There is a particular species of sadness that arrives not with the slam of a door but with the soft click of one being gently, almost apologetically, pulled shut. Kancheong22 — a name borrowed from the Singlish word for flustered, nervously on-edge, perpetually braced for something — has caught that sound and built an entire song around it. The result is one of the more quietly compelling indie pop singles to emerge so far this year: small in scale, large in feeling, and possessed of a formal ingenuity that rewards closer attention than its unassuming surface might initially invite.

British music has always done its finest work at the intersection of pain and defiance. From the bruised soul of Dusty Springfield to the barnstorming confessionals of Adele, this island has a particular gift for turning heartbreak into something that feels like a collective reckoning. Carmen Rose Davidson's **Make Sure** belongs squarely in that lineage — and it arrives, with rather impeccable timing, at a cultural moment crying out for exactly this kind of song.

The cover art alone demands pause. A smooth, bone-pale mask — long-nosed, eyeless, the kind of thing you might find at a Venetian carnival or abandoned in a forest after some half-forgotten ritual — lies cradled in the crook of driftwood, photographed with the damp, blue-grey gravity of a film still. It is an image that belongs somewhere between Ingmar Bergman's fever dreams and the sleeve of a late-period Talk Talk album, and it tells you, before a single note has been heard, that Kalligary is not here to make things easy for you.

Some bands arrive politely. They knock, they wait, they wipe their feet. Rubbish Party do not do this. They kick the door in — and if the press release is to be believed, vocalist Evan Zorn Von Berg has form with doors — and they demand you reckon with them on their own grotesque, magnificent terms.

**The finest songs are not written so much as excavated — pulled from somewhere deep and irreducible, where grief and gratitude have become indistinguishable from one another. Deborah Fitz knows this.**

Sheffield has long harboured a quiet genius for producing artists who refuse to be tidily categorised. The city that gave us the clipped electro-angst of the Human League and the baroque pop architecture of Pulp has, it seems, been quietly incubating something altogether more warm-blooded. Max Restaino — pronounced, lest you fumble it at a dinner party, REST-I-KNOW — is not the Sheffield you were expecting. And that, emphatically, is the point.