I leaned into the weirdness this year and kept my mind steady by seeking out the still in the sonic thrall. These albums are in no particular order, just how I wrote them down.
Gwenifer Raymond, Last Night I Heard the Dog Star Bark
Quiet as it's kept, fingerstyle guitar had a brilliant year that dug deep into and expanded upon the tradition. And yet, nothing quite like this record reaches into the dark crevasse to uncover something so brash and beautiful. Gwenifer Raymond, the Cardiff-born guitarist now based in Brighton, calls her music "Welsh Primitive," a clever play on what John Fahey wrought. For years, Raymond's music lingered in that shadow, but on Last Night I Heard the Dog Star Bark, she calls upon the mythology and folk horror tales of her homeland to imbue her music with a haunting hypnosis. You feel the thrash and burn of her fingers as she rushes up and down the fretboard, yet never lose sight of her intricate melodies. There, too, are moments to catch your breath as she slings a slow, mud-driven blues, but with a sense of creeping dread that ghosts follow not far behind. To this headbanger, Raymond's ferocious fingerstyle and percussive physicality create a one-woman speed metal band.
Ryan Davis & the Roadhouse Band, New Threats from the Soul
Why are folks just now catching up on Ryan Davis? I can wager a few guesses, but after following his decade across several forms of Midwestern indie-rock, punk and out-there exploration, I'm happy to welcome more of y'all into the fold. New Threats, however, does capture a little bit of everything that makes his music so dang homey: cosmic country-rock workouts that idle with mile-wide grins, blink-and-you-missed-it backroom bar witticisms that'd make great T-shirt slogans and a drawl that'll get you in trouble.
Peter Brötzmann / John Edwards / Steve Noble / Jason Adasiewicz, The Quartet
Peter Brötzmann's last performance serves as a brutal, yet touching swan song. One of the most intense voices on saxophone, this musical conversation goes beyond the night it was recorded, just months before his death in 2023 — an onslaught of full-frontal improvisation turns tender at a moment's notice, encompassing the uncompromising history of Brötzmann's music.
Los Thuthanaka, Los Thuthanaka
Los Thuthanaka's sonic collage isn't an either/or sound clash, but an and this and that celebration of queer being. Bolivian American siblings Chuquimamani-Condori and Joshua Chuquimia Crampton crunch overblown cumbia rhythms with psychedelic guitar, Andean folk melodies and noise in a chopped and screwed mindset — the distorted DJ tags acting as forms of witness. This is ancient music from the future.
Pastor Chris Congregation, West Virginia Snake Handler Revival "They Shall Take Up Serpents"
Somewhere in West Virginia's coal-mining country resides the last snake handler church. This once-thriving Appalachian sect takes Mark 16:18 to heart: "They will pick up snakes with their hands; and when they drink deadly poison, it will not hurt them at all." Ian Brennan, a field recording engineer who's recorded the likes of Tinariwen and Ramblin' Jack Elliott, captured the psychedelic frenzy of a two-hour service one Sunday. The caffeine-fueled, snake-bitten fervor feels dangerous and electric, backed by a hillbilly rock band tapping into a Stooges-style primitivism, the trance-like honky-tonk thrum soundtracking howling rants on taking ADHD meds, soap operas and the power of Jesus. Hallelujah and pass the serpent.
Silvana Estrada, Vendrán Suaves Lluvias
The first time I heard Brian Wilson's Smile, it was raining, but in my headphones — without a jacket or umbrella — I could've sworn I felt the sunshine. The only other time I've experienced this same musical ecstasy was with Silvana Estrada's Vendrán Suaves Lluvias, a lush, passionate album with maximalist gestures, yet not so grand to miss your heart.
Brìghde Chaimbeul, Sunwise
On her third album, Brìghde Chaimbeul relies less on collaborators to excavate the time, decay and drone of Scottish smallpipes. At moments, her attention to repetition and resonance recalls Terry Riley's meditative minimalism, but Chaimbeul's renewed exploration of folkloric forms seems to chase another modus operandi: It takes patience and presence to witness wonder.
Yara Asmar, everyone i love is sleeping and i love them so much
Yara Asmar doesn't make music that yearns for the past, but instead treasures the present with an alien, yet familiar space to reside. Splitting her time between Beirut and New York, themes of loss and longing are not far away from the Lebanese composer, yet these drifting, dreaming pieces — filled with music boxes, toy pianos and instruments invented and reconstructed — suggest another world worth making.
Habak, Mil orquídeas en medio del desierto
The twinkle of emo and blackened hardcore's crustier exteriors are not as odd bedfellows as they seem, but the Tijuana-based Habak make this basement-bred sound seem worthy of an arena. On past albums, the sonic dichotomy was stark, but thrilling; here, Habak holistically knits a caustic bark, atmospheric melodies and earthy textures together with rope and sweat.
Castle Rat, The Bestiary
When Castle Rat released its debut just last year, the band had an outrageous look and a retro sound. With The Bestiary, these fantasy-themed riff warriors craft an unmistakable identity. These intricate-yet-economical doom-metal anthems match the spectacle and splendor of Castle Rat's theatrical stage show, but with a stamp of longevity.
Read about more of NPR Music's favorite albums of 2025 and our list of the 125 best songs of 2025.
Graphic illustration by David Mascha for NPR.
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