FLOOD

Pharoah Sanders and Floating Points have created a vintage vibe noir masterpiece for the 21st century.

“L.W.” is the fussier second half to the brutal “K.G.,” a glistening yin to its toughened yang.

On his first solo record in 30 years, Leary reconvenes Butthole Surfers–style caustic silliness.

This mini-box features fluidly funky outtakes from often-neglected album sessions, together with a mystery recording with George Harrison.

The Anglo-Franco icon discusses the ghosts that fill her recent album “Oh ! Pardon tu dormais…”

Gallo’s latest is more softcore, left-field hip-hop and gentle psychedelia than his usual punk/pop vibe.

The pair’s latest is a theatrical, diabolically abstract, and damningly depressive work with a blinding brightness at the end of the tunnel.

Younge’s bold new music/spoken word LP is his most stirring, politicized, and down-to-earth release to date.

Shaka King’s new movie examines the largely untold story of BPP Chairman Fred Hampton, whose assassination was instigated by the FBI.

Banhart walks us through his new exhibit “The Grief I Have Caused You,” which runs through March 20 in LA and virtually.

All the diversity on the oddly alluring neo-psych group’s fourth record doesn’t always make for great intrigue.

These Southern-rubbed and Philly-styled recordings open the vocalist up to a freedom she never experienced before or after.

Hall, Peter Yanowitz, and Matt Katz-Bohen on their new electronic art-rock noise record “Thanks for Coming.”

Between the reissue of his diary and the 2020 releases of his collab with brother Roger Eno and his first collection of film scores, it feels like we’re undergoing another Eno-aissance.

With a recent children’s book, a new single, and an up-coming EP, Raj Haldar proves he’s all in the family.

A deep dive into pop’s rare past with a man who made the journey bold, original, and downright frisky.

Tony Di Blasi and Robbie Chater talk collaboration, efficient songwriting, and David Berman following the release of their third LP.

This rare solo release from the Depeche Mode songwriter is memorably haunting.

The write raw-boned, ruined country anthems of “Strawberry Mansion” make it a neighborhood worth visiting.

These demos and fuller, remixed recordings show off more of the Albert-Ayler-meets-Iggy-Pop thing that Hell and his band probably intended.