Lonnie Holley’s early life in Birmingham, Alabama was chaotic: working from the age of five, “home” was either a whiskey house, a state fairgrounds, or a rotating orbit of foster care. Now a musician and artist with work in major museums and on permanent display in the United Nations, his pieces are imbued with furious improvisational creativity born out of struggle.

Just listen to that spacey Mellotron: "Like Hell Broke Away," out now on Jagjaguwar from the EP National Freedom, suspends old school blues in a fiery galaxy far beyond here. Kind of like the surreal circumstances of our current national woe. The gravity of Holley’s voice though, with its grave-shaking gravel, holds us down from floating away.

I like to imagine him singing to a hot celestial blues club, stars on backup, with space suited expats swinging on his every word. 

Interstellar Blues

Hey Hubble bubble,

space scat and some rubble,

his growl transcended Neptune;

Beltin’ those low notes

Or eyein’ the band,

Three Sisters fly high on his croon.

Like Madonna, Cher and all other single-named pop royalty, Shamir is fierce, even in the face of heartbreak. “On My Own,” the latest single from the Philly-based musician, discusses his confidence through lost love. Through raunchy guitar riffs and melodious synths, Shamir speaks of the power he’s generated from his own self-respect. “Don’t bargain with my worth,” he sings, “cause I don’t mind to live all on my own / and I never did.” The strength Shamir carries throughout the song, in tandem with the field march feel of the drums, has morphed its meaning into what many are calling an “introvert anthem.” That description has caught on for good reason. Shamir’s vocal provides an uplifting cadence that makes wonderful company for isolation and the forever journey of self-discovery. When the full-bodied bridge hits, he finds the apex of his message. He sings, “I feel it in my bones, inside myself is where I belong.” Shamir doesn’t care to feel like he belongs, because to himself, he always did.

“June 14th,” the opening track on Lauren Auder’s two caves in EP, pulls you back into the unfiltered urgency of youth. Maybe because their sound is built on such clear dramatic arc, as a whole the EP feels very multimedia—like it should accompany a modern dance routine or a time-lapse video of a painting coming to life. From churning strings and thumping bass to twinkling bells and crackling static, “June 14th” is especially dense with sonic layers, each of which Auder has seemingly chosen with the methodical precision of an electrical engineer. Each instrumental line teems with its own separate energetic will: some on the verge of exploding into controlled chaos, others projecting an innocent comfort. And though it feels like each layer wants something different, within the container of the song they feel inextricably connected: like hundreds of lives moving together on a subway train, each can’t help but be pulled and jostled by its co-passengers towards something common. Meanwhile, the train’s conductor is Auder’s cinematically versatile voice, which floats coyly over romantic bridges (“Darling, every morning with you…”) but not before bellowing through dark tunnels of self-doubt (“I’ve been defensive since I left the womb” is a lyric I can’t stop coming back to this year). 

In an interview with Vogue, Auder revealed that the song is about “a first sexual relationship between two characters.” What they didn’t say is that the story is told so well that suddenly you are there, in it, young again, remembering that every feeling is an emergency, understanding that the way to freedom and togetherness, will always have to be rebellion.

If you’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing Grace Ludmila perform live, then you know that she is a force to be reckoned with onstage—full of motion and emotion, and musically creating something unique and authentic that comes straight from the heart. Having described performance as “the ultimate catharsis,” Ludmila puts her whole self into her music, raw and real from start to finish. This is especially true of her latest single release, “Hollow,” which is heavy on guitar and packed with gut-wrenching lyrics. Ludmila is an expert in metaphor, and she sings a series of them as a means of expressing the dissonance between expectation and reality. She is “not a dream,” but “sleep paralysis;" she is “not soft, not smooth like porcelain” but “a fleshy mass of skin that you pick off when you can’t stand to see it again.” The rhythm and structure of the song reflect this dissonance as Ludmila makes her own rules, often adding onto these metaphors beyond where the ear expects them to end. “Hollow” is a proud admission of imperfection, a refusal to live life according to others’ ideals, and, ultimately, an expression of self-love and self-respect.

Ludmila’s influences range from the singer-songwriter scene in Austin, TX, where she began her music career and released an EP at age 12, to the punk artists she discovered later and her time in New York, where she is currently based. She also does a “Say My Name” cover that will make your jaw drop. Ludmila is currently working on her debut full-length album.

This single release from New York-based multi-talented indie-pop artist Denitia begins with a beat that builds as if it were underwater, swelling to the surface before engulfing us in its rhythmic and full-bodied sound. A singer, songwriter, producer, and multi-instrumentalist, Denitia single-handedly uses a blend of electropop, psychedelic, and R&B elements along with her disarming and reverberating vocals to create a dreamlike soundscape on “Forever.” An 808 drumbeat pulses throughout the song, perhaps in homage to the human heart, as other sounds loop in and out around it. The instrumental ebb-and-flow evokes images of waves and currents as Denitia sings, “I am a river / You are the ocean / We go together / We could just flow in.” Referencing “flowers under the sun” and “the moon and the tide,” the lyrics are filled with earthly imagery, highlighting the ways in which we are all connected, to each other and to nature, and the paradoxical illusion of any concept of “Forever.” Accompanying the song’s release on Bandcamp is a blurb from the artist that reads: “Our existence among each another can seem so complicated in our modern lives, but then you realize we are so inextricably connected to each other and the natural world. We are both infinite and impermanent at the same time.”

If you took Phoebe Bridgers to a club on a sweltering Saturday night and sweetly encouraged her to get her groove on, the triumphant result would be "Lonely Boy" by Becca Mancari.

Mancari delivers the perfect track for the summer, clocking just under two-and-a-half minutes; a decadent and triumphant pop song, which wouldn't be out of place if it were featured on the soundtrack to a beloved teen drama from the aughts. She takes her lonely subject on an upbeat ride, trying to figure them out. 

Getting a lonely person to contemplate their loneliness would normally seem like a daunting task, but Mancari goes easy on them as she spends the majority of the song gently asking "Are you a lonely boy?" Mancari is intent on driving the question into her subject's mind, to the point where they're unable to avoid figuring out why they're always a loner—but they get a bit of a pass because this "lonely boy" still tries.

Becca Mancari's first album since 2017, The Greatest Part, will be released on June 26 via Captured Tracks.

The staggering genius of Sean Bowie emerges immediately upon pressing play on their fourth album as Yves Tumor, which opens with “Gospel for a New Century.” Tumor’s own brand of brilliance survives in their own mystique, which shapeshifts in kaleidoscopic, sonic morsels that fleetingly reveal themselves through flashing emotional windows—into which Tumor allows us to momentarily gaze. “Gospel for a New Century” unfolds with a vintage horn sample that sounds freshly plucked from a James Brown or Edwin Starr song, soon supplemented by a full chorus of brasswinds fit for a 1970s spy-noir film score. By the time the bassline and Tumor’s vocals kick in, we’d be tempted to enlist the song as a masterwork in psychedelic, anthemic rock—but this is where we’d be wrong. Often the best art shocks and shakes us in unquantifiable ways, without grasping at labels or ticking genre boxes, and this is exactly how Tumor’s opus pierces our senses. In neon orchestral flares we can discern a host of influences from Prince and Lenny Kravitz to MGMT; yet, this recognition leaves us as rapidly as it arrived. Tumor’s “Gospel” is a roaring rhapsody of experimental funk-rock distortion, layered so finely we could spend ages dissecting it—but by the time we do, Tumor will have already entered another unexplored aural landscape.