Top Stuff of 2025 – Top 10 Singles

RULES:

I. Had to be released as a single on streaming in the U.S. in 2025 (buying more albums in 2026!)

II. Had to sound good to me (be aware, I have niche tastes!)

III. Wasn’t also a track on one of my Top 10 Albums (coming soon!)

There’s a certain vibe—you know it when you hear it—to Aughts alt-rock that contemporary acts carrying a torch for the era can struggle with: not just mad and sad but keening, wistful, and apt to equate despair with some ruinous natural phenomenon. 2017’s brief Afterthoughts was admittedly just that for many moons, yet in what’s been teased so far, Greywind’s pending trip to Severed Heart City is poised to whip up a whole new storm.

Who was the first band to do the whole “sardonic long song name” thing? I’ve always assumed Fall Out Boy, but it’s fun to imagine some similarly verbose predecessor. In any event, First & Forever have been dropping downtrodden tracks for a while with no full-length in sight, but in their latest batch, they’ve arrived at a promising flourish: medieval melancholy meets bangin’ riffs. Toss on a title that’s irreverent in every sense, and this might just be my favorite F&F not led by Vin Diesel (although, just imagine…).

Hey, do you miss vintage Blink? The fellas in FlickN do, and with cheeky moniker in tow, they spent 2025 cranking out one skate-punk homage after another. That I came to learn of them through a fellow attorney acquainted with one member might’ve tilted the scale (without giving away too much, I believe they’re from the area), but I suspect I’d relish hearing this sound come back ‘round regardless. Looking forward to that freshman album!

An embarrassing anecdote is that, growing up, I didn’t know Yellowcard had a violinist. I was introduced to them by “The Takedown” in Guitar Hero: Van Halen (2009), where I just assumed—sandwiched between saintly Eddie solos—I was miming really fast strumming. While I arrived at their full catalog too late to embrace every minute of this year’s titular album, then, the band’s resurgence at the crest of the “When We Were Young” wave is a welcome call to positivity, Blockbuster-bound music video and all. No, it’s not too late!

It’s the aging emo’s dilemma: If I finally, for serious this time, clean up and turn that frown upside-down, am I still me? All Time Low was always bubbly even for “pop punk,” but when decades-strong frontman Alex Gaskarth frets about whether, now “over the rain clouds,” he’s as appealing as back then, it’s hard not to relate, even without merch sales to monitor. I’d like to be known as happy and well-adjusted… but what if it is the madness in the man that makes the music?

Gotta rep for local talent! Coven Dove, in their own words, makes “witch-pop stories from the pit,” and having attended a hometown concert earlier this year, I can confirm the classic-meets-cryptic appeal firsthand. If you like smooth tunes for an evening in or at the bar, this is an outfit to watch out for.

The cross-pollination between hip-hop and punk rock always intrigues me even as it tends to go one way, with rappers copping a guitarist and new flow. Rematch, however, picked a fitting name twice over, coming back from years of sporadic singles with their first record proper and this gear-switching centerpiece. With its pity-party chorus and nod to weeping at G-notes, “6SPEED” is a sure shoutout to scenehood, and yet it’s also cocky and self-referential, singer Matt LeGrand spitting boasts about stacks of cash as his “boys” blast through fangirl speakers that feel spiritually at home in the club. It may claim to be Nothing Like You Wanted, but this blend of flavors is just what I needed.

Yeah, it’s all gonna be about self-improvement from here on. The hit-to-eh ratio on NFG’s (many) LPs has always been a bit too bottom-heavy for me to identify as an outright fan… so if I saw them in concert and have a pennant of theirs on my wall, that’s just because when they’re good, they’ve glorious indeed. I may not always reach that coveted full quantity, but I aspire to this attitude, this goal, and with the same jubilant insistence that’s kept these dudes going strong since ‘99.

Here comes a technicality, since only a variant with Slowly Slowly from a deluxe reissue of The Hart made it as a single, but it’s my self-imposed gesture at music critic conventions and I’ll bend it if I want to. Bend and break, really, as this gale-force tribute to a loving partner became the latest installment in a small, unwritten playlist of ballads I can’t carpool-karaoke along to without welling up. Pining for unrequited love may be the cornerstone of many songs, but celebrating someone who’s already there for you, and always has been? That’s bedrock.

In the early months of 2024, I sought mental health services for the first time. The circumstances aren’t relevant, suffice it to say that I worried I’d be a hazard to myself if I didn’t phone a professional. Therapy followed (“professional growth coaching,” rather—tomayto, tomahto) as, by coincidence, my boss decided I had enough potential that it was worth bankrolling me seeing someone who could loosen up a few interpersonal kinks. And with their powers combined… well, it worked. I’m still not perfect, but I’m better than I was five years ago, and I want to keep improving. As I always try to remind myself, regret is cheap. There’s infinite things we all could’ve done, but there’s just as many things we still can do. I won’t turn my back on the past like I once did, but I’m also ready to move from reaction to action. I won’t let the future just come—I’ll bring it toward me. I’ll still get scared, sad, anxious, and angry sometimes. But when it happens, with eyes on the horizon, I won’t let that pain haunt me.

My Top Music of 2023

You’ve heard from the best, now hear from… well, me! I’m no Fantano or Pitchfork, but I do have Airpods in at most hours–along with a well-used car stereo–so I heard plenty of music in 2023 for which praise is due. To complement my Top Games of 2023 list from the other day, then (a brief movie one is on my Letterboxd – expanded video adaptations of both pending!), here’s some quick ‘n dirty takes on my favorite albums and singles which hit my ears this year:

TOP ALBUMS OF 2023

Low on the list out of principle ’cause I didn’t get around to listening until I was driving home from a NYE party, but still: Solid vocal and instrumental synthwave of the eerie Stranger Things-adjacent variety, all wrapped in an endearing package honoring the same retro aesthetic.

Half a century and change after their biggest hits, there’s admittedly more hack than diamonds in this LP, but having the boys back in town with new material felt like a cause to rock all the same. And we got a Lady Gaga feature, no less!

In a genre full of nostalgia-mongering and fantastical imagery, Magic Sword has cornered the market on a specific yet indelible mood: Music to quest to. With eerie synth tones and song titles like “Nowhere Else to Run,” “A Dark Task,” and “There is Still Good in You,” how can you not want to don a cloak of your own and journey towards what lies on the horizon?

Back in my day, if you wanted Halloween-themed emo music, you had Blink-182’s “I Miss You” and maybe a Panic! at the Disco track or two. Leave it to young guns Magnolia Park, though, to dole it out on the regular! Amid tracks which explicitly name-check the holiday and other suitably spooky subjects, raucous yet wistful opener “The End: An Emo Night Rhapsody” more than earns its subcultural pretension, 408 collab “Manic” is an infectious ode to a dysfunctional relationship, and “Life in the USA” makes for a darkly funny, unapologetically political dig at late-stage capitalism.

If Vic and the gang put out a new record, you know it’s gonna be on this list somewhere. Shouty lead single “Pass the Nirvana” had me wary when it dropped in 2022, but I came around to its sound on the release proper, and numerous other tracks keep PTV’s quality-over-quantity discography going strong: The thunderous yet dreamy promises of “Even When I’m Not with You,” the cacophonous pleading of “Emergency Contact,” and the aching reflections on Chloe Moriondo duet “12 Fractures” were particular highlights.

I’m always a little wary when a band well into their career releases a self-titled album. Are we in for a bold, image-defining musical experience, or just a going-through-the-motions contractual obligation? With The Maine, however, it’s neither, as their 2023 eponymous LP may well be my favorite yet. From the indignant yet bouncy chorus on “Blame” to the downright danceable “Leave in Five,” The Maine remain an indelibly entertaining missing link between radio-friendly pop rock and heart-on-the-sleeve, Hopeless Records catharsis. Generous of them, too, to write the theme song for every college party I ever peaced out on with “How to Exit a Room.”

It’s a crowded scene out there for 80s-throwback acts, especially in my library, but WOLFCLUB stands apart from the pack (no pun intended) by having… well, just really darn good hooks. As ever, young love, sleek cars, and dark nights are the imagery du jour, but with tracks like soaring, insistent opener “Crystalise” and breathless call-and-response “Shoreline” (complete with a sax solo!), they simply outrun the competition.

I don’t consider myself a sonic tastemaker at the best of times, but I was still surprised to see Waterparks’ latest LP pop up on multiple critics’ worst-of lists for 2023, because… this thing slaps? I get it–rambunctious production, goofball lyrics, and random stylistic transitions aren’t for everyone, but the loopy, corny, often horny energy of tracks like “Funeral Grey,” “Brainwashed,” and “Self-Sabotage” is just too infectious for me to pooh-pooh.

We didn’t get a new Mayday Parade record in 2023, but we did get the next best thing: Another acoustic outing from frontman Derek Sanders! Despite its five-track run, this box is heavy indeed — “Home” is a melancholy reflection on the road to peace, “Howell Canyon” evokes The Postal Service with its thrumming percussion and laments that “we exist to only fall apart,” and the sparse instrumentation of “True Story of a Boy Whose Exploits Panicked a Nation” encloses a heartbreaking look back at a life literally or figuratively reaching its end… while also continuing Sanders’ cute tradition of naming songs after Calvin & Hobbes quotes. Cap it off with a reunion with classic Mayday compatriot Jason Lancaster on “For Dear Life,” and you’ve got an EP which all transported me back to 2013–not a place I ought to linger, in truth, but a comfort in certain troubled moments all the same.

Four words: emo songs as anime themes. As prolific as the overlap is between weebs and scene kids, it’s amazing no one capitalized upon this peanut butter-and-chocolate combo before, but bless SSK for giving it a go, turning pop-punk hits by Yellowcard, My Chemical Romance, and more into even peppier J-pop bangers, complete with translated lyrics. Enjoy the back half, too, where each track is convincingly condensed into what could well be the opener to your new favorite slice-of-life series! Now for someone to actually produce the shows that’d go with these…

TOP SINGLES OF 2023

Nothing too complicated here–just another rad, funky throwback perfect for neon-lit night drives, from the dudes who arguably do it best.

As alluded to above, I won’t pretend Hackney Diamonds is a newsworthy return to form for the rock titans, but to just have (1) a disco remix (2) of a Rolling Stones song in the year 2023 felt like a rift in time had opened in the best way.

To have weathered my twenties to the sound of Everything in Transit by Jack’s Mannequin, only to reflect along with frontman McMahon on the things only growing older can teach you… it’s nice. Not uplifting, but nice.

For all their overproduced earlier work and off-stage scandals, I stand by my conviction that All Time Low can always be counted on to fire off a rowdy earworm about being an unambitious screw-up. Their 2023 record may have been too familiar to make my Top 10 in aggregate, but this all-too-relatable lead single of the same name stands tall (or, maybe, slumps against wall) just the same.

I don’t know exactly what’s going on here, but it’s loud, it’s vaguely sci-fi, and I have a thing for orange hair, so color me pleased.

We did get some new Mayday Parade singles this year, at least! And the first was the best, or at least the most promisingly unique: “More Like a Crash,” in which classic Mayday heartbreak (“guess it’s been a while since I had nothing to do”) crests before the trademark guitar breakdown with a holler of the title line, feeling right out of their rawer Black Lines period. Eager to see where the overall sonic direction of their next project goes!

Among the many bands experiencing a renaissance thanks to emo-era nostalgia, none were perhaps more surprising–or welcome–than Yellowcard reneging on their 2016 final bow with a new EP. Of particular note was this track, in which the band openly carries forward their original youthful energy without sounding desperate or pandering. Another pop punk group that tried to make a comeback in 2023 should blink their own eyes and take note…

Some songs capture a specific emotion so well that it’s almost like a part of you has been carved out and pressed on vinyl. Not always a pleasant emotion, mind you, but all the same, “LosT”–with its incessant guitars, glitched-out electronic segments, and furious lyrics–is the sound of that one adjective, that one feeling, running like a bull in a china shop through one’s head in moments of self-doubt. I (thankfully) can’t relate to controversial lead singer Oli Sykes watching anime while doing ketamine, but to wanting to scream “what the hell is fucking wrong with me?” after a bad day? Consider me found.

Hey, remember that week or two in 2023 when some random government guy claimed he saw UFOs, and everyone decided that was irrefutable proof aliens exist? Neck Deep does, or at least they struck while the iron (or some other metallic substance not of this planet) was hot and dropped this silly little homage to The X-Files, E.T., and the increasingly sensible anxiety of wanting to leave Earth while there’s still time. I didn’t know these dudes had a nerdy novelty song in them, but it just makes their library of A-tier pop punk even better!

In the late Aughts, Ke$ha was widely derided as the nadir of music: trashy, airheaded, unconscionably perverse. With time, however, came change for the artist, both for good–a reappraisal of silly, sexy pop stars–and for ill: namely, a #MeToo-adjacent sexual abuse case and subsequent industry fallout. I don’t have the space, much less the education, to dissect how all of this influenced Kesha (long since bereft of the dollar sign) during the production of her 2023 record Gag Order; I just know that, for all of the bombastic tracks I showered with accolades earlier, “Eat the Acid” is the most interesting song I heard this year: a calm, haunting, hypnotic mantra about faith, isolation, and the dilemma of seeking self-actualization from without as opposed to within.

Poem of the Week: “The Teenage Waste Land”

I first conceived of this poem years ago, when Honors English introduced me to T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land” and I got an urge to produce a modern version that’d aggressively borrow from my own favorite stirring songs and stories. It sat there until now with only a few lines (that I swiftly deleted), but the tone remains what I had in mind–albeit more worldly now for the self-awareness I’ve gained.

In the interest of treating this like an airlock for my own melancholy, I didn’t listen to any music while writing it or reflect on songs I used to listen to for “inspiration.” If “ISYMFS” was cleaning out my closet, consider this taking the bags to the curb.

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The Teenage Waste Land

This love was out of control.

Tell me, where did it go?

Cold, open—I crawl from the rubble

of bubbly optimism come crashing down

like C4 to a ceiling.

Heels to headboard, bed is a hospital ward,

recuperation indefinite. Now all I can do

is lay in my room, fall asleep, dream of you,

then wake up and do nothing about it.

Songs of ready-made restlessness

spoon-feed solidarity to a tired heart.

 

And yet…

take a number, I guess.

We all have a story to tell, so it might as well

go through a few drafts.

I still remember how I made you feel, once upon a time,

but the market for fairy tales ain’t what it used to be.

I will soon forgot the color of your eyes, but I don’t mind.

Everyone will die and lose,

so what will you do with the moments before it catches you?

Never asked, always implied,

and I am thinking it’s a sign

in the rearview, those lines I cast

before I cut loose and floated away:

Just say how to make things right, and I swear I’ll do

whatever makes you happy,

if it means a lot to you.

Put like that, I get why

guy drama is relationship strychnine.

 

So, know what?

Cast your stones, cast your judgment—

you don’t make me who I am.

I’m a patient man, as you’ve discovered,

and my passion was pen and paper all along.

Are we only damaging what little we have left,

to ever reconnect?

Hell yes.

Nature abhors empty shelves;

the stories of my generation won’t tell themselves.

Let these hazards of love nevermore trouble us.

Growing old’s a fact, but growing up is optional.

 

Yet every line I write’s a cost-benefit analysis.

Is the world better for hearing how morning light looks through my blinds,

or a childhood anecdote recounted in rhythmic alliteration?

And who would know once I do?

Quickly but surely,

circular illogic draws me back to routine:

wait and debate, try and flail,

rush and submit… shit.

One rejection:

a mental injection of barbiturates,

carte blanche to bitch about luck

and how there’s not enough time.

I guess I’ll go home now.

 

But it is plain as anyone can see, we’re simply meant to be

the person we picture when our head touches down—

that gap between dim aspiration and REM respiration.

By morning, I always find the words

when it’s too late to let them slip

and fall, for fear of my stand looking awkward.

Dreams are the only thing smothered above a pillow.

 

So a few weeks, and I’m back

on the horse—a kick, and it’ll stick!

I swear, this time I mean it.

Yet self-set deadlines feel like a vice

of virtue.

So I vow if I don’t follow through…

well, shoot.

Eh, some hell will break loose.

To penciled-in punishment, what a shock when there’s mere pages

for all the ages I’ve celebrated.

 

Maybe we were made for each other,

and maybe the world will look like this forever.

The kind of lie that stretches out hope

like a prisoner on the rack.

Still, palm to palm or ink to page,

it was believable, from a window looking on an alley.

I know I sound crazy—don’t you see what it does to me?

The chance I simply swapped rash ambitions,

the artist’s star in lieu of a lover?

Feathers to gold, the value unbudging?

The pleas for an ingénue cross to an audience:

You’d be good to me, and I’d be so good to you.

Why can’t you just be lonely?

 

This suit, this smile,

this gel-shellacked hair, this friendly Facebook exchange

is just a part I portray.

And I know exactly how it got this way:

Everybody needs some time all alone,

but if you left it up to me,

every day would be a holiday from reality:

a freestyle frenzy of riffs, rides, cliffside hikes,

artificial flavors for the screen and stomach.

It could be seventy-two degrees, zero chance of rain

—a perfect day—

and I’d still take ten thousand gigs of digital infinity.

Too much of anything is too much,

except when the alternative is failing

at the only work I ever chose.

 

I always get in my own way,

but dammit, that means I’ll hit myself on the way to the ground

and keep fighting on.

I can’t change the way I see the world,

and I can’t justify my reasons, but

 

if life is a sea,

then a living is a boat,

and hope is the shoals to which I sail:

some distant, shining semblance of fulfillment.

But it’s so far away,

and the rowing is so tiresome.

It’d be so simple to just go overboard, sink into an ocean

of promotions and prefixed expectations—

boxes to check, T’s to cross, watches to gild—

and let crash the waves of rationalization and procrastination:

action movies, YouTube, Steam, doodles and daydreams.

I need your discipline.

 Just tell me the way I ought to feel, what’s right and wrong.

 

A writer’s work is never done,

but I’m addicted to being finished,

and I need comfort like water in my lungs.

So if I ever asked anything

of the ones who’ve seen me this far,

it’s this:

 

be there, my first mates,

lifejacket at the ready

made of bright red faith.

 

Dive in when I’m down.

Save me from myself.

 

Don’t

let

me

drown.