Worcester County has not, historically, been mistaken for a hotbed of rock and roll ambition, but SilverHorizon's self-titled debut arrives with enough conviction to make a case for reassessment. Bryce Broberg, Connor MacEachern, and Kenny Snider have spent two years honing a sound that wears its influences openly — Two Door Cinema Club's melodic instinct, the swagger of The Strokes, Fontaines D.C.'s brooding intensity — without ever collapsing into pastiche. This is a trio confident enough to let its record breathe across thirteen tracks, and disciplined enough to make that sprawl feel purposeful rather than indulgent.

Forty-four years buried in a rehearsal space in Dracut, Massachusetts, and yet these tapes sound less like archaeology than prophecy. Marc Soucy, Jeff Carano and Ray Lavigne convened for barely two years, 1981 to 1983, and vanished before the wider world got a look in. What they left behind, freshly unearthed and lovingly restored across eleven tracks and just over an hour, is a document that makes a mockery of the idea that progressive fusion peaked and died with the seventies.

Now and again a record arrives that seems to have been assembled out of spite for the studio manual. "Almost Nothing," the new single and video from the Kansas solo project NO IDENTITY, is exactly that kind of record: a three-and-a-half-minute act of controlled sabotage, built almost entirely from a handclap that has been beaten, filtered, and dragged through enough distortion pedals to emerge sounding like a bass guitar dredged out of a septic tank. It shouldn't work. It works anyway, and works with a swagger that plenty of better-funded productions never manage.

"Dead Man Walking" arrives sounding less like a debut single and more like a reckoning — the kind of track that seems to have been dragged, kicking and bleeding, out of its creator rather than written. Zach Adams has built something here that wears its influences the way a boxer wears scars: proudly, and as proof of survival. You can hear Metallica's thunderous discipline in the rhythm section, Alice in Chains' woozy, narcotic melancholy curling through the vocal lines, and Black Sabbath's tar-black riffage lurking underneath it all like a fault line waiting to slip. And yet, remarkably, none of it feels borrowed. It feels inherited — passed down and then set alight.

Occasionally a piece of instrumental music arrives that refuses to explain itself, and thank heavens for that. "Bent Out of Shape," the second single from Peter Manning Robinson's forthcoming album *Excursions*, is one of those rare, disarming things: a piano piece that grins its way through the wreckage rather than wallowing in it.

Washington D.C. is not a city one associates with cosmic reverie. It is a place of marble certainties and men in identical ties, a town built to look permanent. So it is a small delight that from within its bureaucratic hum should emerge two musicians determined to sound like they've been beamed in from somewhere far softer and stranger. Chris Mathews-Larsen and Trae Tomko, working together as Youth in Government, have made a debut record that treats the guitar the way a lighthouse treats fog: not as an obstacle to be cut through, but as something to glow inside of.

Few subjects are as treacherous for a songwriter as mourning. Handle it clumsily and you end up with either mawkish greeting-card sentiment or the kind of icy detachment that mistakes coldness for depth. D.D.R. walks this tightrope with a confidence that feels almost unfair for a single. "Don't Tell Me How to Grieve" arrives not as catharsis dressed up in strings, but as something closer to a refusal — a clenched jaw set against the well-meaning platitudes of everyone standing at a respectful distance, nodding, offering casseroles and clichés.

Certain records turn up that refuse to whisper. David Scott Weaver's *Songs of Hope and Resistance* announces itself not with a knock but with a fist against the door, and once you've let it in, it doesn't leave the room until it's said its piece.

Healing, as a subject for pop and soul music, tends to arrive either oversold or undercooked: the grand gesture that mistakes volume for depth, or the whispered platitude that mistakes vagueness for tenderness. Keesha Blair's "Peaceful Power" manages the considerably harder trick of sounding both intimate and assured, a record that treats self-acceptance not as a slogan to be draped over a chorus but as a genuine emotional architecture, built line by line and held together by a voice that never once raises itself to prove a point.

There is a particular kind of song that arrives not as performance but as confession, and "Someone's Got To" belongs unmistakably to that lineage. CATLEA has not so much written a single as excavated one, and the result is a record that trades in the oldest currency pop music has — the ache of wanting to be loved, filtered here through the far harder discipline of learning to love yourself instead.