Mark Heffernan, recording under the name Pocket Lint, has always behaved like a man rummaging through a junk drawer for treasure, and on *Wunderkammer* he finally builds the cabinet to put it in. The conceit is a cabinet of curiosities, each song a glass case, each glass case holding something slightly unsettling that catches the light. It is a tidy organising principle for an artist whose previous work scattered its ideas like loose change, and it suits him. Heffernan has stopped emptying his pockets onto the table and started arranging the contents.

Subtlety was never going to be on the rider, and thank goodness for that. Leather Laces arrive masked, militarised and entirely without irony, and their second full-length swings its riot shield with the conviction of a band who know precisely what they're for. *Intercontinental Ballistic Music* is exactly the album its title promises: a nine-track bombardment delivered with such gleeful precision that it's hard not to surrender to it completely.

Oldham has given us many things, but rarely has it given us a band quite so determined to sound like four decades of post-punk and stadium-rock distilled into a single, sweaty rehearsal room — and rarely has the gamble paid off so handsomely. Mercy Kelly, once a five-piece, have shed two members and emerged leaner, hungrier, and considerably more thrilling for it. *Summer of Silence* is the sound of a band finding exactly the shape it was always meant to be in.

Twenty tracks is a lot of evidence to submit on one's own behalf, and Dorian, an independent artist who has built his following one TikTok clip and one streaming playlist at a time, submits it without flinching — and the evidence holds up. *The Collection* arrives billed as a "best of," a claim usually reserved for careers with rather more grey hair attached to them, but pop's timeline has compressed so dramatically that a few years of consistent, well-loved releases now genuinely earns a victory lap. Played end to end, the record makes its own case convincingly: this is a catalogue worth gathering up, not padding out.

Three tracks, two of them recycled and one of them new, and the whole exercise lands with the unhurried confidence of someone who has stopped trying to prove anything. Amanda Emblem made her case last September with *The Wood*, a ten-track album that stretched out, took its time, and asked listeners to settle in for the long haul. This EP does the opposite. It is *The Wood* with the fat trimmed and the bones rearranged, and the surgery suits it.

There's a particular kind of record that arrives not as an event but as a conversation already in progress, and *Grey Light*, the new four-track EP from Brooklyn transplant Tasha Solomita, is exactly that sort of record. You don't so much listen to it as eavesdrop on it, the way you might catch the back half of an argument through a thin apartment wall and find yourself unable to walk away until you know how it ends.

Grief makes terrible company at parties but excellent company on record, and Ben Ripani has clearly spent enough time with it to know the difference. *Pangea*, the Nashville-via-Chicago singer-songwriter's new EP, arrives stripped of the usual scaffolding that lesser records lean on to disguise thin material — no hooks engineered for radio, no choruses built by committee, just a man who went quiet for years and came back with a notebook full of things he could no longer keep to himself.

Cyprus seems an unlikely launchpad for interstellar travel, but Aeon Hyper has never been much interested in the obvious route, and that's precisely his gift. A Greek-born former Cornell student of philosophy and literature, he arrives at synth-pop already fluent in its grammar, then bends that grammar into something distinctly his own. *Space Cowboy*, his debut, sets out to chart a journey from Earth into hyperspace, and it makes good on that promise with real confidence and considerable charm.

Pop music has spent decades pretending that love resolves into a single, seamless organism — two halves clicking into a whole, the credits rolling on "happily ever after." Chiara Castello and Camilla Benedini, who record as I'm Not a Blonde, arrive at a more honest arithmetic. Their fourth album insists that 1+1 doesn't equal 2 but 11: two intact digits standing shoulder to shoulder, refusing to collapse into each other. It's a clever conceit, and rarer still, the record actually earns it.

Television scoring is a strange trade. The composer labours in service of someone else's narrative, hitting marks set by editors and producers, and rarely gets to step out from behind the curtain to take a bow. Chris Wirsig, the Los Angeles-based composer behind the atmospheric backbone of "Ancient Aliens" and "The Curse of Oak Island", has finally taken that bow. *Case Closed* gathers five cues from his work on "Crimes Gone Viral", "Celebrity Crime Files" and "Sin City Murders" and sets them loose without the grainy reconstructions and breathless narration they once served — and the music turns out to be sturdy enough to stand entirely on its own feet.