As summer has faded to fall, and we all long for warmer days, Jordan Hawkins is here with a lifeline. Reminiscing on a sunny love, the song is full of so much heart. Instantly the production welcomes you into its arms, seemingly sitting in the sand as the sun sets. Hawkins arrives with the vocals and lyricism to match the mood. Visions of perfect moments at the beach embody Hawkins’ writing, revealing a desire to rekindle romance with a past flame, bringing those moments to life. The song’s chorus feels entirely relatable and chock-full of earnest desire. Hawkins’ undeniable smooth tone sets you at ease as you feel yourself dissolve into this daydream. And that’s what holds your ear — the incredible performance from Hawkins himself. There’s strength in his earnestness, giving more power to the grit, more assurance to the smooth, and such a visceral longing love when he steps into a higher register. There is such variety in his delivery, yet Hawkins navigates the shifts effortlessly. As a listener you can just float right alongside, enjoying every moment. It seems like every choice on this song was after that same mission, an effort to make this song feel like easy love: vibey percussion, beautiful waves of trumpets, dreamy chords, a warm bass to hold it together, subtle harmonies, the trumpet and guitar solo. It’s all there. Photo by Kiyo Vigliotti.

Bill Callahan continues to set the standard for storytelling with these new songs. My goodness. Just listen to the opening passage. If that doesn't set fire to your soul then I'd wager you and I ain't wading in the same bayou. Tune in. — Alex Cameron

In his latest EP of demos, Alex Cameron rehashes some of his songs from his 2019 album Miami Memory, but this time, we hear them under a slightly different light. Instead of the brass, bright, strobe light of a strip club, his new EP Miami Memories takes us back to the VIP private room. Photo by Hanly Banks.

Mellow, gleaming electronic pop duo Sylvan Esso is committed to their signature elegance and free-forming sound with their new track, “Frequency.” Aligning with its lyrical themes, the song has a magnetic force, melting down within the listener and creating space for a pulling movement inside the body — which can be seen in the video for the song, brought to life by Moses Sumney’s creative direction. The absence of percussion in the track is a clean, soft representation of the girl Amelia Meath is singing about, a woman with alluring energy that cannot be fabricated. This girl is enchantment in human form:  “She's the one, I swear to God / A frequency, she's got a frequency / and I caught it all over me.”

On September 25, Sylvan Esso, a.k.a. Amelia Meath and Nick Sanborn, will release their third album, Free Love, featuring the tenderness of folky sound as well as the rhythmic tug of war that they have become known for.

rincs are the L.A.-based duo of Rebecca Ramirez and Bjorn Winberg. Their music is incisive and eccentric, with the occasional punkiness of Ramirez’s vocals casting a moody shadow over their poetic lyrics. rincs value brevity and melody. As with “Or Is It Just You,” their songs tend to burn fast and bright before fizzling out at just the right moment. They’ve said all they need to and delivered their message with singable indie-pop sentiment. “Or Is It Just You,” their most recent single, conveys the jarring realization that everyone lives within their own distinct reality — what looks upside down to one person may look completely normal to another. Sometimes it’s a realization full of possibility, and sometimes it’s a terrifying one. This song mostly deals with that second feeling, creating a slow buildup of disorientation enhanced by cyclical guitar riffs. There’s also some quirky instrumentation — the thumb-piano solo that drives this track towards the final chorus is one of several reasons it's well worth a listen.

Oddly prescient lyrics and red hot vibe as well. An apocalyptic déjà vu in the club. Punk-funk from Manchester grafters See Thru Hands. It's catchy as hell, so danceable and alludes to the end times we're living in with an accuracy you'd call "on the nose" if it hadn't come out [last year]. — Alex Cameron

Alex Cameron is a gifted storyteller; he crafts colorful cinematic narratives that explore themes like masculinity, sex, guilt and failure, while mixing Springsteen-like nostalgia with self-aware kitsch.

One of the most delightful parts of music is how easily it facilitates connections between people. Striking up a conversation with someone else at a show, swapping CDs with friends, even tuning into a livestream with a thousand strangers — music has a talent for bringing people together. That’s before even getting into the songs that make you feel seen. Understood. Even loved. "Permanent Maniac" is a dreamy exploration of that infatuation with the first artist that made you really feel. The lyrics flow like a diary entry, full of affection that is simultaneously naïve, intense and genuine: “I have him close to me, since I met him on the radio.” The thing is, it’s not quite a fantasy. Sharing music, even between artist and fan, is an emotionally intimate experience. As someone who’s been on both sides, it’s kind of beautiful the way that another person can let a piece of art so close to your heart burrow so deep and close to their own. The fact that people you don’t know will let your songs slip into their ears, take up space and coil itself around memories that you barely had a hand in creating? It’s beautiful. It’s a sense of sharing so intimate and organic, it almost makes boundaries feel blurry. GRAE’s track pirouettes on that boundary, floating above bouncing bass, buoyed by innocent harmonies. “And he’ll never, never know." It’s not a bitter declaration. It's respecting the relationship for what it is — a message in a bottle tossed out to sea. If it suffers abuse in its journey, it’s a bitter feeling when it shatters. But when that mutual connection is respected as the delicate, transient offering it is? It sparkles. Photo by Lizzie O'Donnell.

Summer is over but fear not, Brijean’s latest single, the appropriately titled “Moody,” will have you swimming in a warm, electronic groove so smooth and cool, you’re gonna want to jump right in again. Even if you are not familiar with Brijean Murphy, you’ve heard her beats before. The Oakland-based musician is the highly-coveted percussionist behind artists like Toro y Moi, Poolside and U.S. Girls among others. In her latest musical project Brijean however, Murphy collaborates with producer, bassist and composer Doug Stuart. Together they mix a chill blend of conga and vintage electronic rhythms tinged with shades of house and synth-pop. Topped with a soft, bossa nova-like vocals, “Moody” makes for a very easy listen but its layered production of percussions, bass and synth is so addictive that, if you're not careful, the track will have you reach out for your second or even your third caipirinha. Listen responsibly. Photo by Jack Bool.

"Prayer Beat" by LOMELI is a slow-burning slice of a vibration born out of some heartfelt, emotive pangs only an artist entangled in a messy love affair with melody and soul could make. The sheer longing in the vocal is enough to make the same face Jay-Z made when Timbaland pressed play on the final "Dirt Off Your Shoulder" beat. Yet, it's the unwavering, tasteful production built on several of the prettiest harmonies this era of neo-soul has offered the world. Now, where's the IDM edit?

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It only took three minutes for a few of the golden leaves to gently annex themselves from the towering oak tree outside of the girl with the view of the park's window. She counted the leaves nevertheless. She even had a laugh over the viral video of a man counting numbers, then regained her composure as this was serious business, counting the number of leaves and all. Autumn was her favorite season, after all. It had been the hottest summer in the planet's history, and the fall felt as calm and crisp on her skin and mood as a freshly cracked open frozen can of soda pop. She could only count a few leaves before they stopped falling, some humorously reluctant to detach from the wood and the bark. When she stopped counting the leaves, her senses alerted her to the sound melting into her studio apartment's walls and floor. It reminded her of days at the lake with him, walks through the park with him, nights watching movies with him, runs up the mountains with him, dawns in the kitchen with him, drives from airports with him and dusks in the dark with him. She caught herself swaying to the song before the vocals came in. Once they did, she started to saunter her way towards the speakers. She caressed them with her palms. She put them together to mutter a silent prayer for more lazy evenings like these to give her more than enough solace to last her a billion lifetimes. That was when he knocked on her door and startled her so much she jumped into the air, face flushed red. She had to grab the corner of her desk to restore her balance before she walked towards the door to open it, to find him there on one knee. They married that fall and were a family of three by the next summer.

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.