Some records announce themselves with a shove. Others — and these are the rarer, more interesting creatures — arrive like a cold hand laid quietly on your shoulder in a darkened room. *NineFortyFive*, the new single from Irish post-punk artist pMad, belongs emphatically to the second category. It does not demand your attention so much as it seduces it, drawing the listener into a space where the gothic and the genuinely human become, somehow, the same thing.

The finest songwriting always begins with a question the writer cannot answer alone. Johnny Cash ruminated on sin and redemption. Springsteen has spent five decades interrogating the American dream. And now Mark Winters, an aerospace engineer from Texas who moonlights — or perhaps it is the engineering that is the moonlight — as a singer-songwriter, poses his own quiet, essential question: Can I rise? Will my roots hold me down? That it takes a song co-written with his son to surface the question properly tells you everything you need to know about what "Can I Rise" is really doing.

There is a peculiar, almost anthropological pleasure in watching a band attempt the football song and get it right. The genre is a minefield — a graveyard of cynical cash-ins, trite terrace chants dressed up in three chords, records made to shift units in the fortnight before a tournament before being mercifully forgotten. Sombre Chairs, three lads from Brighton who really ought to know better, have walked straight into the explosion and emerged, impossibly, unscathed. *Can't Stop Spinning Around* is, against all reasonable odds, rather brilliant.

Krefeld is not a city that announces itself. Nestled in the industrial western corridor of Germany, it is the sort of place that produces quiet ambitions and long memories — which makes it a fitting origin for AnTri, a rapper whose debut single operates entirely on the logic of the unforgettable. *Rendez-vous* is a record about someone you cannot stop thinking about, and it has the audacity to become, itself, something you cannot stop thinking about.

Koentakhinte — the performing name of Dutch singer-songwriter Koen — arrives on the British radar with Quiet Colors, a single of such disarming emotional honesty that one wonders quite how it slipped beneath the commercial machinery for this long. It is the sort of song that does not announce itself with fanfare. It settles, instead, like afternoon light through net curtains: soft, pervasive, and surprisingly difficult to ignore.

Rock and roll, at its most primordial, was always a class war set to a backbeat. From the Stones nicking Chicago blues to the Pistols screaming at the monarchy, the electric guitar has served historically as the working man's Molotov cocktail. Ermyte, four musicians from the sun-baked streets of Aix-en-Provence, understand this instinctively. Their debut single "Coup d'éclat" doesn't merely acknowledge that tradition — it detonates inside it.

Diasporic longing is among the oldest subjects in popular music and among the hardest to render without sentiment curdling into kitsch. Too many artists reach for the postcard and end up with a tourism brochure. Ïgor, the Portuguese-born, London-based artist behind Lisboa na Cabeça, does something considerably more interesting: he reaches inward, and what he finds is both intensely personal and bracingly universal.

**There's a particular kind of arrogance that only the very young — and the very good — can get away with. The Radio Addicts have it in spades.**

The opening seconds of *Down the West Coast* arrive like a half-remembered dream: distant guitars dissolving at the edges, a flute curling upward through a shimmer of synths, the whole construction so delicate it seems to breathe rather than play. You hold still. You wait. Olivier Cornu, the Lausanne-based multi-instrumentalist and producer who operates under the name Moon Construction Kit, knows precisely what he is doing with that silence. He is building a room and inviting you into it before you have quite realised the door was open.

The most subversive thing about *Fun Intended*, the debut album from Chicago's DadJoke, is how completely it refuses to condescend. Not to children, obviously — children's music that talks down to its audience is so commonplace as to be unremarkable. No, what Reminick refuses is the more pernicious condescension: the kind that assumes "music for small people" must therefore be small music. This album is enormous. Ludicrously, thrillingly, almost aggressively enormous.