“We are not serious when we are 17.” But Billie Eilish has all the marks of a serious young lady and someone who we should indeed take seriously. At the age of sixteen she released the noteworthy Don’t Smile at Me, an EP created with the help of her older brother, Finneas O’Connell. The EP is comprised of the singles Copycat, Bellyache and Ocean Eyes and was posted two years earlier on Soundcloud when Eilish was just 14 years old. Critics hailed her music due to its depiction of a lost adolescent with bleached hair, dressed in oversized sweaters. With the album When We All Fall Asleep, Where Do We Go? and its strange title and shocking cover, Eilish and her dark hair flaunt their more obscure side. One is immediately struck with how well polished Finneas O’Connell’s production is after an intro in which Eilish jokingly mocks her brother for his Invisalign (a kind of invisible dental brace). The first track Bad Guy features an EDM beat which contrasts with the dreaminess of the subsequent Xanny. The rest of the album follows this trend, weaving together both harsh and soft songs combined with the mature lyrics of a girl who was diagnosed with Tourette’s at the age of 11 and speaks of Xanax and young girls descent into a hellish existence. In this mix of gloomy pop and creepy trap beats, Eilish excels. A real eye-opener. © Charlotte Saintoin/Qobuz

"The Ballad of Darren is the first legit [Blur] album since 13," Blur vocalist Damon Albarn recently told Consequence of Sound. Putting aside Think Tank (2003), which saw guitarist Graham Coxon's exit, and 2015's The Magic Whip (which was reportedly pieced together by Coxon after Albarn threw in the towel), that's 24 years. The world has changed… a lot. The band has changed… a lot. (Check out now-sober Coxon's entertaining memoir Verse, Chorus, Monster! for more on that.) But listening to "St. Charles Square," it's like Blur picked right back up from 1999. Coxon's woozy guitar is all over the place, a stumblebum determined to lead the way to fun. Albarn opens up the song by declaring "I fucked up" and unleashes fright-show screams and haunted-house howls. It could have been right at home on 13, and it's a delight. "Barbaric" sounds crisp and sunny—maybe the sunniest song Blur has ever done, versus the blinding camp of, say, "Girls & Boys"—even as the lyrics devastate:  "And I would like if you've got the time/ To talk to you about what this breakup has done to me/ I have lost the feeling that I thought I'd never lose." "Where are you now? Are you coming back?" Albarn asks on "Russian Strings," which is almost Pulp-like in its melodrama ("There's nothing in the end, only dust/ So turn the music up/ I'm hitting the hard stuff"); Coxon's guitar is louche and lush and piercing. Produced by James Ford, a favorite of bands looking to refresh (Depeche Mode, Pet Shop Boys), The Ballad of Darren sounds luxuriant even in its most simple moments, like "The Everglades." There's a rich lounge feel, not to mention smooth Motown cool, on "The Ballad" and "Avalon," with layered backing vocals. The latter track, which works itself up into a pulsating chorus, is named for the mythical island where King Arthur's Excalibur sword was legendarily made and finds Albarn wondering,"What's the point in building Avalon/ If you can't be happy when it's done?" There's a similar theme on "Far Away Island," with its romantic carnival music, and a feeling of longing but also release in relief on songs like "Goodbye Albert" and the terrific "The Narcissist." Starting off rhythmically, almost like the Killers, that song lights up as Coxon's echo duet kicks in, sweetly repeating Albarn's words. It culminates in a catharsis of guitar noise, equal parts exorcism and celebration, once Albarn has examined the past pitfalls of fame ("Looked in the mirror/ So many people standing there/ I walked towards them/ Into the floodlights/ I heard no echo") but also lessons learned for the future: "I'll be shining light in your eyes/ You'll probably shine it back on me/ But I won't fall this time." The Ballad of Darren ends with "The Heights," a stunner that feels comfortably familiar (think "The Universal," "Coffee and TV") and builds to a buzzing swarm of feedback, putting an exclamation point on this chapter of Blur. © Shelly Ridenour/Qobuz

The tenth studio album from Sufjan Stevens is conceptually looser than 2015's acclaimed Carrie and Lowell, about his complicated relationship with his mother, an addict who suffered from bipolar disorder and schizophrenia, and the stepfather who brought both levity and depth to Stevens' life. That said, Javelin is more like a greatest-hits of the topics that have always pervaded his music: love and loss and what if; faith and higher power. Modest (but not simple) guitar, an Up-with-People style choir and soft but deeply booming drums create a cocoon-like atmosphere on "Everything That Rises"—a safe space for Stevens to implore "Jesus lift me up to a higher plane ... before I go insane." Folky "A Running Start" captures that weird, suspended-in-amber moment before a first kiss, with Sufjan singing, "I cross my arms to shield my heart." "Will anybody ever love me?/ For good reasons/ Without grievance, not for sport?" he questions on the lovely "Will Anybody Ever Love Me," its stacks of vocal layers almost disorienting. Piano-driven "So You Are Tired" ("So you are tired of us ... So you are tired of even my kiss ... So you are dreaming of after … I was the man still in love with you/ When I already knew it was done") re-creates the helpless feeling of someone falling out of love with you. But Stevens is aware of his own power, too, on "Javelin (To Have And To Hold)," a metaphor symphony of near-misses and regrets. "Searching through the snow/ For the javelin I had not meant to throw right at you," he sings as backing vocals blow behind him like a chilled wind. (Adrienne Maree Brown, Hannah Cohen, Pauline Delassus, Megan Lui and Nedelle Torrisi lend harmonies to the songs.) Musically, Javelin is not so far from Carrie and Lowell's quiet beauty; "My Red Little Fox" manages to bottle the sort of Elliott Smith melancholy Stevens has used in past songs like "Should Have Known Better." But this time around, his emotions cannot be contained in one space. So many of the hushed, even delicate moments here bloom into something much bigger—the big burst on  "Goodbye Evergreen" could fit either a marching band or the Flaming Lips. And "Shit Talk" stretches for a luxuriant eight-and-a-half minutes as Stevens seeks security and comfort while accompanied by The National's Bryce Dessner on clear, bright guitar. "Hold me closely/ Hold me tightly/ Lest I fall," the verses start off like a prayer, before Stevens' tone twists into anguish.The song grows to pandemonium—feminine and masculine voices separating and taking sides but ultimately yearning for the same thing—before fading into a lengthy instrumental interlude: the inhale and exhale of life. It all ends with a stripped-down cover of Neil Young's "There's a World"; freed of the original's London Symphony Orchestra grandeur, the song appropriately becomes more vulnerable, its belly exposed. © Shelly Ridenour/Qobuz

As far as sophomore slumps go, bands have done a whole lot worse than The Black Crowes. Their debut, Shake Your Money Maker, blew through the stultified 1990 mainstream rock scene with a shameless pillaging of southern rock, Memphis soul, and arena swagger that may have been largely unoriginal, but was delivered with such infectious, sleazy sincerity that it was unsurprising that it racked up hit after hit and wound up going multi-platinum. A clear fork in the road presented itself to the band when it came time for the follow-up: Continue being the best bar band in America or dig in and make an "artistic statement" that risks derailing their ascent like so many other bands before them? Well, apparently the Crowes said "Why not both?" and emerged with The Southern Harmony and Musical Companion, in which they dove even deeper into their roots to emerge with a singular take on gutbucket Americana. Still thick with the charm and audaciousness that defined the best moments on Money Maker, the 10 tracks of Southern Harmony are all-killer-no-filler, yet still remarkably dynamic in tone and tenor. Although the opening fusillade of "Sting Me," "Remedy," and "Thorn in My Pride" front-loads the album with its biggest hits, the album truly reveals its treasures when it moves past those straightforward rockers and ballads and gets murkier. Having enlisted a new guitarist (Marc Ford) and keyboardist Eddie Harsch, the band's sonic palette had grown and matured, so on cuts like "Black Moon Creeping" and "My Morning Song," the brothers Chris and Rich Robinson get to flex their weirdo urges and stretch out into proto-jam-band territory. And yes, there's a cover here, but instead of a barnstormer like Otis Redding's "Hard to Handle," it's a cathartic, soulful take on Bob Marley's "Time Will Tell." While Southern Harmony didn't sell quite as well as its predecessor, its chart hits and double-platinum status were none too shabby, and, when combined with the album's creative accomplishments, it positioned the band as a long-term artistic contender rather than a good-time supernova. This incredible anniversary edition excellently expands on that theme, delivering unreleased outtakes, live-in-studio performances, and a fierce live concert that show just how powerful and inspired the Crowes were during this era. © Jason Ferguson/Qobuz

It all starts with an Acid-stretched (the 1990s software program) vocal loop of indeterminate origin before the rhythm reveals itself. And that exact combination heralds the return of the Chemical Brothers, with their first new full length in four years. It's a subdued, weird, and slyly eclectic release. Beautiful Feeling isn't situated in any way close to the chill out room, but one supposes it's more suited to the pace that middle-aged bodies can dance to than the all-out assaults the UK-based duo leveled us with in the 1990s.The shimmering, k-hole-dropping "Feels Like I Am Dreaming" and the dissonant track four "Goodbye" are the real treats here; "Goodbye" is its own revelation. The distorted organs collide atop each other and a lovely house vocal sample, with a slew of sci-fi arpeggios beneath it all but the Brothers are not avant-garde. They never let it get weird for too long, but they know how to push an envelope or two. The beat isn't composed of a thousand cats yawning in sync; that beat sounds like a maxed-out 808 and you want to go to carpentry school just to learn how to raise the roof for it (sorry).That bass line which propels "No Reason" is straight-up future funk like one might have heard in a Paris club in 1999. Except not; the production is too of-the-moment, its structure a bit too perfectly skittery. Likewise, "Fountains" pits almost Caribou/Manitoba-style leftfield elements (and some downright ELP-worthy keyboard wankery) with four-on-the-floor crunch and very light funk vocals."Skipping Like a Stone," with Beck, is a sweet reminder that the 53-year-old can really hit falsettos well when he wants to.  Just when you think there might not be enough block rockin' beats, songs like "Magic Wand" and "The Weight" drop heavy funk in recombinant glory. The Chemical Brothers were of course one of the first to bring underground sounds to worldwide arenas. And sure, part of that has to do with the kind of spectacle they worked to create—something that Daft Punk and deadmau5 would later adopt, finesse, and blow to the sky so high that it was dead before it hit the ground. The reason the Chemical Brothers still matter is that they're still so good, and we need them. Even when they're treading water and not exactly innovating, that water's the perfect temperature, filled with really good looking people, and with promise of one heck of a fun weekend. © Mike McGonigal/Qobuz

In four albums, Worrisome Heart (2008), My One And Only Thrill (2009), The Absence (2012) and Currency Of Man (2015), Melody Gardot has managed to sneak in between Diana Krall and Norah Jones to also find her place in the selective club of the female singers that are “a bit jazzy but not too much”, this oneiric cast that was so popular during the 50s, and in which she soon made the singularity of her very sensual voice resonate. A voice that she ceaselessly took touring to locations all over the world, and multiple times over at that. And so, there are enough recordings in the cellar to release a live album. However, live discs are rarely a must. There is often something missing, this small impalpable thing, that only those present that night will have kept inside of them… This Live In Europe from Melody Gardot is lucky to have kept, precisely, this “small thing”… The American has probably meticulously built it (apparently, she has listened to more than 300 recordings before making her decision!) by avoiding the true-false best of. “Someday, someone told me, ‘never look back, because there’s no way you’re going back’, she says. It’s nicely said, but if you don’t look back sometimes, it’s hard to see that time is on the verge of catching up to you. We all need to quickly look back into the rear-view mirror from time to time in order to adjust our trajectory. This disc is precisely that, the rear-view mirror of a 1963 Corvette, a postcard of our touring all over Europe. We spent most of our time on the road these last few years, and we’ve taken advantage of this trip to not only get around and get some fresh air but also to try, as much as possible, to get rid of the rules and create something exciting. I’ve been dreaming for years of releasing a live album like this one.” This desire can be felt in every moment of this disc comprised of titles recorded in Paris, Vienna, Bergen, Amsterdam, Frankfurt, Barcelona, Lisbon, Zurich and London. Whether she performs her hits Baby I'm A Fool and My One And Only Thrill or covers the classic Over The Rainbow, Melody Gardot offers up a different point of view, but it’s always an open performance. To help her in her introspective trip that is constantly shifting, she is surrounded by her impeccable musicians, discreet but decisive. Drummer Charles Staab, saxophonist Irwin Hall and bass player Sami Minaie are completely in tune with her singing, like some kind of thin hand that you take and only let go of after the last note. Finally, there is this album cover which will lead to extensive press coverage… or not. © MD/Qobuz

Collecting up the seven albums recorded for the Atlantic label between October 1973 and December 1978 by the double bassist and composer Charles Mingus, as well as an entire album of previously unreleased alternative pieces, this magnificent box set captures the legendary jazz musician’s last major creative period before Charcot's disease would take his life prematurely in January 1979, at the age of just 56. While some of the records in this set have been enshrined in Mingus' discography’s pantheon since their release, others, for years, have been the victims of ignorance and carried less favourable reputations. Everyone respects the twin albums Changes One and Changes Two, recorded by the double bassist in 1974 at the head of a brand new quintet, during the same exact session. Propelled by the drums of the faithful Dannie Richmond, and featuring two newcomers to his galaxy, saxophonist George Coleman and pianist Don Pullen, these are traditionally recognised as his ultimate masterpieces. One of the great virtues of this compilation is that it allows us to appreciate the entire period with the benefit of hindsight, and appreciate the rest of his oeuvre. A few tracks deserve to be singled out: the freshness and bluesy charisma of Three or Four Shades of Blues, recorded by Mingus in 1977 at the head of an expanded band, features the talents of three young guitarists destined for greatness: Larry Coryell, Philip Catherine and John Scofield. The baroque luxuriance of the two long orchestral suites on the album Cumbia & Jazz Fusion, conveys subliminal dialogue between Duke Ellington and Nino Rota in a dreamy Latin context. The musician's last recording, the very moving Me Myself An Eye written and whilst confined to a wheelchair and obliged to accept the dual role of composer and supervisor of the session which, despite the conditions, vibrates throughout with an inextinguishable power of life. © Stéphane Ollivier/Qobuz

It was designed to be a blockbuster and it was. Prior to Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, Elton John had hits -- his second album, Elton John, went Top 10 in the U.S. and U.K., and he had smash singles in "Crocodile Rock" and "Daniel" -- but this 1973 album was a statement of purpose spilling over two LPs, which was all the better to showcase every element of John's spangled personality. Opening with the 11-minute melodramatic exercise "Funeral for a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding" -- as prog as Elton ever got -- Goodbye Yellow Brick Road immediately embraces excess but also tunefulness, as John immediately switches over to "Candle in the Wind" and "Bennie & the Jets," two songs that form the core of his canon and go a long way toward explaining the over-stuffed appeal of Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. This was truly the debut of Elton John the entertainer, the pro who knows how to satisfy every segment of his audience, and this eagerness to please means the record is giddy but also overwhelming, a rush of too much muchness. Still, taken a side at a time, or even a song a time, it is a thing of wonder, serving up such perfectly sculpted pop songs as "Grey Seal," full-bore rockers as "Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting" and "Your Sister Can't Twist (But She Can Rock & Roll)," cinematic ballads like "I've Seen That Movie Too," throwbacks to the dusty conceptual sweep of Tumbleweed Connection in the form of "The Ballad of Danny Bailey (1909-34)," and preposterous glam novelties, like "Jamaica Jerk-Off." This touched on everything John did before, and suggested ways he'd move in the near-future, and that sprawl is always messy but usually delightful, a testament to Elton's '70s power as a star and a musician.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

Teddy Swims amassed a big enough following through his YouTube covers of Michael Jackson, Shania Twain, and Amy Winehouse to earn himself a major label deal. After signing with Warner Bros. in early 2020, the Georgia-based singer kicked off a prolific string of one-off singles and EPs that tested the range of his powerhouse voice. After three years, he finally landed a charting hit with 2023's torchy "Lose Control," the lead single from his debut album, I've Tried Everything But Therapy, Pt. 1. Swims' music lives somewhere between vintage soul, classic rock, and contemporary pop balladry with a bit of a country kick. Surrounding his breakout single are nine more tastefully arranged songs aided by a committee of producers and hitmakers like Ammo, Julian Bunetta, and John Ryan. Emotional opener "Some Things I'll Never Know" is a dusky piano ballad that feels like a custom-built showpiece, but deeper cuts like "The Door" and "Flame" are a little more interesting, each with its own moody, late-night vibe and pleasingly organic feel. Swims' voice sounds comfortable and lived in and the songs generally serve this effect without going too far over the top into abject showiness. He's come a long way since fronting local Atlanta rock and soul bands and his experience shows on this debut.© Timothy Monger /TiVo

With Breakfast in America, Supertramp had a genuine blockbuster hit, topping the charts for four weeks in the U.S. and selling millions of copies worldwide; by the 1990s, the album had sold over 18 million units across the world. Although their previous records had some popular success, they never even hinted at the massive sales of Breakfast in America. Then again, Supertramp's earlier records weren't as pop-oriented as Breakfast. The majority of the album consisted of tightly written, catchy, well-constructed pop songs, like the hits "The Logical Song," "Take the Long Way Home," and "Goodbye Stranger." Supertramp still had a tendency to indulge themselves occasionally, but Breakfast in America had very few weak moments. It was clearly their high-water mark.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

As on their 2006 covers album Yeah!, British hard rock giants Def Leppard make a surprisingly enjoyable meal out of what is usually a predictable exercise. Drastic Symphonies is not an album of new material, nor even entirely new recordings. A collaboration with London's Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, it's a symphonic reimagining of 16 career-spanning songs, including well-known hits and a smattering of deep cuts. Blending their original multi-track recordings with new overdubs to fit the theme, Drastic Symphonies is a pastiche of new and old ideas that, more often than not, reflects the sturdy pop construction on which their career was built. There was always a bit of romantic grandeur to Def Leppard's strain of lush glam metal, especially on early classics like "Too Late for Love" and "Bringin' On the Heartbreak," both of which get full orchestral treatment here. Joe Elliott, still in fine voice, can often be heard singing new leads atop the giant stacks of Mutt Lange-produced harmonies that became their '80s hallmark. Some songs are significantly altered, with only the occasional guitar solo poking out, while others sound very close to their original mixes, albeit with a bit of melodic sweetening from one of the world's great orchestras. The dense and swirling "Paper Sun," from 1999's Euphoria, is a highlight, punching up Def Leppard's original into something more thrilling and cinematic, and their 1987 smash "Animal" is practically built for the kind of pomp it receives here. Of course, any project like this is a mixed bag, and ironically, their biggest hit is Drastic Symphonies' biggest misfire. Naturally, they had to include "Pour Some Sugar on Me," but its stripped-down romantic duet arrangement falls flat without its glammy fizz. Overall, though, the band comes off much better than expected.© Timothy Monger /TiVo

A portrait of the artist as a young man, The Nightfly is a wonderfully evocative reminiscence of Kennedy-era American life; in the liner notes, Donald Fagen describes the songs as representative of the kinds of fantasies he entertained as an adolescent during the late '50s/early '60s, and he conveys the tenor of the times with some of his most personal and least obtuse material to date. Continuing in the smooth pop-jazz mode favored on the final Steely Dan records, The Nightfly is lush and shimmering, produced with cinematic flair by Gary Katz; romanticized but never sentimental, the songs are slices of suburbanite soap opera, tales of space-age hopes (the hit "I.G.Y.") and Cold War fears (the wonderful "The New Frontier," a memoir of fallout-shelter love) crafted with impeccable style and sophistication.© Jason Ankeny /TiVo

In 2010, ECM released Jasmine, an informal archival recording of standards between old friends who hadn't worked together in over three decades. The recordings were made at Keith Jarrett's Cavelight home studio in 2007. The nine tunes on Last Dance are taken from those same sessions. There are two alternate takes of tracks from the earlier album. "Where Can I Go Without You" is played at a similar tempo, yet offers more lyricism from Charlie Haden. Gordon Jenkins' "Goodbye," a well-known Benny Goodman theme, closes the set, but it's slower here, more emotionally resonant; almost poignant in the way it reveals something deeper than its articulation on the earlier volume. Thelonious Monk's "'Round Midnight" has been done by Jarrett before, but here it is offered with a curious, almost strange intro. As it unfolds, it reveals an affection for its melody that he's not previously displayed. Haden's confident ability to assert the correct note for each phrase has long been a trademark in his playing, but the warmth he offers to it here is remarkable. He remains open and inquisitive about its lyric rather than engaging in a nostalgic presentation. He knows there are still possibilities inside its framework. "Everything Happens to Me" is more uptempo, but far from quick. Haden's woody tone and impeccable swing add dimension to Jarrett's songlike pianism in the melody and solo. Bud Powell's "Dance of the Infidels" is not played with breakneck athleticism, but is sprightly and fluid. Jarrett digs with delight into the intricate melody, offering a punchy sense of reflexiveness in his solo, while Haden strides along. In his own solo, the bassist once more peels back the skin in the harmony and finds hints of several other melodies all placed within different sections of the tune's body. The elegance in the presentation of Cole Porter's "Everytime We Say Goodbye" reveals the pair's confidence in their interplay. They don't overstate anything; the music provides meaning all on its own. They relax into its beauty playing toward one another as hints, suggestions, and references to popular music history bridge the space between. Last Dance is a necessary addendum to Jasmine; it fleshes out the confident, mature, amiable, and eloquent speech in the canonical language these two jazz masters share.© Thom Jurek /TiVo

Since several of the songs here are the type that would get requested (such as "People," "The Girl from Ipanema," and "The Days of Wine and Roses") in the mid-'60s, this particular Oscar Peterson CD reissue would not seem to have much potential, but the pianist mostly uplifts the material and adds a few songs (such as his own "Goodbye, J.D." and John Lewis' "D & E") that probably no one asked for. Overall, this is a reasonably enjoyable Oscar Peterson session, featuring bassist Ray Brown and drummer Ed Thigpen.© Scott Yanow /TiVo