To understand 2025 is to understand a marketplace that has finally choked on its own “content.” In a year where AI-generated filler threatened to turn the streaming services into a beige sludge, the records that mattered were the ones that felt stubbornly, almost inconveniently, human. We saw artists retreating to the “chamber,” the “acoustic guitar,” and the “live room”—not out of nostalgia, but as a survival tactic. It’s about use-value: which of these sounds can actually help you live?

Here is the Dean’s report on a year of messy, brilliant agency.

One must imagine Sisyphus happy, not because his rock has reached the summit, but because he has found a rhythm in the struggle. In the year 2025, as the world continued its silent, indifferent spinning, these twelve records emerged not as answers to the void, but as necessary rebellions against it. They are the sounds of men and women who, facing the absurdity of existence, chose to sing anyway.

Here is the report on the music that kept the plague at bay.

In an era where “live” often means “synced to a track,” Rick Smith and Karl Hyde reminded us that electronic music is a sacred, communal ritual. This recording from Burgess Park isn’t just a document of a set; it’s a testament to the **kinetic empathy** that exists between a performer and a crowd. Hyde’s stream-of-consciousness remains our most vital urban poetry, proving that the rave is not a relic, but a living, breathing archive of our shared humanity.

Thirty years after “Born Slippy,” Rick Smith and Karl Hyde still possess the most kinetic empathy in electronic music. This isn’t just a live document; it’s a masterclass in how to build a temple out of a kick drum and a handful of found phrases. Captured in the raw, sweat-soaked intimacy of a London Boiler Room, it proves that the rave is still our most vital secular church.

Techno’s most reliable elder statesmen prove that the “rave” isn’t a museum; it’s a social contract. Recorded in the sweat of Burgess Park, Hyde’s stream-of-consciousness babbles remain the most literate thing on a dancefloor, while Smith’s kick drums provide a physical grounding for a world that’s lost its footing. It’s functional music for people who still believe the “we” is more important than the “I.” A-

In the heat of a crowded room in London, a collective pulse defies the silence of the universe. This is not mere escapism; it is a physical solidarity. Smith and Hyde do not offer a philosophy; they offer a heartbeat. To dance to these rhythms is to acknowledge that while the world may be irrational, our shared movement is undeniably real.

Ciara Mary-Alice Thompson has always understood that country music is a theater of the self. On *EURO-COUNTRY*, she bridges the Grand Ole Opry with the Dublin discotheque, using the pedal steel to navigate the **post-colonial burdens** of the Irish soul. It is a brilliant, campy, and deeply intellectual record that asks: what does it mean to be a “girl in the world” when the world is built on your exhaustion?

Ciara Mary-Alice Thompson is our great modern genre-bender. On *EURO-COUNTRY*, she manages a miraculous trick: marrying the high-lonesome heartbreak of classic Nashville with the neon-lit kitsch of a Eurovision final. It’s smart, hilariously self-aware, and possesses a melodic depth that suggests Dolly Parton by way of Abba.

Ciara Mary-Alice Thompson has figured out what Nashville keeps forgetting: country music is theater. By dragging the pedal steel across the Irish Sea and dousing it in Europop glitter, she creates a landscape where heartbreak is both a tragedy and a punchline. She’s smarter than her persona lets on, and her “ambition to be” is the most honest thing in pop right now. A

A tragicomedy played out in rhinestones and Guinness. Thompson understands that the “Euro” and the “Country” are both costumes we wear to keep from screaming. By embracing the kitsch, she reveals the genuine ache of the exile. It is the sound of a woman who has looked into the abyss and decided to put on a show.

If MOTOMAMI* was the roar of the engine, *Lux* is the blinding light of the morning after. Rosalía continues her reign as our premiere sonic architect, but here the flamenco-pop fusion is softened by a **spiritual luminescence**. It is a record of vocal athleticism and high-art fashion, yet it feels intimately reachable—a study of how light can both expose our flaws and heal them.

With Lux, the Spanish visionary moves away from the aggressive industrialism of MOTOMAMI into something more luminous and spiritual. It’s an album of high-art pop that feels like it was recorded inside a cathedral made of glass. The flamenco roots are still there, but they’ve been refracted through a new, ambient soulfulness that is nothing short of radiant.

The sonic architect of the decade retreats from the “MOTOMAMI” roar into a blinding, spiritual interiority. If her last record was the engine, this is the light through the windshield. It’s high-art pop that manages to feel communal, even when the glitchy flamenco-soul turns toward the avant-garde. A bit too much “concept” at times, but the voice remains a miracle of human engineering. A-

Here is the Mediterranean sun, blinding and merciless. In *Lux*, the artifice of pop is stripped back to reveal a spiritual luminescence. It is a work of profound aesthetic justification—reminding us that beauty is not a luxury, but a form of resistance against the shadows of our own history.

By stripping away the Saharan psych-rock distortion, Mdou Moctar reveals the skeletal beauty of protest. These acoustic arrangements turn “Tears of Injustice” into a **meditative site of mourning and resilience**. It is a masterclass in how silence and the vibration of a single string can carry more political weight than a wall of amplifiers, capturing the quiet dignity of a people who refuse to be erased.

Stripping away the Saharan psych-rock distortion that has made him a global force, Mdou Moctar reveals the skeletal grace of his songwriting. This acoustic reimagining of last year’s record is a haunting document of resilience. Without the wall of sound, Moctar’s guitar work feels even more like a conversation—urgent, grieving, and profoundly beautiful.

Proof that you don’t need a Marshall stack to start a revolution. By stripping last year’s protest anthems down to the wood and wire, Moctar reveals the skeletal resilience of the Tuareg spirit. It’s meditative, yes, but the political weight of his exile vibrates in every plucked string. This is what “unplugged” was meant to mean before it became a branding exercise. A

The distortion is gone, but the fire remains. By stripping these songs to the wood and wire, Moctar creates a space where the injustice of the world is met with a quiet, terrifying dignity. It is the music of the desert—vast, honest, and entirely clear. It is the sound of a man who refuses to be silenced by distance or power.

Marcus Brown’s Baltimore-bred soul is the sound of the underbelly of late-stage capitalism. On The Passionate Ones, he crafts “bedroom pop” that actually feels like a bedroom—stifling, intimate, and full of dreams deferred. It’s a jagged exploration of labor and love that marks him as one of the most vital chroniclers of our current existential pressure.

Marcus Brown continues to be the most compelling voice in the new DIY soul underground. *The Passionate Ones* feels like a transmission from a pirate radio station in a dream—lo-fi, 80s-inflected R&B that captures the specific exhaustion and the sudden joys of the working class. It’s music that feels lived-in and deeply necessary.

Marcus Brown continues his one-man mission to prove that the “bedroom” is actually a political cell. His DIY soul is jagged, weary, and deeply suspicious of the digital age, yet it grooves with a 1980s pirate-radio warmth that feels like a hug from a stranger. It’s the sound of labor—both the kind that pays the rent and the kind that saves the soul. A-

The struggle of the worker is the struggle of the soul. Marcus Brown crafts melodies from the fatigue of the daily grind. This is “bedroom soul” in the sense that the bedroom is the only place left where one can be truly honest. It is a testament to the passion that survives despite the labor that demands our total exhaustion.

Allen’s return is a sophisticated, irony-drenched nod to her own lineage. *West End Girl* is a quintessentially British pop record that finds the “girl” grown up, navigating the London of her memories and the precarity of her present. It is a **sharp, autofictional deep-dive** into the wreckage of domesticity and the neon-lit streets that raised her.

The title is a wink to the Pet Shop Boys, but the music is pure, unfiltered Allen. After a long hiatus, she returns with a record that chronicles the “afternoon of a party girl” with devastating wit and a surprising, soft-edged garage-pop palette. It’s the sound of a London legend finding a new way to be honest.

Seven years away has sharpened the tongue but softened the cynicism. Navigating the wreckage of a marriage and the neon-lit gentrification of London, Allen remains our premiere chronicler of the “Sunday morning blues.” The 2-step and dancehall flourishes feel like home, even if she’s occasionally more interested in the gossip than the groove. B+

The city is a labyrinth, and Allen is its most honest cartographer. In the wake of personal wreckage, she finds a stubborn, weary grace. There is no sentimentality here, only the sharp, clear-eyed observation of a woman who has walked through the neon light and come out the other side still herself.

By placing her “screams” in a chamber setting, Florence Welch makes the gothic personal. This version of the record strips away the theatrical thunder to reveal the raw, vulnerable nerves underneath. It is theater at its most intimate, a reminder that the loudest emotions often resonate best in the quietest rooms.

Florence Welch has always had a voice built for the rafters, but here, she brings it down to eye level. These “chamber versions” strip away the theatrical thunder to reveal the raw, gothic nerves of the songs. With woodwinds and strings replacing the bombast, the “scream” becomes a whisper that’s twice as terrifying.

Welch has always been a “more is more” artist, which makes this retreat into the “chamber” a necessary recalibration. By removing the theatrical thunder, she reveals the raw, gothic nerves of her songwriting. It’s still a bit much—she is, after all, a professional screamer—but in these quieter rooms, the scream actually has room to echo. B

To scream in a cathedral is one thing; to scream in a small room is another. By placing her grand anxieties in a chamber setting, Welch makes the gothic intimate. It is the scream of the individual against the crushing weight of their own fate, refined into a crystalline, beautiful terror.

The title track’s shrug is deceptive. I Quit is a meticulously crafted soft-rock examination of the exhaustion that comes with sisterhood, fame, and the road. It’s the sound of the California “no”, a boundary-setting record that uses rhythmic precision to reclaim their time and their agency.

Don’t let the title fool you; the Haim sisters have never sounded more locked in. This is a record about boundaries—setting them, keeping them, and walking away from what doesn’t serve you. The production is dry, crisp, and rhythmically sophisticated, leaning into a mid-70s California studio sound that fits them like a vintage leather jacket.

The title is a feint; the sisters Haim have never been more present. Working with Rostam to refine their rhythmically sophisticated California rock, they’ve crafted a record about setting boundaries and reclaiming time. It’s sleek, smart, and a little too polished for its own good, but when the harmonies lock in, the “use-value” is undeniable. **B+**

The Rebel is one who says “No.” In the act of quitting, the sisters Haim find a new affirmation. This is the music of boundaries—a rhythmic, sophisticated refusal to continue a dance that no longer serves the spirit. It is the “No” that makes a “Yes” possible.

Simz has always been a master of the internal monologue, but on Lotus, she allows the world in. This record feels like a blooming—a slow, intentional expansion of her sonic palette into jazz and soul. It is hip-hop as a growth ritual, proving that the most radical thing an artist can do in a stagnant culture is remain curious about their own evolution.

Simz remains our most essential chronicler of the internal life. Lotus is a slow-burn masterpiece that trades the brassy confidence of her earlier work for a sprawling, jazz-inflected meditation on growth. Like the flower itself, the record feels like it’s blooming in real-time, sifting through the mud of fame to find a quiet, unshakeable center.

If there’s a better lyricist working in the vernacular right now, I haven’t heard them. Lotus is a sprawling, blooming masterpiece of internal monologue and external observation. Eschewing the grandiosity of her previous work for a more jazz-flecked, communal expansion, Simz proves that the most radical thing an artist can do in 2025 is remain curious. A

Simz remains the solitary walker, observing the world with a curious, unwavering gaze. *Lotus* is a record of growth that happens in the dark, beneath the surface. It is a masterful display of internal strength, proving that the most profound revolutions are often the ones that occur within the silence of one’s own mind.

Following the departure of their former frontman, BCNR has transformed from a singular vision into a vibrant collective. Forever Howling is a joyous, baroque-pop “howl” into the void. It captures the sound of a group of friends finding their voice in real-time, replacing the anxiety of influence with a shimmering, math-rock-inflected optimism.

The post-rock collective has fully transitioned into a vibrant, democratic ensemble. Forever Howling is a joyous, baroque-pop “howl” that feels like a cross between a theater troupe and a math-rock band. It’s a record about friendship and the collective act of creation, proving that a band can lose its center and still find its soul.

The art-school collective finally stops mourning their old frontman and starts celebrating their own chaotic chemistry. It’s a joyful, baroque-pop mess that leans into math-rock and theater-kid sincerity. They aren’t just a band anymore; they’re a village, and their “howl” is surprisingly melodic. B+

A communal cry. Having lost their center, the collective found a new way to exist through friendship and shared dissonance. They do not howl because they are lost; they howl to find each other. It is a joyous, chaotic proof that we are never truly alone in our searching.

Case’s first self-produced effort is a “love letter and testimony” for the working musician. Her voice—a force of nature that sounds like aged wood and lightning—navigates a landscape of “Tomboy Gold.” It’s a **feral, fiercely independent record** that reminds us why she remains the primary myth-maker of the American indie landscape.

Neko Case’s voice is still an incomparable force of nature—part velvet, part jagged flint. On this self-produced effort, she explores a feral, nocturnal landscape of “Tomboy Gold” and “Wreckage.” It’s an idiosyncratic, fiercely independent record that sounds like a midnight hike through a forest that’s both beautiful and dangerous.

Self-produced and fiercely independent, Case remains the primary myth-maker of the American indie landscape. Her voice—a force of nature that sounds like aged wood and lightning—navigates a feral world of “Tomboy Gold.” It’s idiosyncratic, dense, and requires more than a few listens to unlock, but the payoff is a midnight hike you won’t forget. A-

Case speaks for the wild, for the feral nature that existed long before our moralities and will remain long after. Her voice is a force of nature—indifferent to our comforts, yet deeply moving. This record is a midnight hike through a forest that does not care if you survive, and that is precisely why it is beautiful.

Searching for a spiritual center in a fractured world, Obongjayar blends West African rhythms with electronic grit to create a sonic “paradise” that feels both ancient and futuristic. It’s a record of intense physicality and prayer, asking us to be present in the “now” before the digital world dissolves the ground beneath our feet.

A spiritual arrival. Obongjayar fuses West African rhythms with electronic grit to create a “paradise” that isn’t some far-off promise, but a state of being in the present. His gravelly, prayer-like vocals demand your attention, making this one of the most physically and emotionally immersive records of the year.

A spiritual arrival that fuses West African rhythms with electronic grit. Obongjayar treats the groove as a form of prayer, asking us to be present in the “now” before the world dissolves into the screen. It’s a record of intense physicality and heavy emotional weight, marking him as a vital voice in the pan-African diaspora. A-

There is no “after.” There is no other world. There is only the now. Obongjayar crafts a paradise out of rhythm and breath, insisting that we find our heaven in the heat of the present moment. It is the final, essential rebellion: to be happy here, in the sun, before the night returns.