The Ancient Unknown arrive with a chip on their shoulder and a grievance worth nursing. 'Separated', the second single from a debut album recorded at Steel City Studios — the Sheffield facility responsible for shaping the sonic architecture of Bring Me The Horizon, among others — is a song born of fury. Not the performative, market-tested fury of a band chasing algorithmic approval, but the kind that keeps you awake at three in the morning composing arguments to no one.

Rock and roll has always been most itself when it smells faintly of spilled beer and amplifier heat. The great recordings — the ones that burrow under the skin and refuse eviction — were never the ones that emerged from months of Pro Tools fussing and vocal pitch correction. They were the ones that captured a room, a moment, four or five human beings combusting together and somehow getting it on tape before the magic evaporated. The Broken Vinyls, a quintet out of Bloomfield, New Jersey, understand this with a bone-deep instinct that most contemporary guitar bands have long since abandoned in favour of streaming-friendly sheen.

Certain songs arrive in the world already armoured in sentiment, draped in the heavy brocade of theatrical tradition, and dare you to do anything at all interesting with them. Stephen Schwartz's *For Good*, that sweeping farewell duet from *Wicked*, is precisely such a song — the kind of composition that has been belted across a thousand West End and Broadway stages by voices of seismic proportions, accompanied by orchestras the size of small armies. The melody has been wrung, polished, and performed into a state of near-mythological familiarity. To approach it with a single piano and nothing else requires either extraordinary nerve or extraordinary trust — ideally both.

Oklahoma has never been the first address that springs to mind when cataloguing the great geographies of rock and roll. Tulsa conjures oil derricks and vast prairie skies before it conjures thunderous guitar work. And yet here are Beggars Whisky, four determined souls from that very city, arriving with a single whose title borrows from Oppenheimer's infamous Bhagavad Gita quotation — and, to their considerable credit, very nearly justifying the grandiosity of the claim.

Half a century is a long time to keep a secret. Pete Scales — psychologist by vocation, songwriter by compulsion — has spent the better part of fifty years writing songs that circulated only among the bar rooms, coffeehouses and church halls of the Syracuse-to-Ithaca corridor. *Blue Without You*, his career retrospective spanning recordings made between 1970 and 2001, arrives not with the fanfare of a comeback but with the quiet dignity of a man finally letting people into a room he has long kept to himself. The result is, rather unexpectedly, one of the more compelling singer-songwriter documents of recent memory.

*There are songs that arrive like a text message at 2am — you weren't expecting it, you're not sure what it means, but you cannot look away.* Aurealis understands this. The studio project, which has made something of a quiet vocation out of mapping the emotional fault lines where human connection trembles and shifts, returns with "Shadow of a Doubt" — a single that does something genuinely difficult in contemporary pop: it makes ambivalence feel urgent.

Love, as any honest songwriter will eventually confess, is not a single sustained note. It bends. It wobbles. It rises to frequencies that make the body ache and then, without warning, drops away entirely, leaving only the ringing silence of aftermath. On *Helium*, the gravitational centrepiece of 37 Houses' unflinching new record *When and How It Happened*, Erin Sydney and Jeremy Rosenblum do something that most artists with a microphone and a publishing deal would never dare: they document the exact sensation of floating away, and the terrible cost of being pulled back to earth.

The Damascene conversion is among the most arresting images in the Western canon. Blinding light, a fallen horseman, the voice of God cutting through the dust of the ancient road — it is the definitive metaphor for transformation so violent and complete that the self that arrives at the journey's end bears little resemblance to the self that began it. It is, then, a bold thing for a songwriter to lay claim to. Most who try mistake the word *spiritual* for *vague*, and produce something so airless and non-committal that it might serve equally well as a loyalty card jingle. Don Sechelski, with this quietly devastating new single, does not make that mistake.

Recorded on a warm August evening at a venue whose walls have absorbed decades of sweat, smoke, and sincere musical ambition, *Live at Your Local Waterhole* arrives not so much as a statement of intent but as something rarer and more valuable: a document of genuine pleasure. The Sven Curth Trio — expanded here to a quartet with the inspired late addition of keyboardist Chris Carballeira, who apparently required only one rehearsal to sound as though he'd been playing these songs his entire adult life — have produced a live record that does exactly what the best live records do. It makes you wish you'd been standing at the bar that night, drink in hand, wearing better shoes.

Country music has always understood something that rock and roll forgot somewhere around the third Oasis album: that the most sophisticated emotional architecture is usually built from the simplest materials. A clock. A scoreboard. A borrowed hour. Mitchell Broodley, a Vermont-based independent artist whose biography reads like a Cormac McCarthy subplot — South Carolina upbringing, abandoned Nashville dream, law career, hospital leadership, pandemic basement studio, improbable return — has grasped this truth with both hands on his new single, *Overtime Again*, and he wrings it with considerable skill.