. You can’t backpedal; you’ll do the thing, or you won’t. For a while, each thought feels like a drop in a bucket that will eventually overflow.

That realization is exactly where we find Humberstone at the beginning of the song. She’s almost ready to spill big, unwieldy feelings to her partner, and she is afraid they will come across as too much—as overkill. But throughout the track, she shows us that she has a lot of things going for her. Like some of her indie-pop elders—Tegan & Sara, Empress Of, Robyn—Humberstone beautifully harnesses the power of stark simplicity in her lyrics. “You don’t have to say it back / I just want to know where your head’s at,” she tells herself in a frosty alto, and you can feel a waterfall of subtext fill every crevice. As the song goes on, the lyrical tone shifts gradually from restrained deliberation to decisive declaration, and the music follows. The musical climax—an immaculate syncopated drum hit at 2:20—is the sound of that final drop in the bucket; and the electronic swirl of twinkling stars that emerges in the track’s final minute is what tells us—and Humberstone—that tonight's the night.

“Swill,” one of the latest singles from Icelandic born singer and multi-instrumentalist Jónsi, is a bombastic and towering piece that feels both simultaneously familiar and foreign. Opening with a stark A.G. Cook produced mix of drums and horns, “Swill” sounds more like a new track from Cook collaborator Charli XCX than new content from the Sigur Rós frontman. However, once the rest of the instrumental settles in and Jónsi's wispy falsetto begins to deliver, familiar themes from the singer’s work begin to show. Lyrically, Jónsi is coming to terms with mistakes made in the past, “You say I did something wrong yesterday / You're right, of course, I'm making a fool of myself (In every way).” Though the almost bubblegum pop instrumental teeters on the edge of feeling out of place, there is still a billowing, orchestral vein running through it that tethers it to the singer. If the track does anything, it’s a sign that Jónsi is not only back, but he is again pushing the sonic boundaries in the most familiar way.

Wingtip is the blissful project of Nick Perloff-Giles. His music is irresistibly hook-filled, but those hoping to dance themselves free of all anxiety and introspection won’t find that here—“Demons” has tender vulnerability at its core. The song explores feelings of uncertainty and insecurity, offering strength and comfort in the form of an addictive beat drop. The chorus is a plea to reveal the worst. Perloff-Giles sings, “Show me your demons, and I’ll show you mine.” It’s an earnest request over delightful pop production. “Demons” is a reminder that sharing our challenges is exactly what makes them bearable: “It’s hard to know where to begin, but it’s easier with someone." There’s hope in going through our most difficult moments with others—and definitely in dancing through them with this song.

rum.gold’s new song “Fix Me” is a gorgeous, ethereal depiction of what it feels like to process relationships in isolation. He calls the song an “acoustic sketch”—by leaving airy spaces in between chords for the music to breathe, he allows the powerful lyrics to seep into the listener’s mind. While the aching sorrow in his voice is prevalent as he repeats, “I’m sorry” throughout the song’s first section, the emotional peak of the track comes as he sings, “You can’t be my northern star / When you’re the reason home seems so far.” His vocals are a warm, sharp falsetto—crying out for somebody to not only hear him but understand him. All in all, rum.gold’s “Fix Me” is a sonic search for the missing puzzle piece that it would take to make his relationship work. Despite his soul searching, by the end of the song, he still can’t find it. He comes to the silent realization that he must find inner peace on his own, as a faint siren drives away in the distance. Listen wherever you stream.

The broken aspects of our society just keep on getting clearer at this stage of 2020. Xelli Island’s new single, aptly titled “Sometimes," does an uncanny job of capturing the existential desperation that’s running rampant in all of us in varying capacities. The artist writes that when one navigates this world through the lens of mental illness, “all of its toxicity and phoniness becomes crystal clear." With opening lyrics calmly vacillating between “sometimes I feel alright, I leave my house, people are nice," and “some days I’m swallowed up in an emptiness and numbing thoughts, and even truth feels like a lie; yeah some days I’d rather die," “Sometimes” goes on to paint a familiar mental picture. Xelli is kind enough to hold up this internal mirror with the backdrop of some truly summer-ific production. A rollicking, walking beat and thrumming, warm bassline keep the energy snapping along, and the lead vocals are clean and crisp with just enough spacey delay to remind you of the vertigo caused by spinning in your own head. The real twist is that this song was written years ago. It’s truly comforting to remember that these feelings, though quite stark at the moment, are nothing new—with musical dispatches like "Sometimes," we can weather them together.

I firmly believe that there is a special place in the world for upbeat breakup songs, and that place is a car radio. "Losing My Grip" by Junior Mesa is a high energy reclamation of control by acknowledging that you’re not fine, actually. The song riffs and rolls through two and a half minutes that validate your need to briefly disappear with just a car, sunshine, and your thoughts. “An escapist road trip is a totally reasonable reaction to heartbreak,” the track speaks, with equal parts serious lyrics and lighthearted production touches. Each verse is supported by steadfastly syncopated rhythm guitar, paralleling the feeling of hanging on by a thread—but still hanging in there. A whimsical flute line dances between stanzas, which conjures the aesthetic of Noah and The Whale and The Boy Least Likely To. Mesa’s voice playfully stretches syllables, crafting a vocal line that, somehow, feels a lot like a rainbow slinky. Overall, the track sparkles with wit, humor, and technical finesse. Dripping in optimism yet leaning into vulnerability and heartache, it’s a song that is sure to fit whatever headspace you’re in.