Top Stuff of 2025 – Top 10 Albums

RULES:

I. Had to be released 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 just something I liked one particular single from (see the Top 10 Singles list for such cases!)

  1. Fooled by the Rush of Growing Up – Kidburn (nobody soundtracks sunsets like this guy!)
  2. Coloura – Coloura (I gotta start a playlist of song titles that reference Pete Wentz)
  3. Closer to the Sun – Said the Sky (“You can cry in the storm or you can dance in the rain”)
  4. So Much for Second Chances – SoSo (if Eiffel 65 went emo??)
  5. Love on the Edge of Desire – The Lightning Kids (makes me want to go on a night drive)

The feature: often a transparent label move to boost profits by uniting two big names, and yet also an opportunity for smaller performers to rev their engine with gas from established peers. Thus enabled, The Frst may not be as standalone as their name suggests, but as their “About” page once clarified: “You’re The Frst… We’re your soundtrack.” And the duo play that role ably, rolling with rockers like Sleeping With Sirens (rap-meets-mope “Bruce Lee”), Eagles of Death Metal (“Murderabilia,” Josh Homme still in fine form), and The Dangerous Summer (“Torpedo”). Meanwhile, “Pop Punk Song” is my hypothetical wrestling entrance fanfare. Consider me glad this album did, in fact, happen! 

VOILÀ topped this list in 2024, so if they’re lower in the ranking this time around, it’s nothing personal—just the shockwave of discovery fading into familiarity. Still, that familiarity is as one of my favorite bands, a debonair pair who mix cabaret aesthetics with witty wordplay and a gothic fixation on death and heartbreak. For this year’s bifurcated LP, the stage is unveiled with a slow-boil title track before launching into a screaming stream of odes to drinking alone (“after (h)ours”; “Unhappy Hour”), internet addiction (“Digital Zombies”), and the one that either got away or can’t fast enough (“Wish You Hell” and “VOGUE,” respectively). There’s tenderness too, though, from the homebody seduction of “Better Off” to the tearjerking vows of “LIFEBLOOD”… and I don’t have TikTok, but if I did, I think I’ve got some winning moves for “FMK!” Fellow magicians got a show indeed this year, and I’m ready for as many more acts as Messrs. Eisner and Ross have waiting in the wings. 

For some, it’ll be the moment when the girl once rumored to have apologized for saying “God” in a song now calls out Americans whitewashing Christ. For others, it’ll be out of the gates, with the clamorous bravado of “Ice in my OJ.” Maybe, if you’ve got the right sense of humor, it’s “Discovery Channel,” interpolating exactly the Bloodhound Gang line you think it does. To everyone who experiences Ego Death, however (everyone who can belt out “That’s What You Get” at their own karaoke bar, at least), a realization will come: oh, Hayley Williams is an artist. As if there was any doubt, but in striking out on her own during COVID, Williams introduced a sound evocative of Paramore yet undeniably more personal, diverse, and perverse. Over an hour and change, the singer-songwriter vents about racists, antidepressants, and bad flings, but also looking toward a brighter future (“Love Me Better”; “I Won’t Quit on You”). With as vibrant as her hair and advocacy have always been, I’ve no doubt she’ll get there!

The “Vaxis” cycle is where I went from being Coheed-curious to an unabashed C&C fan, if only because they eased up on the suites and threw in some more hooks. With part tres of the prospective pentalogy, little has changed sonically or narratively since A Window of the Waking Mind and Unheavenly Creatures—it’s metal, it’s theatrical, it’s nerdy, and I’m still not sure what’s going on without finishing the bonus novella. Notice how there was no complaint in there! “Goodbye, Sunshine” pours one out for a late companion with fitting vigor, “Someone Who Can” backgrounded more than one self-pep-talk this year, and I just about swerved off the road (complimentary) when I heard absolute firestorm “Blind Side Sonny” segue into the breakbeats of “Play the Poet.” I’ve seen them in concert twice, and Claudio willing, I’ll see them twice more for the next acts of this interstellar adventure. 

I’m not above unabashedly happy tunes, and yet I can’t deny that—thanks to Spotify’s deluge of content (canceling that subscription, promise)—I judge thumbnails at first glance. Look at this chump tossing paper airplanes, I might’ve thought; he will never be ballin’. Chalk me taking a chance on Knox up to wild curiosity—after Bilmuri rocked my world, I went scrolling though colleagues and wondered what a clean-cut kid was doing with that hog-man. Turns out, something mellower yet equally up my alley! “You Happened” scorns an ex with darkly comic specificity, “Pick Your Poison” bops all around a chance encounter over underage drinks, and “Not The 1975” parodies its namesake for a self-deprecating anthem. I’ve no doubt the performer has a diligent crew at the studio, but all the same, the result is mononym-worthy music.

Mayday Parade: you know ‘em, you love ‘em, you have five of their shirts and want a huge umbrella largely to imitate their old album covers (that last part was written while looking into a mirror). It’s tough to admit we can now say “three cheers for twenty years,” but the love’s still there—in smug Knuckle Puck collab “Who’s Laughing Now,” in half-full-hearted adieu “Pretty Good to Feel Something,” in requisite Calvin & Hobbes quote “I Must Obey the Inscrutable Exhortations of My Soul.” Elsewhere, “I Miss the 90s” plays misdirection with its nostalgic label, while “It’s Not All Bad” enters the canon of certified MP bangers, infusing their signature melodrama with 80s synth for a toast to—honoring one of their rawest cuts—“the good that became of that crash.” This spot’s a little crowded, but until I hear a release date for the prophesied threequel, I’m treating these as an S-tier double album. 

Watching the edgy rock star archetype evolve over generations can be fascinating. Whereas all-purpose rage and casual homophobia may once have been the play (Hollywood Undead really just climbed onto the charts in ‘08 with some of those lyrics, huh), contemporary bad boys are more likely to get loud and proud about not just queerness but also mental health. Exhibit J: Jack the Underdog, who blessed my collection with this effervescent sophomore effort (and a sugarcoated nightcore version) when I least expected it! “I’M HAPPY (JUST IN CASE)” taps the UFO fixation of fellow Tom DeLonge fans for a rush of stoner optimism, “LIL ME” acerbically wallows in dreams dashed by people “who give me head—aches,” and “LIVE LAUGH LOBOTOMY” raises a two-minute-fifty-three-second middle finger to… well, can you take a number? At last count, this guy covered “Wood” and didn’t change a word. Taylor Swift isn’t on the list this year (wonder why), but with any luck, Mr. Underdog will be again. 

We have music for every season, or so it often seems. Cheery melodies for a spring in one’s step, that coveted “song of the summer,” autumnal indie, and then about four months of Christmas jingles (nights, rainy or not, synthwave’s got you covered). But what about when it’s just kinda… spooky? Chilly, misty, not a lot of people on the street? Enter Haunted Mouths, the side project from Sleeping With Sirens frontman/roving guest vocalist Kellin Quinn, and A Collection of Greetings. “Further Til We Disappear” sets the mood, eerie tones quivering over passages about rabbit holes, pumpkin tarts, and crashing waves, and what follows are soundscapes at home in bleak January (where I first listened) or pre-Halloween October alike. It comes across as traditional yet bold, meek yet forceful, and cold yet comforting. This is music for equinoxes, where day and night are symmetrical but there’s not as much to celebrate, and it’s all just a bit gray out. Glad to finally have something to stroll to in such weather! 

Some of my favorite bands got that way because of how well they blow up a projection of my heaviest emotions, like shadow puppets lit to towering proportions: Mayday Parade’s chin-up wistfulness, the operatic angst of My Chemical Romance, A Day to Remember and their easycore screeds against conformity. If I had to pick the group that best captures how I’ve actually felt on my most trying days, though, it’d be The Summer Set. “About a Girl” crystalized the unrequited what-ifs of undergrad, and “Legendary” dominated countless twentysomething daydreams, but it was when the inspiring “Figure Me Out” led—after a mutual creative hiatus—to the callback of “Back Together” that I knew. Now, with MMATRS, the quartet have zeroed in with GeoGuessr precision on my feels… and not a moment too soon! “For the First Time” revels in realizing it’s never too late to come alive, “34” is a bittersweet celebration of nearing middle age, and leave it to these guys to riff on that myth about where a certain shoe name came from with “ADIDAS.” For TSS, life has always been one big party, for better or worse. I used to not really like parties, but I think I’m ready to let myself enjoy one.

Look, I’m just as surprised as you are. With as tiring as “fake geek girls” discourse was at the time, I defended a rising 5 Seconds of Summer against “fake punk boy” allegations—but there’s no denying that “She Looks So Perfect,” with its product-placement chorus and lullaby-adjacent verses, was a corny first impression deserving of the One Direction comparisons. I got down with a few tracks from their eponymous debut and its successor, but that was kinda it. Until.

Everyone’s a Star! marks a total reinvention, if not breaking new ground then at least breaking away from the Top 40 ambitions of old and toward something darker, sexier, yet still eminently catchy. As titles like “NOT OK” and lines like “can you feel my heart” indicate, these gentleman have enjoyed some emo in their time, but this is no mere sad-boy cash-in; there’s notes of Bring Me the Horizon, but also the soft-spoken rambles of Gorillaz, The 1975-like wails (sorry, Knox!), The Weeknd’s electric lasciviousness, and on and on, with room to spare for serenades like the anguished “I’m Scared I’ll Never Sleep Again.” It’s minor-key one minute, club-ready the next, and—as the deluxe edition and one unexpectedly funny track acknowledge—evolved indeed. In studying their most gracefully aged genre forefathers, 5SOS have arrived at my ideal merger of pop and the hard stuff. It’s not a guilty pleasure; honestly, I think I’m ready to retire that phrase. It’s just a pleasure—to dance to, croon to, love to, and everything in-between. As said stars, let’s keep those good vibes going into 2026 and beyond!  

The TNW “State of Creativity” Address

Don’t worry, I’m alive! When I started this blog–*checks Archives* …fifteen years ago, good Lord–I did so with the intent of it being a one-stop shop for updates on and buzz-building about my various creative endeavors (poetry, short stories, movie-making, etc.). Some years, it has been that, and with aplomb; others, as a day job and phone addiction squeeze my free time ever tighter, it’s just been a receptacle for annual too-long-for-social-media Top 10 Lists. Those are still on their way, but in the meantime, I thought it wise to also provide a quick list of the right-brained accomplishments I’m most proud of in 2025!

Yes indeed! You can find more info if you know where to look, but at least online, I’ve kept tight-lipped so as to avoid copycats and not call my shot with undue conceit. All I’ll say for now (in addition to the cryptic clip above) is that, after conceiving of the world, characters, and plot in a flurry of inspiration over autumn of 2024, I’m now about 30% through a first draft. It’s inspired by a lot of my favorite horror/fantasy media, but also action movies, videogames, and synthwave music. My goal is a tale that’s unique and uplifting, not just another snarky pulp adventure about superheroic chosen ones making right with might. And I want to do it proper–sharing my work online and in the occasional niche journals has been fun, but to really make a name for myself, I’ll need the discipline to finish a full-scale book, the humility to accept reams of rejection letters and red-scathed pages back from an editor, and the foresight that what goes on the cover and into readers’ minds won’t be exactly what I imagined. Every time I walk into a library or Barnes & Noble, I think, all of these people got on a shelf–why can’t I? Come 2026, I plan to prove that’s a rhetorical question.

“Shop local” is the go-to mantra for building community, so even as I work on larger personal projects, I’ve also gladly made time to hit the streets and “create local.” Creative Colloquy and Voices of Tacoma: A Gathering of Poets are two splendid Grit City collectives which invite writers and other artists of all stripes to print, perform, or just swap drafts in good company. At the latter’s invitation, I’ve performed recent pieces like “Tacomaturity” and “Raining for a Saved Day,” but also dipped my toe into the unapologetically political with “Repetism,” a contribution to the Voices of Protest zine released as part of the “Fall of Freedom.” Now more than ever, I can’t tolerate what I see when I flip through the headlines. Good art can bring people together and, while they’re there, remind them of the positive change they’re capable of. It’s been my honor and privilege to occupy such a spotlight, the medium I value most in hand.

My brother Kyle and I also started a podcast this year–now available on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, and YouTube! In each episode, we–the bros in question–reflect on a certain slice of retro pop culture, childhood tradition, or other such topic in a series of probing yet lighthearted conversations. It’s about nostalgia, but not uncritically; “remember when” is just the jumping-off point, and if we think things are better now in some respects than back in 90s/Y2K days, we’ll gladly say so and why. After block-shooting some episodes in 2024, we released those and more about biweekly starting in May, since which we’ve taken a break. What’s next? Well, in addition to a general Season Two, we’re looking to expand the show’s scope and introduce side projects under our new media production business, “White Noise LLC.” In the meantime, we’ve got a Bygone Bros Instagram, there’s a lot of untapped potential for us aging Millennials on TikTok or a similar platform, and we’ve got a solid list of additional topics we’re looking forward to discussing!

Not sure why WordPress insists on this embed being so huge, but Snowfall is worth it!

For a while, my video production bread and butter was Twitch highlights and movie reviews. This year, in the interest of focusing on the aforementioned projects, I scaled that back; my “Spooky Streams” are impulsive and sporadic (but that means they pop up when you least expect it!), while my filmed reviews were limited to dunking on a truly heinous Jason Statham flick. I still write about most everything I watch on Letterboxd, at least–769 diary entries and counting, baby! But I didn’t sleep on my channel–I put out another horror story narration, fourteen episodes of Bygone Bros, a few amusing home videos otherwise lost to time, and whatever comedy shorts happened to pop in my head and wouldn’t leave until I hit “export” in Premiere. That, and I always like to toss up the occasional cat video (see above) or moment of PNW zen–out of true enthusiasm, but also in recognition of how Shorts usually net at least a stray follower or two. Praise be to the Algorithm, and may I finish my first proper video essay soon enough!

Though it debuted well before 2025, I’d be remiss not to rep once more for the creative project of which I’m most proud: ANAGOGIA, an interactive fiction game about navigating a realm of liminal spaces occupied by unnerving creatures and phenomena. I still leave QR code cards promoting it in any dive bar bathroom or communal corkboard I come across… you never know when you might encounter one!

Oh, and I’m trying to make chocolate for a prospective side biz. Always liked the idea of marketing candy as a kid (they’re fun to eat, surely they’re fun to sell!), but there’s definitely a few more steps involved than just melting down someone else’s bar and pouring it into silicone. Still, Kyle and I have what we feel are some excellent ideas to stand out from the crowd, branding- and flavor-wise. Stay tuned!

Honorable mention: “This Party Sucks” emo nite – Airport Tavern.

Lastly… well, reckon I can’t call karaoke a substantive creative output, but let it be known that I have good fun with it among friends and grab a mic whenever the opportunity arises. Separate but very much related is my love of live music–there’s a beautiful communion to hearing tunes that’ve meant so much to you personally blasted at 11 (as I stand in the back with earplugs, but still), alongside a crowd that proves you were never truly alone. As a P.S. of posterity, here’s highlights from all of the concerts I saw this year:

a. This Wild Life – The Vera Project
b. Coven Dove – The Juice Box
c. Mayday Parade (with Microwave, Grayscale, Like Roses) – Showbox SoDo
d. Pierce the Veil (with Sleeping with Sirens, Beach Weather) – Cascades Amphitheater
e. Simple Plan (with Bowling for Soup, 3OH!3) – WAMU Theater
f. The All-American Rejects – Emerald Queen Casino
g. Coheed & Cambria (with Taking Back Sunday, Foxing) – Chateau Ste. Michelle Winery
h. Seattle Symphony – Benaroya Hall
i. VOILÀ (with Monotronic, NOT A TOY) – Chop Suey
j. Jack’s Mannequin (with illuminati hotties) – Showbox SoDo
k. Emo Night Karaoke (with my buddy Grant et al.!) – Airport Tavern

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.