Grief, when it arrives properly, has a way of reorganising everything — the furniture of the self shifted overnight so that you keep walking into doorframes you'd navigated for years. What meelu has managed with *candlelight* is the rarer, harder thing: not merely to document that disorientation, but to find — painstakingly, honestly — the exact moment when loss begins its slow negotiation with living.

**Somewhere between Birmingham and the earth's lower crust, two people have figured something out.** The history of rock and roll is, when you strip away the mythology and the merchandise, a history of reduction. Take away what isn't needed until only the essential remains — the nerve ending, the blunt instrument, the thing that makes the neighbours complain. The Velvet Underground knew it. The White Stripes knew it. And now, lurking in a garage somewhere in the West Midlands with nothing more than drums, a Bass VI and two voices that sound like they've been gargling gravel soaked in righteous fury, dredge — lower case, thank you — know it too.

**By the time the saxophone announces itself — bold, unashamed, gloriously alive — you already know this band plays by nobody's rulebook but their own.** Don't Look Now arrive from Windsor like a splendidly awkward party guest who somehow ends up being the most interesting person in the room. "Second Time Around," their debut single released January 2003, is the calling card of a band who have clearly spent years absorbing the best of British pop and then, rather brilliantly, decided to do precisely what they pleased with it.

**The sky has always been the limit. Mark Heffernan just built a machine to measure it.** A cyanometer, for those who've never thumbed through the more eccentric corners of scientific history, is an instrument — invented by the Swiss physicist Horace-Bénédict de Saussure in 1789 — designed to measure the precise blueness of the sky. Fifty-three gradations of blue on a paper wheel, held aloft against the heavens. The audacity of the thing. The doomed, magnificent, quintessentially Romantic ambition of attempting to quantify wonder.

Rock music music, when it earns its keep, has always been less about virtuosity than about weight — the specific, unignorable gravity of a sound that plants itself in your chest and refuses, politely but absolutely, to leave. Foxy Leopard's *Cotton Fields* understands this with the quiet authority of a man who has no particular interest in explaining himself to you. That is, to put it plainly, a rather rare and wonderful thing.

Wes Carroll has the audacity to name his EP after a geological epoch that hasn't quite happened yet — or rather, one that is happening right now, all around us, in the receipts and the algorithms and the quiet despair of the checkout queue. It's a bold conceptual gambit, the sort of thing that could easily collapse under its own self-importance. That it doesn't is down to the fact that Carroll and his Confabulation are, first and foremost, musicians of considerable craft, and only second — a very close second, mind — are they polemicists.

Pop music has always traded in the currency of longing. From Dusty Springfield's orchestral heartache to Lana Del Rey's slow-motion melancholy, the genre's most enduring moments are invariably those that refuse to resolve — that hover, suspended, between the ending and the aftermath. Sabina Chantouria understands this instinctively. On *Can't Let You Go*, her latest single, the Swedish-Georgian singer-songwriter doesn't merely revisit familiar emotional territory; she excavates it, turning over the soil until she finds something luminous and uncomfortably true buried beneath.

**Norwich's finest purveyors of lovesick jangle pop have delivered something quietly devastating.** You know how certain songs arrive already worn-in, like a favourite jacket someone left behind — familiar before you've heard them twice, aching before you've worked out why? "Jacqueline," the second single from Norwich four-piece The Danphes, does precisely that. It lands softly, with no fanfare, no production trickery, no desperate bid for your attention. And yet, somewhere around the second chorus, you realise it has completely taken up residence inside your chest.

Rock music has always had a complicated relationship with geography. The genre was born in the American South, colonised by the British Midlands, and periodically reinvented by wherever nobody expected. Thun, Switzerland — a lakeside town more associated with Alpine postcards than distorted bass pulses — is not the first place you'd point to on a map and say: *here, this is where the next great rock band lives.* And yet Rivermind seem almost perversely determined to prove the absurdity of such assumptions.

**The Xan Crew's debut single arrives like a fist through drywall — blunt, purposeful, and surprisingly elegant about the damage it leaves behind.** San Francisco has always been a city that metabolises grief into movement. From the psychedelic dissolution of the Haight to the silicon-cold anxieties of the post-millennial Bay, its artists have a peculiar gift for wrapping personal catastrophe in something that makes strangers want to press their bodies together in dark rooms. Doctor House — the DJ and production duo of Jacob Chandler and the enigmatically monikered Kai — understand this tradition instinctively, even if they've arrived at it through pure feeling rather than studied geography.