In 2025, my favorites weren’t defined by genre so much as by a specific tension: pop clarity colliding with something unresolved. I kept returning to songs with obvious hooks and repeatable structures, but also a deliberate wrongness—frayed textures, strange production choices, or a hollow center that refused catharsis. Dance and body motion mattered, yet the emotional arc often stayed suspended: desire looping, doubt lingering, identity re-edited rather than “solved.” Nostalgia showed up constantly, but never as cosplay; it was curated and re-timed for now. The best tracks felt polished and handmade at once—built to move, built to haunt.
“JRJRJR” lands like a blunt-force reintroduction: Jane Remover pushes rage-rap maximalism to the limit and uses it to redraw their silhouette in real time. The production is all overload—distortion walls, polyrhythmic synth glare, a beat that feels engineered to punch through the skull—yet the center isn’t bravado, it’s negation. They reject an older self, reject the version listeners think they want, and still can’t fully escape the archive. That’s the twist: the inner rampage doesn’t erase the past so much as repurposes it, sampling memory into ammunition. It’s self-mythology written as self-sabotage, exhilarating and uneasy at once.
“X” sells its Y2K dance-pop nostalgia with disarmingly simple weapons: a clear hook, a sticky loop, a chorus that feels built for replay. But it never collapses into lightweight throwback. Lexie Liu keeps the surface glossy while slipping in an indie-cool chill—space in the mix, slightly abrasive textures, and modern club accents that sharpen the silhouette. The result feels less like cosplay and more like curation: early-2000s pop grammar rewritten with 2025 timing. Even when the song is at its most straightforward, the production choices add a strange edge, making the track feel confident rather than cute. It’s nostalgia with taste—and teeth.
“DAISIES” is a fascinating late-career pivot: among the megastars who emerged in the 2010s, Justin Bieber is the one making pop that feels most natively 2025. The song is impeccably structured—chorus-first gravity, clean melodic logic—yet it’s textured like something handmade. You can hear room air and rough edges: smudged guitar, slightly frayed percussion, a vocal that sits closer to the mic than to the spotlight. That friction is the hook. The daisy-petal metaphor turns relationship doubt into a small, obsessive ritual, and the production mirrors it—polished form with introspection seeping through the seams. It’s pop built to last, but it trembles on purpose.
“Stateside” shows PinkPantheress widening her palette without losing her core addiction: repetition as a spell. Instead of leaning on her familiar drum’n’bass loopiness, she opens into a brighter UK club framework that still prioritizes the body—crisp drums, staccato synth cuts, a groove designed for movement. Around that pulse, she threads a warm 2000s pop afterglow, the kind that feels like radio memory rather than nostalgia cosplay. What stays unmistakably Pink is the emotional temperature: cool, self-observing, slightly detached, letting desire run in circles instead of resolving. The hook doesn’t climax; it recurs. That controlled loop is the thrill.
“What Was That” looks like a return to Lorde’s Melodrama mode—midnight synth-pop, the rush of a dancefloor memory—but the real statement is how little it detonates. The track stays minimal and oddly hollow, as if the beat is moving while the center refuses to arrive. Jim-E Stack’s space and Daniel Nigro’s pop contour keep everything clean and controlled, leaving Lorde’s voice to carry the unease: not catharsis, but self-auditing. Even the title feels like a check at the door—an afterimage you can’t cash in. It’s dance music as a quiet interrogation: nostalgia with the bass turned up, closure left out.
「What Was That」は、一見すると『Melodrama』的な情緒ダンスポップへの回帰に見える。夜の記憶を呼び戻すシンセの質感、身体を前へ運ぶビート、感情の劇場——要素は揃っている。だが核心は、そこで爆発しないことにある。曲はミニマルで、妙に内省的で、中心が空洞のまま進む。ビートだけが動き、着地すべき場所が意図的に欠けている感触が残る。Jim-E Stackの空間設計とDaniel Nigroの輪郭づけが、音を整えながら“余白”を固定し、Lordeの声が不安だけを運ぶ。タイトルの問いもカタルシスではなく検問であり、回想の高揚をそのまま回収不能にする。これは踊れるのに解決しない、静かな尋問としてのポップソングである。
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Erika de Casier - Delusional
“Delusional” is the song where Erika de Casier’s real signature clicks into focus. It carries ’90s trip-hop and slow-R&B perfume—hazy breaks, nocturnal warmth—yet everything is deliberately restrained. Her vocal stays cool and close, the mix refuses big climaxes, and the track seduces through understatement. The magic is in the odd details: a weird, almost cartoonish sample hook that keeps interrupting the haze, tiny production decisions that feel slightly “wrong” in the best way. Lyrically it’s just as balanced—dreamy and romantic on the surface, but uncomfortably real about how quickly we invent someone from distance. Intimacy as self-deception, rendered in soft focus.
「Delusional」は、この曲で初めてErika de Casierの本当の音楽性が腑に落ちる、と感じさせる一曲である。90年代のトリップホップ/スローR&Bの香りがあり、曇ったブレイクビーツと夜の温度が漂うが、ヴォーカルもプロダクションも全体的に徹底して控えめである。大サビで押し切らず、抑制のまま誘惑する。その一方で、ところどころに“変な”プロダクション・チョイスが差し込まれる。異物のように鳴るサンプルのフックや、わずかにズレた手触りが、霞を破って記憶に刺さる。歌詞も同様で、夢見心地のロマンがあるのに、距離のある相手を勝手に完成させてしまう妙にリアルな心理が露出する。親密さが自己欺瞞へ滑り込む瞬間を、ソフトフォーカスのまま描き切る曲である。
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Sudan Archives - DEAD
“DEAD” is Sudan Archives turning her signature orchestral touch into pure propulsion. The strings aren’t decorative—they’re the engine, swooping and stabbing like a quartet rewritten for the dancefloor. What feels newly thrilling is the colder digital frame around them: Detroit/Chicago-coded pulse, hard four-on-the-floor insistence, and chopped, siren-like vocal fragments that make the track feel both human and machine. Instead of smoothing the contrast, she amplifies it, letting organic warmth and synthetic chill collide until they become one kind of momentum. The result is uniquely hers: kinetic, uncanny, and alive—music that sounds like a body learning how to move through circuitry.
“Jealous Type” proves that even when Doja Cat dials back the chaos, she can still land a pop record with undeniable craft. It’s overtly ’80s in palette—bright synth gloss, sleek groove, big-show gestures—yet the engine is unmistakably Doja: clean, readable switches between rap and sung melody that keep the track moving like a scene change. What makes it fascinating is its tone. There’s less of her usual excess and comedic wink, but the production is so polished it almost forces sincerity onto the surface. Whether that “seriousness” is a bit or a breakthrough, the song captures the tension of her new era: controlled, flashy, and slightly uncanny.
“NEVER ENOUGH” distills why Turnstile’s leap beyond hardcore feels real: their control of motion and stillness is the point, not a garnish. The first half rides a straight, punchy rush, but the mix is unusually clear and almost euphoric—bright enough to hint at the quiet that’s coming. When the track finally drops into its long ambient tail, it doesn’t feel like a left turn so much as the underside of the same high. The repeated phrase “never enough” lands as a hollow mantra, perfectly matched to the sound’s glassy momentum: exhilaration with an empty center. It’s a banger that refuses to stay a banger.
“So Be It” is Pharrell at his sharpest in years: the minimalism is still there, but it’s re-lit in darker colors. A Middle Eastern–leaning vocal loop turns hypnotic through repetition, while gothic organ shading gives the beat a deep, cathedral-like dread—sparse, yet heavy. Clipse match it with their coldest chemistry. Pusha T’s precision and Malice’s stern presence don’t chase spectacle; they tighten the screws until the mood curdles into pure contempt. The track doesn’t just threaten—it judges. That lingering disgust is the signature: luxury as menace, devotion to principle as cruelty, and a groove that feels like it’s staring back without blinking.
「So Be It」は、Pharrellのプロダクションが近年でも突出して冴えわたった一曲である。これまでのミニマル路線を継承しつつ、中東的に響くヴォーカル・サンプルのループが反復によって催眠性を帯び、そこにゴシックなオルガンの陰影が差し込むことで、空疎ではなく“深い重さ”が生まれる。隙間だらけなのに重い、まるで聖堂の冷気のような鳴りである。Clipseのラップもさらに冷たく、Pusha Tの精密さとMaliceの峻厳さが、見せ場を作るより、空気を締め上げていく。これは脅しというより裁きであり、曲全体に漂う嫌悪感こそが彼らのらしさである。贅沢が威圧に変わり、信条が残酷さに接続する。その視線の硬さが、最後まで瞬きしないグルーヴとして残る。
20
Perfume Genius - It’s a Mirror
“It’s a Mirror” feels like Perfume Genius stepping back from a decade of sonic left turns—not to simplify into something bland, but to let a full band hit with clearer, heavier force. The production is muscular and direct, yet the song’s real weight is psychological: a portrait of living alongside fragility rather than “solving” it. Even when life looks successful from the outside, the circuitry in your head doesn’t suddenly rewrite itself; fear, loops, and echoes persist. The mirror here isn’t vanity—it’s confrontation, a place where you keep recognizing something alien in yourself. That tension makes the track quietly devastating: grounded rock as a container for restless, never-fully-tamed inner noise.
「It’s a Mirror」は、Perfume Geniusがここ10年ほど続けてきた音楽的な冒険から一歩引き、よりシンプルな輪郭へ戻りながらも、決して浅くならずに“フルバンドの強度”で押し切った曲である。プロダクションは筋肉質で直截的だが、核心は心理の側にある。脆さを克服するのではなく、脆さと共存して生きることを描く。外から見ればどれだけ成功していても、脳内の回路が突然書き換わるわけではない。恐れや反芻や反響は残り続ける。ここでの鏡は自己愛ではなく対峙であり、鏡の中にはいつも自分の中の異質さが映る。その緊張が、地に足のついたロックを“落ち着かない内面”の容器へ変え、静かに破壊力のある一曲にしている。
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Model/Actriz - Cinderella
“Cinderella” is Model/Actriz sharpening their debut’s industrial-punk bite into something that locks to the club without sanding off the edges. The groove hits like techno played by a band—tight, repetitive pressure—while the hook stays singable enough to feel like a dare. What makes it feel new is the emotional framing: a queer fairy-tale memory, the childhood wish for a Cinderella party, resurfacing not as tragedy but as high-voltage confession. Cole Haden delivers it with a casual, almost teasing lightness, as if saying the unsayable shouldn’t have to sound solemn. The result is sweaty and startlingly tender—shame metabolized into motion, vulnerability turned into a night out.
“BAILE INoLVIDABLE” is striking not because Bad Bunny “tries salsa,” but because he treats it as a living mainstream language—built from the inside, with full-band weight, chorus-driven momentum, and the bittersweet lift the form is meant to carry. The song’s six-minute sprawl doesn’t feel indulgent; it feels necessary, letting the groove breathe until memory turns communal. On paper it’s a breakup song, but the emotional address widens: the “you” can be a lover and an island at once. That double focus is the achievement—dance as devotion, heartbreak as heritage, the club as a bridge back to Puerto Rico.
“Tonight” feels like the cleanest statement of PinkPantheress’ next era: a perfect pop song that finally lets the UK club bloodstream sit in the foreground. The orchestral intro and borrowed string drama don’t soften the track—they set up the drop, where four-on-the-floor drive, heavy bass weight, and razor-tight pacing turn desire into pure momentum. What’s impressive is the balance. It’s hook-first and instantly playable, yet the collage logic—samples, stylistic jump-cuts, period-piece imagery—keeps it sly and modern rather than nostalgic. Her cool, unforced vocal sells the confidence: less diary-entry yearning, more controlled invitation. It’s maturity as precision.
In a year where mainstream women’s rap often felt creatively stalled, JT sounded sharp and hungry. “Ran Out” isn’t just “bad bitch” posturing—it’s built for bodies and rooms. The jumpy 808s and sinister arpeggio make the track feel street-rooted yet club-ready, a lean design that invites speed-ups, DJ flips, and endless recontextualization. JT’s delivery stays grounded even while flexing: the confidence reads as practiced survival, not fantasy, and that realism makes the hook hit harder. Taken alongside her broader 2025 run, “Ran Out” plays like a mission statement—tight, tactile, and underrated for how fully it captures her lane.
“Manchild” lands like an easy summer singalong, but it’s engineered to be stranger—and sharper—than it first appears. Sabrina Carpenter sells the hook with effortless charm, yet the real payoff is the writing: withering one-liners, sly internal rhymes, and a narrator whose “loving eye-roll” feels like character work as much as confession. The production mirrors that split. Beneath the breezy surface, the groove has a weird push-and-pull—straight pop drive with a slightly off-kilter swing, plus tactile touches that keep it from sounding airbrushed. It’s pop that knows exactly how simple it seems, and uses that simplicity as camouflage for craft, personality, and bite.
Dijon’s “Yamaha” feels like bubblegum R&B pop filtered through a cracked mirror. Its DNA is classic—Prince-like shimmer, a New Jack swing-adjacent bounce, a chorus built to stick—yet it never settles into clean nostalgia. The track carries Baby’s collage logic in its texture: keys that gleam but wobble, drums that feel slightly re-assembled, a vocal that’s intimate but not fully “present,” as if the song is being remembered while it’s happening. That friction is the hook. The lyric fixates on a “particular emotion,” and the production treats that feeling the same way—sweet on the surface, uneasy in the seams. Pop perfection, haunted.
“Abracadabra” doesn’t reinvent the hard-edged dance-pop template so much as perfects it. In the post-BRAT climate, its industrial-leaning pulse and club drive feel almost canonical—but Gaga’s old-school maximalism makes the formula gleam. Every section is engineered like a ritual: a tight, percussive frame that “opens” into an opulent hook, language sculpted for spell-casting more than literal meaning, and vocals delivered with theatrical authority rather than diary confession. The result plays like a pop event as much as a single—precision choreography, high-concept imagery, and micro-detailing that rewards obsessive replay. Familiar ingredients, but arranged with championship-level craft.
FKA twigs’ “Striptease” is intimacy staged as self-determination. The song’s central metaphor—opening yourself like a striptease—never reads as surrender; it feels chosen, choreographed, and therefore riskier. Musically it mirrors that process with uncanny precision. The first half is all restraint: chrome-lit tension, breath-close vocals, desire held in a tight frame. Then the floor drops into acceleration—breakbeats and drum-and-bass-like rush—where release arrives as both pleasure and bruise. What makes it gripping is the singular world it builds: every texture, tempo shift, and lyrical image points to the same axis of disclosure, control, and consequence.
Geese’s “Au Pays du Cocaine” turns tenderness into something unsettling, and that’s exactly why it hurts. It moves like a ballad, but the kindness feels conditional—love spoken in negotiations, freedom offered with a quiet plea attached. Cameron Winter’s writing makes intimacy sound slightly mistranslated, like a beautiful phrase you don’t fully trust, and the music keeps tightening until the emotion swells into something almost transcendent. The accompanying imagery only sharpens the discomfort: softness framed as ritual, care edged with dread. It’s deeply relatable in a modern way—recognizing that connection can be sincere and still feel unsafe. The song lingers like a bruise.
Geese「Au Pays du Cocaine」は、優しさを不穏なものへ変質させ、そのせいで胸に刺さる曲である。動きはバラード的なのに、そこで差し出される親密さは無条件ではない。愛は交渉の言葉として語られ、自由を与えるふりをしながら、静かな懇願が必ず付随する。Cameron Winterの言葉はどこか“誤訳”のように美しく、しかし全面的には信用できない響きを持ち、その曖昧さが現代の関係性の感触に直結する。音は次第に圧を増し、最後には超越に近い高まりへ達するが、救いとして回収されない。柔らかさが儀式のように提示され、ケアが怖さを帯びる。だからこそ共感でき、痛みが長く残る曲である。
10
Addison Rae - Fame is a Gun
“Fame Is a Gun” captures Addison Rae at her most interesting: she can watch her own mythology from a distance and still admit she wants it anyway. The song doesn’t pretend to be above the spectacle; it treats fame as a dangerous object—something you wield, something that can misfire—while staying seduced by its shine. That contradiction lands because her vocal remains deliberately plain, almost emotionally blank, letting the lyric read as both confession and performance. The glossy synth-pop frame feels like a mirror you can’t look away from. By balancing self-awareness with hunger, Addison turns a public image into a character with real depth.
「Fame Is a Gun」は、Addison Raeが最も面白い地点に到達したことを示す曲である。名声という神話を客観視し、危険物として扱えるほど冷静でありながら、それでも欲しいという欲望を隠さない。スペクタクルを見下すのではなく、銃の比喩で「手にした瞬間から誤射しうるもの」として名声を描きつつ、その光沢に誘惑され続ける矛盾を同時に成立させる。しかもボーカルは淡白で、感情を過剰に演じないため、言葉が告白にも演技にも聴こえる。本気と虚構の中間に立つ声が、眩しいシンセ・ポップの鏡面をさらに不穏にし、パブリックイメージを“深みのあるキャラクター”へ変換してしまう曲である。
09
Amaarae - S.M.O.
Amaarae’s “S.M.O.” channels Janet in attitude and silhouette—controlled sensuality, camera-ready confidence, a vocal that can turn a whisper into command—but the sound refuses simple inheritance. Instead it’s a heat-hazed collision of rhythms: highlife and kpanlogo bounce, zouk sweetness, gqom-like shadow, club-ready low end, all braided into something that doesn’t exist in “normal” pop. The result is paradoxical in the best way: sweaty yet cool, brazen yet tender, explicit yet oddly gentle in how it negotiates desire. It also feels like a new chapter for Amaarae—less about proving range, more about owning it.
HAIM’s “Relationships” turns unresolved feeling into a groove you can’t escape. It opens with drums that clear the air, then settles into a restrained pop-funk loop that keeps circling the same question without granting closure. The production leaves deliberate space—nothing overstates the drama—so the tension lives in repetition: the mind replaying scenes, the body still moving. Rather than a breakup anthem or a love-song resolution, it’s a portrait of suspension, where knowing what you “should” do doesn’t make the emotions comply. In 2025, that ambivalence feels unusually honest: relationships aren’t solved, they’re managed, looped through, and lived with.
“Love Takes Miles” captures Cameron Winter at his most free and most honest. On paper it’s a universal piano-pop song: a clean melody, a chorus that arrives with natural inevitability, the kind of structure that could live anywhere. But Winter refuses to let it settle into polish. His voice sits uncomfortably close, phrasing slightly sideways, as if the song is being discovered in real time rather than performed. That “foreign object” quality—half barroom standard, half strange folk confession—keeps the sweetness from turning generic. In a scene where indie-pop often feels over-finished, this track reintroduces risk, friction, and personality without sacrificing craft.
“Headphones On” reframes 90s R&B/New Jack swing influence through a cooler, pop-icon gloss. The grooves suggest intimacy, but Addison Rae’s vocal stays strikingly plain—more Madonna-like in its distance than confessional R&B—so the emotion lands as posture as much as pain. That tension is the song’s intelligence. It hints at something personal (family fracture, envy, the pull of self-doubt) without over-explaining, turning vulnerability into a controlled surface you can dance inside. The chorus doesn’t “heal” so much as regulate: lower the outside world, fold the feeling, keep moving. In 2025, that restraint reads as honesty.
「Headphones On」は、90年代R&B/New Jack Swingの影響を、より冷たいポップ・アイコン的な光沢へと置き換えた曲である。グルーヴは親密さを示唆するのに、Addisonのボーカルは驚くほど淡白で、告白的R&BというよりMadonna的な距離感で感情が鳴る。ここにこの曲の知性がある。家族の亀裂や嫉妬、自分への不信といったパーソナルな影を匂わせながら、掘り下げすぎず、脆さを“管理された表面”へ変換してしまう。サビは癒やしではなく調律であり、外界の音量を下げ、感情を折りたたみ、それでも前へ進む。2025年において、この抑制はむしろ誠実さとして響くのである。
05
Kehlani - Folded
Kehlani’s “Folded” feels like a 90s/00s R&B memory re-entering the present with sharpened emotional intelligence. Its structure is classic—warm chords, restrained drums, and strings that frame the song with dignity rather than melodrama—but the perspective is unmistakably adult. Instead of pleading or scorched-earth anger, the lyric draws a boundary with tenderness, turning a simple domestic image into a moral decision. Kehlani’s vocal is the masterstroke: soft and detailed, yet anchored by quiet force, as if every breath is chosen. In a year of louder hits, “Folded” leaves a deeper imprint by staying calm.
PinkPantheress’ “Illegal” disguises its complexity as instant adrenaline. On the surface it’s high-energy UK dance-pop—maxed-out percussion, a classic-rave synth rush, momentum that barely lets you breathe. But the real hook is the split-screen feeling: the beat simulates intoxicated euphoria while Pink’s voice stays cool, self-aware, and quietly anxious, narrating the night as if she’s watching herself from above. That tension turns the track into more than a club banger; it becomes a miniature portrait of modern pleasure—hyper, compulsive, and slightly unreal. Even the closing breath feels like the comedown arriving mid-peak.
Rosalía’s “Berghain” hits with instant grandeur: baroque strings, operatic force, and a choral presence that feels less like decoration than doctrine. Yet even in that majesty, the song quietly dissolves borders—fear, anger, love, blood becoming shared language, as if intimacy is already turning into erasure. The second half deepens the spell by refusing resolution. Björk enters as “divine intervention,” not comfort but escalation, while Yves Tumor’s violent demand cuts through the sacred frame like a rupture. Their motifs return, again and again, until the track ends inside that unresolved collision.
Oklou’s “blade bird” feels deceptively simple: a clear, song-like structure carried by acoustic guitar, steady drums, and a vocal that stays intimate even as it multiplies into soft harmonies. But placed at the very end of choke enough, that clarity turns into a final statement—quiet, resolute, and strangely unresolved at once. The lyric’s central image is sharp and moral: to love a bird is to resist becoming its cage, even when tenderness slips into control. What lingers is the tension between wanting to hold and learning to let go, framed in a closing breath that lands heavier than it sounds.
Geese’s “Taxes” stages a transformation you can feel in your body. It opens like a low-lit ritual—percussion snapping in tight, the vocal arriving half-confession, half-curse—then pivots into something bright without ever losing its bite. The arrangement thrives on deliberate mismatch: a groove that hits with almost hip-hop insistence, topped with guitars that suggest older American songcraft, as if two timelines are forced to coexist. Lyrically, guilt and punishment blur into satire, where civic obligation gets warped into martyrdom. Kenny Beats’ touch is subtle and architectural, carving space for tension to gather and then release.