Heartbreak is rock'n'roll's most reliable landlord. It collects the rent in bruises and never stops knocking. Laji George, a New Yorker who has spent years fronting the alt-rock band Pseutopia, now steps out alone with *Out of Line*, his debut solo album. Its lead calling card, "Washed Away", takes the oldest wound in the book and asks the question Charlie Kaufman and Michel Gondry posed in *Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind*. If you could delete the person you loved and the grief along with them, would you?

Thirteen is an odd age to hand someone a guitar-shaped microphone and ask them to say something true. Most who try it hide behind borrowed phrases, safe choruses, the sound of an artist rehearsing adulthood rather than living inside it. Peter Melodist does something more interesting on "Fear": he sounds like a kid who has already worked out that rock music was invented for exactly this — for turning the unnameable stuff in your chest into something you can play loud.

There's a particular kind of racket that only comes from a band who've spent five years getting to know each other's bad habits before they ever plugged in together properly, and "No Pictures" — the new shot fired by Cardiff's Underlowe — has that racket in spades. This is a record built on trust, on the kind of shorthand that only exists between old friends and older riffs, and it announces itself with the confidence of a band who know exactly what they're doing, even if the world hasn't quite caught up yet.

Grunge, as a genre, has spent the better part of three decades ossifying into cliché — flannel, feedback, and the same four chords borrowed wholesale from Seattle and worn thin by imitators who mistook volume for feeling. Laji George, to his considerable credit, has no interest in that museum piece. "Sittin' Here Thinkin'," the latest single from his forthcoming record *Out of Line*, takes the bones of that sound and grafts onto them something stranger and warmer: soul phrasing lifted from Otis Redding, the rasp and swagger of Chuck Berry's rock and roll, and — improbably, gloriously — an accordion, wheezing away underneath the distortion like it wandered in from a French dockside bar and decided to stay.

Oceanless have never been a band content to sit still, and "Only For Tonight" confirms it with the swagger of a group who know exactly what they're doing to your Friday night nervous system. This is the sound of a band mid-transformation, caught somewhere between the sticky floors of a provincial indie disco and the queasy 4am comedown that follows it.

Alex Moran has always sung like a man arguing with his own memory, and on this second full-length under the Quiet as a Mouse banner, the argument finally gets resolved on his own terms. Ten years and several continents removed from the Scottish scene that first championed him — Edinburgh, the BBC Introducing slots, the Daily Record's breathless proclamations — Moran has arrived somewhere warmer, sadder and considerably more assured. The title tells you everything before the needle drops: nostalgia gets its due, then gets politely shown the door.

Basements have produced more honest records than studios ever will, and Rochester's Sipul understand this instinctively. *In The Still*, tracked entirely under guitarist James "Spaz" Spaziani's own hand in bassist Al Bellanca's basement, carries the particular intimacy of a record made by people who answered to nobody but themselves. No clock was watching, no invoice was ticking, and the result is a collection that breathes with the unhurried confidence of musicians who could chase a strange idea down a hallway simply because they wanted to see where it led.

There is a particular strain of British rock criticism that has always preferred its anger served loud, its metaphors mixed, and its sincerity worn like a chip on the shoulder rather than a badge on the lapel. It's the tradition that turned three chords into a manifesto and treated the seven-inch single as though it might genuinely change something. Modern Neutrals, five souls out of Blackwood who have spent a handful of years scuffing up the underbelly of South Wales' live circuit, sound like they were raised on that tradition rather than merely taught it. *Beach Theatre*, their latest dispatch, doesn't so much arrive as detonate.

Three teenagers from Espoo have made the kind of record that makes grown men reach for their old flannel shirts and pretend they never threw away the Sub Pop catalogue. Nooa, Rasmus and Kalle, all seventeen, bring fresh energy, youthful fury and an uncompromising attitude to the grunge tradition, and the result, mercifully, sounds nothing like a tribute act fumbling through someone else's adolescence. It sounds like their own.

Some records announce themselves quietly and then refuse to leave. Roan Grevel's debut single "Anna" is precisely that kind of arrival — the sort of thing you put on without ceremony and find yourself still thinking about three days later, unpacking its architecture piece by piece, realising the craft embedded in what initially felt like restraint.