Thomas Blake

With The Fallen By Watch Bird, Jane Weaver found a definitive and singular voice, sloughing off psych-pop signifiers for trancey, kraut-inspired rhythms and expansive synth flights. This expanded reissue, with ‘The Watchbird Alluminate’ (featuring various guests), confirms her lavish vision, blending folkloric dreaminess with motorik rhythms. It remains a crucial album in her oeuvre, proving Weaver was a progenitor of hauntology and freak folk whose formative work still stands up.

Jana Horn’s music creeps up on you; she occupies an in-between world where she works with such restraint and such a keen ear for the space at the centre of a song that it renders genre practically meaningless. She has the gift for breathing life and lived experience into her words, and this muted, wandering album is her best yet.   

Julianna Barwick and Mary Lattimore’s long-awaited collaboration, Tragic Magic, is a radiant masterpiece of experimental beauty. Utilising antique harps and vintage synths at the Philharmonie de Paris, the duo transcends “new age” tropes with dexterous, modernist compositions. From the futuristic sweep of “Stardust” to the poignant solace of “Melted Moon,” it is a confident, immersive album that lingers in the memory long after its last notes fade.   

Many Hands’ There are Moss Balls in Paradise is a decidedly earthy take on ambient music, rough at the edges and hauntingly human. Triggered by a child’s grief over a dead fish, Henderson’s restless, freewheeling vision treads the line between tranquillity and uncanny depth. It is a watery ode to humanity and our fragile relationship with the natural world.

New York/Berlin duo Church Car—Big Daddy Mugglestone and Ian Douglas-Moore—debut with Church Of, a remarkably coherent album that feels like traversing a surreal role-playing game. Blending analogue synth, zither, and field recordings, the pair shuttles between grainy psych minimalism and structured melodicism. It’s a puzzling, adventurous journey where improvisational noise and avant-rock sparring constantly evolve into something new and exciting.

Expertly curated by Nyahh Records, An Irish Almanac is a sprawling 32-track survey of Ireland’s avant-garde. Spanning two discs, it treats “noise” as a broad umbrella for everything from dark drones and “occult freak-folk” to playful vocal experiments. While no compilation of this kind could ever claim to be complete, this detailed panorama offers a transformative map of a shifting underground scene, bursting with grit, mystery, and playfulness.

It’s that tough time of the year again, when music writers feel like they’re throwing some of their favourite artists under the bus by not including them in their annual Top 10. But here are the ten albums that made it. From Shabason, Krgovich, Tenniscoats’ feather-light pop to Milkweed’s eerie folk and Ben Lamar Gay’s thrilling jazz, 2025 delivered essential, fearless, and deeply distinctive records.

Erlend Apneseth Trio and writer Erlend O. Nødtvedt collaborate on Black Hauge, an album that expertly fuses experimental Norwegian folk with the poetry of Olav H. Hauge. Using samples of the poet reciting his own work, the music employs techniques from plunderphonics and musique concrète to create stunningly original and often uncanny tracks. It’s an exploratory, free-folk journey. A stunningly original album that combines elements rarely seen together.

Honed by high-profile support slots, Glaswegian songwriter Iona Zajac delivers a fiercely feminist and dynamically shifting debut. Bang traverses dream-pop, folk minimalism, and moody alt-rock, channelling the raw intensity of upsetters like PJ Harvey. Zajac is a songwriter with important things to say and a willingness to say them loudly and with a laser-like focus. Bang is a remarkably accomplished, statement-making achievement.

The final volume of Jacken Elswyth’s essential Betwixt & Between series features singer and multi-instrumentalist Elspeth Anne and the historic Welsh male choir Côr Meibion Gwalia. Anne offers a bleak, beautiful midwinter landscape of drones and dark carols, while the choir provides lo-fi, spirited wassails full of strange magic. It is a fitting conclusion to a project documenting British folk at its most raw and boundary-pushing.

Mysterious UK producer U maps the rural history of Archenfield in this ambitious new album. Blending ambient textures, field recordings, and plunderphonics, U moves beyond simple folk music into a complex sonic collage. From the hauntological piano of “Urchins” to the chilling folklore of “Black Vaughan,” the album is a labyrinthine exploration of time, memory, and landscape that is constantly changing and profoundly engaging.

Matthew Broadley’s debut as Greet, I Know How To Die, is a genre-defying journey, a link between the uncanny and the everyday, a bridge between two worlds. Anchored by an eerie harmonium drone and folk-horror aesthetics, this is a hugely impressive debut that doesn’t shy away from difficult musical and lyrical subjects.