Reasonable Woman is a polished but uneven return for Sia, blending emotional ballads and glittery pop bangers into an ambitious yet scattered album that struggles to find a clear identity.

Cold Visions drowns in its own distorted chaos, delivering 30 tracks of repetitive noise and emotionless autotune that even the most loyal Bladee fans might struggle to endure.

The Tortured Poets Department is Taylor Swift at her most raw and self-aware, blending biting wit, emotional wreckage, and sonic experimentation into a darkly addictive album that feels like heartbreak reimagined as performance art.

We Still Don’t Trust You is an overstuffed, underwhelming slog that leans on recycled ideas and bloated production, proving that even Future and Metro Boomin can run a good formula into the ground.

Ramona swings for emotional and theatrical grandeur but ends up feeling overproduced and disjointed, with Grace Cummings’ powerful voice often drowning in a sea of mismatched arrangements and missed opportunities.

Cowboy Carter is Beyoncé at her most daring, blending country, folk, and experimental sounds into a sprawling exploration of identity and Black history that’s as bold as it is uneven.

Gary Clark Jr.’s JPEG RAW is a bold, messy experiment that swings for the fences, blending blues, hip-hop, funk, and soul into a genre-defying ride that’s as thrilling as it is uneven.

Currents flips the script on Tame Impala’s usual hazy guitars, trading them for a synth-soaked, danceable dive into heartbreak and self-discovery that hits harder the more you let it in.

Ugly is Beautiful is a wild ride—equal parts absurdist comedy and genuine introspection. It’s an album that could have easily been a gimmick, but Oliver Tree proves he’s more than just a walking meme. Is it perfect? No. But it’s perfectly him, and in that lies its charm. If this really is his first and last album (though let’s be real, he’ll probably come back), it’s a ridiculous and bold way to bow out.

Oncle Jazz is a blissed-out triumph. It might be long, and sure, some tracks could blend into the wallpaper of your subconscious, but that’s the point. This album doesn’t need to shout to get your attention—it invites you in with a whisper, and by the time you leave, you feel like you’ve been gently cradled by sound. Keep it on repeat, because like the best dreams, you won’t want to wake up.

At first glance, Zaba seems like the kind of album you’d play in a trendy lounge bar, one with lots of ferns and people who think wearing bucket hats indoors is revolutionary. It’s humid, lush, and brimming with trippy sounds—half rainforest, half synth-driven fever dream. But if you listen too long, you might start wondering if you’ve been walking through the same jungle loop for hours. Spoiler: you have.

Aurora’s debut album feels like walking through a Norwegian forest where the trees whisper existential truths and fairies occasionally bop you on the head with synth-pop anthems. It’s eerie, it’s enchanting, and somehow, it’s pop music.