Albums of 2025
1. THE ABOUT-AS-SENTIMENTAL-AS-YOU'D-EXPECT ONE: Dog Tale by Tugboat Captain
And Tugboat Captain is really pushing the (metaphorical)
boat out in that respect, because the first time I listened to this album in
full was two days ago.
I’d just been telling The Dutch Girl about Dog Tale, the
single, how I thought she’d like it, you know how it is, the dogs and such, and
I thought: that album came out this year, why didn’t I give it a go? Why did I
let Tugboat’s tinkly keys and scraping strings pass me by? Leaving the question
rhetorical, I decided I’d just redress it soon as. My replacement headphones
had just arrived. I could listen in the office.
I play the album between meetings, accidentally on shuffle.
When the middle-album track, Impossible, came on early doors, I realised I
should have listened to the album at home. Oh god! The crease. I’m creasing for
the record.
Diary, when you’re in your twenties, and you see the world a
very certain way, you get tarred with this brush sometimes, that you’re just a
sentimental twot. And usually, it’s an exaggeration. Here, it's true. The thing is, though, I’d
wager that any individual with a proclivity for reading too much into things,
for falling for and then falling over other people, for, you know, putting all
your emotional chips on black, that they’ll rate the Tugboat Captain record. As will
people who like dogs.
It's all going to be okay, isn’t it?
2. THE ONE WHERE YOU DOUBT IF I'M TAKING THIS ENTIRELY SERIOUSLY: Solas by Adwaith
Diary, some albums are about the pining, the longing, the
indefinite absences, the broken glances. Or, you know, that’s what we decide to
say they’re about. Other music, and our drive to listen to it, comes from a
more visceral sense. All this to say that Adwaith’s bassist is very attractive.
I think this is one of the moments where you, reader, will
plunge my self-awareness into doubt. But look: I actually really like Adwaith
as well. Their albums are dense with hooks and layered with vocal harmonies. They
are one of the Radio 6 bands, yes, those always come a cropper on this list.
But, much the way an acquaintance turns over into a friend, Adwaith stopped
being a Radio 6 pick and became just a good pick. I turned my pal Maria onto
them. We went to see them at Oslo, which is in Hackney and not Norway for our
international readers. Elis James was in the crowd, who is a comedian and not a
man with a first name for a surname, for our international readers.
Incidentally, Radio 6 is a radio station that plays dad rock, and not the sixth
radio ever produced, for our international readers.
Anyway, Adwaith are that rare band that nail the production
on the record and also deliver an exceptional live performance. Most bands like
that are packing out venues that start with the names of a telecommunications
company (international readers: this is an O2 joke). Maybe Adwaith aren’t
doing that because they perform exclusively in Welsh. But they take you along
with you. It always feels like a friendly gig; it has this sense of bonhomie to
it. As long as you don’t call him James Elis.
3. THE "IT'S ON EVERYONE ELSE'S LIST, SO FUCK IT" ONE: Getting Killed by Geese
Every year I have a flick through what Rough Trade thinks
the best albums are. Usually I find a mix of agreement and disagreement, and
this year was no different. They think Beirut’s new LP, which sounds exactly like their last
four, is better than Wednesday’s new LP, which sounds like nothing else (they
also haven’t included Adwaith or Tugboat Captain, or, okay, any of the other
records I’m about to discuss). But Rough Trade’s choice to stick Geese up there
is astute. I mean, it’s to be expected. Everyone knew that Geese. Yes, that’s
the end of the sentence.
Rough Trade say that people want their rock to be more
astringent and punky. I mean, I guess they do? But I don’t think that’s why
people like Geese. It’s carrying this zeitgeist of, and I can’t believe I’m
going to say this, the politics of refusal. What Getting Killed reminds
us is that things are absolutely doomspiralling. What’s more, we
shouldn’t kid ourselves and pretend they’re not. Instead, we should be pointing
at the horrors, drawing them out into the open and getting their backs against
the wall before it’s too late. The Geese record is dark, darker than it sounds,
full of hymns to car bombs and deepfakes. But it’s delivered like a sermon. A
reminder that things will only change if we make it so.
‘You can’t keep running away, running away, you can’t
keep, you can’t keep running away’.
4. THE SCENE YOU'D RATHER NOT BE ASSOCIATED WITH ONE: COSPLAY by Sorry
It is a dark night in Camberwell. Or maybe it is Dalston. It’s
the Kingsway at 2am, and the N68 hasn’t arrived, you’re shivering, the uppers
are only just giving way, let me my brain back, I need this, I need to make
this journey work, I need to stop falling in love, I need to stop being in
love.
All of Sorry’s records to date have been maudlin. I think
maudlin is the right word, and I think it’s fair. Even when they’re proffering
an ostensibly positive and driving piece of post-punk, Asha Lorenz’s vocals are
whining and cursive. It’s like being forced to listen to your subconscious, the
part that tells it like it is, when the top deck of your brain would much
rather continue pretending. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you’ll
find it in Echoes, Antelope, Waxwing, you’ll find it in this record, you’ll
find something approaching reconciliation.
Sorry would rather not be called a post-punk band, though, so
for that I can only say, in the moving words of The Guest, “I’m Sorry, Sorry”.
5. THE AMERICANA, BUT NOT LIKE YOU WERE EXPECTING ONE: Gumshoe by Samantha Crain
Samantha Crain has a problem with her truck. Her truck is
not working. She talks about this on stage sometimes. How she has to get the
local boys to help her fix it because she is very small. Diary, she is very
small indeed. It’s in this venue Henry and I have never heard of, how often do
you go for a gig in Piccadilly? Somehow all the Lucky Saint has gone off. Crain
comes on to recordings of the songs of the Choctaw people, this isn’t
performative, it’s deathly serious. And quite often, Crain is singing about
memories of lost cultures that to us in the UK seem near-unimaginable. Round
here, even having a truck to fix is some alien concept reserved for the
rich. Where Crain is from, if you don’t have a truck you’re good as dead. She
sings about tornadoes, knitted blankets, enlongated journeys. Like an hour on
the Tube times a million. It takes you somewhere. I know folks are fans of
Horsegirl and their ilk, but the good thing about Crain is that her music is
rooted in something, in something that could disappear if we don’t listen out
for it. I hope she can get a new truck. Anyway, Dart is just really killer. And
B-Attitudes is really good too.
6. THE FOLKSY ONE: The Smile You Send Out Returns To You by Constant Follower
I’ve lived in London for ten years, diary, and yet I’m
pretty adamant that the divide between “city people” and “country folk” is made
up. And I was convinced of this the last time I listened through to the new
Constant Follower record. Before the crooning mid Scottish vocals come in on
the title track, there’s this immense sense of place. You see the vista,
the little shaft of sunlight. Anyone can do it. Anyone can feel this! Sure,
when I listen to the depths of this record, I can see the marshland agape and
the tableland in bloom, the Suffolk that I keep in reserve. I bet Constant
Follower see a “munro” or whatever. Bloody-minded picts, innit? The point is,
you read the socio-poetry between the lines. Music shows us the way to a new
and novel pillbox for our own emotions. At the same time, it draws us closer to
those who hear the same thing, even if they listen differently. And I resent
that I learned all of this because of a recommendation, once again, of Gideon
Coe on BBC Radio 6 Music. That’s also the case for Samantha Crain, I’m afraid,
though I didn’t mention it in that one because we were still on the discussion about
trucks.
7. THE COMEBACK ONE: More by Pulp
Diary, I lied above. Not about the bassist from Adwaith or
the sheer crushing emotional vulnerability provoked in me by a band whose name
literally starts with the word “Tug”. No, I lied about not including albums
from the Rough Trade list. Because, uhhhh… I have to include Pulp. There’s not
a lot to be said here, so I’ll focus less on the album and more on the
atmosphere. After Blur’s revival a couple of years back, Oasis captured the
headlines this year by deciding to be cocks to everyone else instead of each
other. They didn’t release any new music, though, and their performances of
existing standards left something to be desired in convincing even the faithful
that Noel and Liam actually got on, at all. The Cure absolutely ate by offering
their tickets at eminently reasonable prices on DICE. Basically, britpop came
back. Then Pulp announced Spike Island, with a music video that at once
recognised their long historical milieu, and how shit AI was at recreating it.
Then, Got to Have Love: a song ostensibly about how Gen Z refuse to pay
attention or sing along to even the most straightforward tune. At least, that’s
what I read into it, because after two years of seminar teaching, Gen Z are my mortal enemies.
I’ve never seen Pulp live. I’ve barely heard them across a
field. I’ve watched Jarvis Cocker throw some sweets at people. But the
impression I get is this is a band that will never implode, that will never
lose its mettle, that will never give into the media, that will moon whomever
it likes. Pulp will end when it wants to. And in the time until then, we’re as
lucky as you like.
Before I do the now traditional thing of choosing a couple of old records, an honourable mention for Child of Prague, whose EP came out this year. The band always delivers live, realising pathos and depth from deep within of the indie bog. Child of Prague don't call it indie; they say it’s like an Irish take on midwestern grunge, but you’ll have to stop me before I say “Arcade Fire Version of Black Country New Road” like I seem to do any time I'm moderately impressed by a saxophpone.
Unsurprisingly, I can’t talk to Child of Prague
after their shows anymore because I feel too ashamed of shouting “you guys were
fantastic” like a spiv the first time I saw them. Weirdly, though, my favourite
Child of Prague track this year wasn’t even from their EP. It’s from the long form
release of their single, Basking Sharks, which includes a charming and damning interlude chocked with the lost hopes of an entire generation, a cohort in
which I begrudgingly count myself. But, diary, you’ve seen far too well that
this list features many a doomed piece of music. There’s some light in how
Child of Prague is in our world. Pity they’re usually across the narrow sea. Or
in Groningen? What the feck, chaps?
8. THE SCENE YOU'D RATHER NOT BE ASSOCIATED WITH ONE, BUT IT'S LIKE 15 YEARS AGO: The Wages of Fear by Tellison (2011)
Now it’s my oeuvre to mention the albums I found time
for which are resoundingly un-25-ey. Here’s one from 2011, that inhabited the dwindling indie scene, the one Tellison is holding onto ever so gently nowadays. I bought one of their t-shirts this year. It smelt like it had been in a shed for roughly forever. But I knew I wanted the t-shirt, because this record, more so than the other two, had slapped me into shape across those dawdling months. What do I mean? Just over a year ago, I grew obsessed with their track, Hanover Start Clapping, on the strength of a kiss. That was completely at random; I couldn't even say how I ran into it. But it epitomised the early days in Shoreditch more than anything could. Then, as things gradually turned a corner, the sort of corner that careens into a lake, a poisonous lake, a poisonous lake full of poison-resistant piranhas, I listened to the second Tellison record. What I found in it was a very questioning band: the frontman questioning his writing capabilities, his ability to digest barbituates, and, most pressingly, his scope to philosophise. At least on the last one, he'd landed on the side of possibility, of a future through the macabre fog. To have longed for and lost, you need that confidence, diary, I needed it and Tellison gave it me. Was that a bit heavy? Such was the indie scene in 2011. Everyone was wearing ill fitting hats and dubious tops! Oh. Take me back.
'There are more things in heaven and earth, than are dreamt of in your philosophy...'
9. THE BROADLY AMBIENT ONE: May Your Heart Be The Map by Epic45 (2007)
Yes, in a total upset, ambient didn't really break into the seven new albums I've shared with you. Mercifully, though, it's been given a chance to shine in the 'old records' section, thanks to my old masters' supervisor, and I didn't even have to reference Warrington Runcorn New Town Development Plan, which is useful, as he's now produced about seven albums too many.
I was introduced to this record in passing, during a Q&A for my old supervisor's new book. In response to a query about the "missing link" in the development of what some would call "kitchen sink ambient" and others would call "gen X men spending all their money on synthesisers", he suggested this Epic45 record. In fact he called it, "indie post rock ambient", which I have been told, in a damning indictment, is basically all my music taste is. Diary, I knew I had to listen to it quick as you like, so I put it on for the journey back from King's College. And I liked it a lot. This sort of "found sounds" impression of the Shropshire-semi-wilds that captures at once the energy of a summer holiday and a Hardy Tree style day-in-the-life. In 2007, I was barely capable of stringing a joke together or having a defensible hairstyle, so when I listen to this I think of it in a sort-of timeless way, as opposed to way back then. It was great to discover it. It's nice when a serendipitous recommendation hits different, and helps take you back to home.
10. THE LAST ONE: Free the Pterodactyl 3 by Hot Club de Paris (2011)
Here’s one from 2011. Wait, didn’t we do that already?
I was 15 in 2011, but I didn’t feel it. My finger was so far
away from the pulse. I was dressed worse than Tellison. I had hair like a small, irreverent hedge. And I think if you played me Hot Club de Paris then, not only would I be rude about the Scouse people, but I would intimately question the quality of the music, and then return to Call of Duty. And yet, this is my album of the year. Inhabiting a vibe isn't always something you do along with the folks who were doing it at the time. In fact, Hot Club de Paris hardly exists nowadays, with the vocalist composing an outfit known only as "Doomshakalaka". Yeah, ok then.
I discovered HCDP through one of those lists of Blog Rock, an ill-advised post-hoc designation for the music that was actually too zeitgeisty to be dragged into the 10s with the likes of Arctic Monkeys and, I don't fucking know, Enter Shikari? No, there were some bands that were actually too whimsical and fun, and HCDP was one of them. Just try Noses Blazing, yes, the name of the song speaks for itself. I also love Fuck You, the Truth!: 'she was wearing her dinner like she never wanted the dinner party invite...' The thing about this music is, it's all sort of covered over in pastel, and the scuzzy under-layers stand only to be seen by the folks who can bother to look below.
But if I'm honest - I really should be honest - that's not why I love this album so much. It's songs like the title track, a beautiful and also intimately confusing look at what it's like to cross a landscape when you've just fallen hopelessly in love. And then there's Three Albums In and Still No Ballad. I tried to chuck the following quote from it on the top end of an academic presentation about transport models, before realising I was boxing myself into an even smaller stereotype than I usually do (as noted above, this is unfortunately "indie post rock ambient"). You've forgotten where this sentence started, haven't you? Here's the lyric:
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