My last post reminded me that I also really needed to share Told Slant, another band from the same New York scene as PWR BTTM that is doing equally important things for queer identity in music. The band centers on Felix Walworth's pained vocals, frank lyrics, and powerful drumming. However, Walworth, who goes by they/them/their pronouns, is frequently backed by other members of the burgeoning DIY collective known as the Epoch, such as Eskimeaux's Gabby Smith (who, by the way, just released a new EP) and Bellows' Oliver Kalb.

PWR BTTM is a self-proclaimed queer punk duo based in New York and comprised of Ben Hopkins and Liv Bruce. According to this interview, Bruce identifies as non-binary and prefers they/them/their pronouns, while Hopkins uses both he/him/his and they/them/their pronouns. Ultimately, the band seeks, in both their music and image, not to enforce labels but to break them down, achieving liberation through unapologetic self-expression.

Although I've seen the name around, my first real exposure to PWR BTTM was through their recent Tiny Desk Concert. Their presentation is certainly outlandish, which makes it hard to determine at first if they take themselves seriously or if it's all a big joke. As it turns out, the truth falls somewhere in between, with Hopkins' and Bruce's stage personas being exaggerated yet wholly genuine versions of their true identities. I quickly fell in love with both the scrappy precision of their performance, particularly Hopkins' guitar playing (the tone achieved on acoustic guitar for that delicious riff in "Ugly Cherries" is pretty impressive), and their utterly hilarious and witty between-song banter. Their devotion to glitter is also quite admirable (see below).

Anyway, as riveting as that performance is, I want to talk about a song that's not actually a part of it: "West Texas." On their debut album, Ugly Cherries, which was released last year, PWR BTTM alternates between softer, sweeter numbers (often sung by Bruce) and more blistering, in-your-face ones (often sung by Hopkins) that function as an improbable yet genius blend of glam rock and catchy, minimalistic DIY pop. "West Texas" falls more on the latter end of that spectrum.

Notable for Bruce and Hopkins' alternating lead vocals, the song's verses align with their personalities. Hopkins' is sarcastic and sneering: "You left New York for West Texas to avoid all of your exes/How ironic, but that is your thing." Bruce's, on the other hand, is affectionate and idealistic: "The stars above me are the same ones above you/I've been trying to play it cool, but I still love you." Driven by an irresistibly grungy guitar riff, piles of feedback, and explosive cymbal crashes, it manages to be a big, epic rock song despite being under three minutes with no chorus to speak of.

(Also, here's a random still from the video I can't quite figure out what to do with but is too heart-warming not to include.)

I'm not sure how, but I somehow end up listening to more new releases every year. 2016 is no exception: I've listened to a ridiculous amount of albums in the past three months. At first, it seemed like a case of quantity over quality, as I wasn't finding many that left a lasting impact. However, things ultimately picked up, which means I've already got a substantial list going. Some of them I already know aren't quite strong enough to hang on until the end of the year while others doubtlessly will.  At any rate, I sincerely believe they're all worth a listen.

I'm hoping to make several posts like this throughout the year in order to save myself from feeling compelled to write a bunch of reviews in December. Here's how it works: directly below, there's a Spotify playlist for those of you who want to quickly sample everything. Beneath that, if you need to be further convinced, are brief reviews of each album; their covers link to the full album in Spotify for maximum convenience. Read, listen, enjoy! And tell me about your favorite releases so far in the comments!

On her debut full-length, Varmints, composer Anna Meredith tackles electronic music from a classical perspective. In a surprising reversal of my usual tastes, I actually enjoy the instrumentals more than the vocal-centered tracks. With the exception of "Dowager," which is bolstered by some pretty infallible melodies, the voices are a bit too weak to fully carry them. Regardless, the album is a thrilling and refreshingly varied ride. It transitions seamlessly from the cyclonic sweep of brass in "Nautilus" to the baroque-styled army of synthesizers that populate "Scrimshaw" and "R-Type" to the stirring stringed finale, "Blackfriars." Ultimately, Varmints toes the line between experimentation and accessibility with ease and charm, even in its less polished moments.

Psychic Materials is Casey Mecija's solo debut, crafted as an intimate DIY affair following her long tenure in the Canadian indie band, Ohbijou. As per the suggestive title, it's a delightfully hazy concoction of shoegaze, dream pop, and psychedelia, as though the sugary melodies of Tennis (to whose Alaina Moore Mecija's voice bears a shocking resemblance) and the ethereal atmosphere of Beach House were blended until perfectly smooth. This results in the gauzy, layered tranquility that permeates tracks like "Palms Lose" and "Gonna Gun." That's not to say the album doesn't have its darker side: "Trust me when I say I'll be good, I'll be fucking good," Mecija croons repeatedly at the end of "We Feel the Same;" dripping with deadly sweetness, it's clearly more of a threat than a promise.

Even if you weren't aware that Caroline Polachek has spent the last few years hanging out with the likes of Dev Hynes and Beyoncé, their influence is obvious in the effortlessly cool convergence of R&B and electropop on Chairlift's third album, Moth. At the same time, the duo retains enough of the endearing quirkiness that marked their previous releases to dispel any concerns of the album being too derivative. It's hard not to fall head over heels for the laser-precise catchiness of "Ch-Ching" or the subtle emotional catharsis of "Crying in Public." And once those have reeled you in, you'll be handily won over by the melodic acrobatics of "Polymorphing" and the shatteringly intense vocals of "Unfinished Business." Now good luck getting any of them out of your head.

A big part of what makes Daughter's music so affecting is that Elena Tonra's lyrics are so eerily relatable. As she mumbles one piercing self-observation after another - "I hate walking alone/I should get a dog or something;" "Don't you think you'll be better off without me tied around your neck?" - you'll get chills down your spine at just how often they sound like your own inner thoughts given voice. Not to Disappear doesn't rely on lyrics alone to sell itself, though. Instead, the band stretches their musical muscles, adding more variety to their patented aching beauty. They move easily from shoegaze-y layering ("New Ways") to rollicking guitar rock ("No Care") and from emotive indie pop ("To Belong") to hushed acoustic balladry ("Made of Stone"). Throughout, the album's atmosphere and quality remain remarkably consistent.

I've mentioned before how excited I was to learn of Department M after the dissolution of Owen Brinley's previous - and massively underrated - band, Grammatics. After a handful of tantalizing singles, Deep Control arrives highly-anticipated, and while it never quite reaches the high bar set by Grammatics, it's a commendable attempt. Brinley's effortlessly elastic voice and abstractly evocative lyrics ("You'll reap just what you sow on this factory floor of widows, in this austere northern air") fit perfectly into these ominous, down-tempo electronic soundscapes. Moreover, he's accompanied by guest vocalist Snow Fox, whose light, ghostly presence counters the heavy, brooding synths and dark, sinuous melodies of highlights like "Bleak Technique," "Kill My Superstition," "Air Exchange," and "Surreal Life."

Emily's D+Evolution is that rare album that immediately sounds like the defining moment in an artist's career. It finds Esperanza Spalding seamlessly embellishing her jazz background with elements of pop, R&B, rock, funk, and musical theater. This mishmash of styles forms a loose narrative on what it means to be a black woman in America today, exploring themes of corruption ("Judas"), capitalism ("Ebony and Ivy"), oppression ("Operate or Elevate"), and, finally, emancipation ("Funk the Fear"). Perhaps nothing is more affecting than "Noble Nobles," lush mid-tempo soul that, under its pretty surface, quietly rages: "Manifest and lavish/God wants him to have this/And, without a doubt, believe his ends are noble/So the savage means are deleted from the scene/So we can believe that we are noble nobles/What a savage myth."

Heron Oblivion is a newly-formed band, but its members have long been a part of the so-called New Weird America/freak folk scene, having contributed to such bands as Comets on Fire, Six Organs of Admittance, Howlin' Rain, and Espers. Their self-titled debut stirs all of these past endeavors into a single melting pot of sound, coalescing in a heady blend of psychedelic rock and Appalachian folk that's as lovely as it is terrifying. Meg Baird's ethereal voice and lilting melodies float hauntingly atop imposing mountains of acid-soaked distortion and feedback. Sometimes, as on the ten-minute "Rama," this triggers a dark, druggy jam session. Other tracks are more streamlined, like the witchy "Oriar," while the hypnotic medieval swirl of "Seventeen Landscapes" defies categorization altogether.

Long Way Home is my biggest surprise of the year so far, as Låpsley's previous singles have been hit or miss for me, leaving me unsure of her ability to consistently deliver. On her debut full-length, Holly Fletcher does tend to rely too heavily on a limited bag of musical tricks; to her credit, she is only nineteen years old, and it's a pretty damn good bag of tricks. "Cliff" and "Painter" offer the most compelling use of her gimmick of pitch-shifting her already preternaturally soulful voice to an even lower and vaguely unsettling register. But Fletcher and her small team of collaborators also prove their songwriting prowess sans such distractions: "Heartless" and "Love Is Blind" are big electropop anthems of the finest order. For a teenager still settling into her musical niche, it doesn't get much better.

This may not be one of the best albums I've heard this year, but it's certainly one of the most compulsively listenable. Irish band Little Green Cars' sophomore effort, Ephemera, is full to the brim of smart, catchy indie pop that will have you itching to play it all over again before it's even ended. Vocal duty is split equally between Stevie Appleby, who tends toward reflective folk-rock, and Faye O'Rourke, who leans more in the direction of bombastic, '80s-influenced power pop. The end result is varied yet cohesive, with a little something for everyone: O'Rourke shines on the slickly emotive "Easier Day" and the soulful, stripped-down "Ok Ok Ok," while Appleby counters with the relentless, sprawling "The Party" and the quietly devastating acoustic closer, "The Factory."

If you're not immediately stopped in your tracks by the massive, gospel-infused chorus of "Madness," Good Grief's opening track, you might not actually be human. It's the most instantly gripping opener I've heard all year, and though it sets the bar incredibly high, the rest of the album lives up to its promise. The impeccably-matched harmonies of Holly Laessig and Jess Wolfe first steal the spotlight, selling rambunctious foot-stompers like "Gone Insane" and "Born Again Teen" just as easily as wrenching ballads like "Dusty Trails." But what'll keep you coming back are the hooks that drip endlessly from the band's sleeves. In fact, it's almost too much: its maximalist approach makes this an album best consumed in tantalizing spoonfuls rather than greedily devoured.

On their debut album, Mothers succeed at crafting a sound at once loose and meticulous; as much as it sounds like raw, unfiltered pain yowled into the echoing corners of a dusty room, each surprising turn has been mapped out with care. When You Walk a Long Distance You Are Tired falls somewhere on the spectrum between Hop Along and Angel Olsen, its sprawling, ramshackle nature tempered by mature songwriting. Kristine Leschper is the perfect mouthpiece for her lyrics' cynical themes, wielding equal control over vast, country-tinged ballads ("Too Small for Eyes," "Nesting Behavior") and teetering, bluesy rock ("It Hurts Until It Doesn’t," "Blood-letting"). The listening experience is catharsis itself, the listener collapsing in weary relief right alongside Leschper: "God is stuck singing himself to sleep/I am not the only one."

Cardinal is the type of slightly messy lo-fi album where everything bleeds together at first but comes into sharp focus with repeated listening. Seemingly unconcerned with genre, Pinegrove draw just as easily from alt-country influences as emo ones, their wandering melodies anchored to Evan Stephens Hall's conversational lyrics and twangy delivery. While bookends "New Friends" and "Old Friends" are charmingly candid ("I resolve to make new friends/I liked the old ones, but I fucked up"), the heart of the album lies in the emotional vulnerability of "Aphasia" and "Size of the Moon." Whether Hall is muttering idealistic promises ("One day I won't define myself by the one I'm thinking of") or spitting bitter regrets ("We had some good ideas, but we never left that fucking room"), it's all too painfully relatable.

By now, Ra Ra Riot is nearly unrecognizable as the band they used to be. Yet, as much as it hurts to reconcile myself to the fact that they're no longer making lushly-orchestrated chamber pop, there's an irresistible charm to Need Your Light's bombastic electronica. While it doesn't do anything particularly new or exciting, tracks like "Water," "Call Me Out," and "Suckers" are closer to the lush, intricate textures of the band's first two albums than their lackluster third. "Absolutely" and "Bouncy Castle," though simple and repetitive, with lyrics that verge on the inane, are so full of hooks begging to be hummed that their flaws are easy to forgive. The one constant across Ra Ra Riot's career has been Wes Miles' versatile voice, which works hard to sell even the most forgettable moments.

Last year, Sarah Neufeld made a name for herself beyond her tenure as Arcade Fire's violinist with Never Were the Way She Was, a stunning collaborative effort between herself and Colin Stetson. This year's The Ridge may be even more achingly beautiful. While some tracks mirror the complex polyphony of Never Were the Way She Was, others incorporate new elements, particularly Neufeld's haunting vocals. Her wordless ululation is accompanied by crashing percussion on the propulsive title track, complimenting rather than overpowering her lively violin-playing. "We've Got a Lot" is a pop song of sorts, breezy vocals and twisty violin overlapping to set off a battle between dark and light that rages until the brooding, ambiguous closer, "Where the Light Comes In," which presents no clear winner.

SVIIB serves as School of Seven Bells' swan song, completed by Alejandra Deheza in tribute to her musical partner, Benjamin Curtis, who died of cancer in the midst of the creation process. It's beautiful on its own but made tragically so by circumstances. Veiling the duo's most accessible melodies in the shoegaze-influenced haze they've become known for, it moves easily between more reserved and subtle electronic soundscapes ("Elias") and spun-glass dream pop concoctions ("Ablaze," "Open Your Eyes," "A Thousand Times More"). Along the way, it's hard not to read into the lyrics, which, beneath Deheza's sultry delivery, often sound like a painful coming-to-terms: "Open your eyes, love, because you've been sleeping/It's getting hard to bear watching you all alone... You are my pain, love/You are my sorrow."

Winterpills have been releasing consistently gorgeous albums that have consistently flown under the radar for more than a decade now. Case in point: I wasn't even aware that Love Songs was out until several weeks after its release, despite being a fan. While the album remains squarely within the band's wheelhouse of pleasantly mellow folk-rock, its lack of adventurousness is made up in sheer beauty. It helps that Philip Price has such a natural ear for melody, one geared less toward big, immediate choruses and more toward those insidious earworms you abstractedly find yourself humming. "Celia Johnson" and "Freeze Your Light," driven by Price's affable, everyman vocals, perfectly encapsulate this. Meanwhile, "Bringing Down the Body Count" makes me wish Flora Reed’s angelic, velvety whisper were given more turns in the spotlight.

Yndi Halda is an English post-rock outfit who released their debut album in 2006. Ten years later, its follow-up has finally arrived in the form of Under Summer. I'm glad I only just discovered the band because I don't think I could have survived the wait. For all intents and purposes, though, the album seems to have been worth it. Under Summer is comprised of four tracks, ranging in length from ten to eighteen minutes, that offer a compelling blend of acoustic serenity, electrified crescendo, and swelling orchestration. The patient unfolding of instrumentation is sporadically accompanied by hushed vocals and serene, nature-centered lyrics. The time and attention that has been poured into these four tracks is obvious; even after multiple listens, they remain as bracing as ever.