While they were working on their 2022 album Who Are You Now, Who Were You Then, Nashville power trio the Foxies would often emerge from their recording sessions at Quad Studios to find a strange cast of musicians occupying the building’s other rooms. Nothing could’ve prepared them for the late-’90s juggernaut awaiting them on one occasion.

“One day it was Scott Stapp and I straight up crumbled,” lead singer Julia Lauren Bullock recalls. “The butt-rock in me is vibing right now.”

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Nashville musicians of all stripes often wind up in rooms with unlikely companions, but — Stapp fandom notwithstanding — the Foxies are decidedly not a Creed-esque nü-metal revival act. The band’s lineup of Bullock, guitarist Jake Ohlbaum, and drummer Rob Bodley, which coalesced in 2017, has become one of Nashville’s premier alt-rock exports thanks to commanding live shows and a series of releases that mix punk attitude with pop precision. It’s music that connects the dots from Miley Cyrus and Charli XCX to Blondie and David Bowie. 

“I grew up with Bowie, the Sex Pistols, INXS, all these different bands,” Bullock says. “Put that in a pot, simmer it down, you’ve got what we’re doing.” Fittingly, they’ve toured the world supporting new wave and punk hero Billy Idol. 

The band has only one full-length as of now, but they’re a prolific singles outfit. Offerings include the shimmering indie pop of “Deep Sea Diver,” the sleazy disco of “Anti Socialite,” and the aggressive rock of “French Boy” — from the Growing Up Is Dead EP — that combine electronics and guitar crunch with Bullock’s expressive wail. They pay homage to a present-day matinee idol in the spunky, sweet “Timothee Chalamet.” Onstage, they round out their ranks with bassist Chris Amond and have the backing tracks support their chemistry as a live band.

It’s a good time to be a performer who loves guitars and hooks, considering the excitement around fellow Nashvillian Soccer Mommy, the three songwriters of Boygenius, and of course, pop supernova Olivia Rodrigo. “When I listened to [Rodrigo’s new] album, I was like, ‘This is bulletproof,’” Ohlbaum says. “It was genius. Her songs are great,” Bullock agrees. “We write shit like that so it’s like, ‘Hey girl, bring us on tour!’”

In 2024, the Foxies are preparing to release more new music. “Natural Disaster” makes being young and messy feel like a sacred rite, while “Call Me Later” offers a pledge to a friend: I’ll be here when you need me. “It’s like our love song to people who listen to our music,” Bullock says. A third song, “Talk to Me That Way,” begins soft and strummy like Muna’s “Silk Chiffon,” but then cranks up to an arena-worthy chorus in which Bullock sweetly tells a guy trying to pick her up, “Listen when I say, there ain’t no fuckin’ way.” 

“It’s about dating in your late 20s and feeling so exhausted by hearing the same thing,” Bullock says. “People don’t want to commit, people just want to fuck. I’m tired of that shit.” 

For now, the Foxies are still recording and releasing their music independently, but they’re open to partnering with a label if the arrangement makes sense and will help them achieve some ambitious — one might even say Creed-level — goals.

“We want to be as big as Queen. We want to take over the world,” Bullock says. “That’s such a big thing, but if we become just a cult classic too, that’s awesome.”

“I don’t really want anybody else’s career,” Ohlbaum offers. “We’ve never felt like, ‘Okay, it’s time to do something completely different.’ We’re like, ‘What’s the next step for this thing that already exists?’”

“It’s more like, ‘How do we figure out TikTok?’” Bullock concludes. “That is enough to make anybody go, ‘What the what?’”

To see our running list of the top 100 greatest rock stars of all time, click here.

It’s the last night of Nicotine Dolls’ headlining tour at Nashville’s Exit/In. Fans – some of whom have traveled from across North America, bearing their favorite Nicotine Dolls’ lyrics as tattoos – are taking in what feels like a defining moment in the band’s career.  

At every show, the rising New York rockers deliver performances that are hard to ignore – easily moving from playful, comedic bits (like an impression of Randy Newman performing “Sk8er Boi”) to their ’90s pop/rock punch to the sternum that’s equally painful, cathartic and exciting.

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Most of the shows sold out shortly after they were announced, and the audience packing the 500-seat venue hangs on vocalist Sam Cieri’s every word and action – a point proven when he intros the confessional “30 Somehow.” The room goes numbingly silent as he talks about his fears. 

“I wrote it and listened back to the demo and were heartbroken and hopeful at the same time,” Cieri tells SPIN backstage ahead of the show. “It’s one of the more honest things we’ve put out. I’m very scared for some people to hear it who are mentioned in the song.”

That vulnerability is part of the appeal. The goosebumps on Cieri’s tattooed forearms are visible when he talks about audiences reacting to “How Do You Love Me,” the deeply personal title track on their upcoming four-song EP. When performed at the band’s shows, the song carries the emotional charge of a defibrillator serving its purpose. When the Nicotine Dolls ramp up to the third verse and Cieri dances through the words “narcissistic paranoia,” the audience is a ball of loud, raw energy.

“It’s me listing everything I believe is wrong with me, so it was a really scary thing to put that out and I love it so much. It’s been overwhelming to stand in a room full of people, who are blowing back the lyrics because they need to,” says Cieri, who’s sunken into a faded brown leather couch; one foot anxiously tapping the floor, the other outstretched and immobilized in a walking boot. 

The injury is the result of an otherwise tame round of laser tag before the second-to-last show in Kansas City. If anything, the injury strengthened his determination to wade into the audience and sing with fans who crave the connection as much as he does. 

“I’ll hobble my way out there and balance on one foot – it’s too good of a moment,” he says. “The last time we solo-toured like this years ago, there were five to ten people. So, to come out and play these shows, it’s overwhelming.”

There’s also an overwhelming sense of gratitude. But it’s not a line thrown into the audience at the end of the night like a setlist or a used guitar pick. 

“We want to create an experience that feels like hanging out at a friend’s house, listening to your favorite songs, and having a good time,” says guitarist John Hays, whose position on the couch, seated next to Cieri, is symbolic of their friendship struck up nearly a decade ago during a national Broadway tour.  

It’s that experience and connection that’s helped the band, which in addition to Cieri and Hays, includes bassist John Merritt and drummer Abel Tabares, cultivate a cult-like following while earning the respect of fellow artists whose songs they’ve covered on TikTok. 

Tracy Chapman, LeAnn Rimes, Teddy Swims, Gary LeVox, and Tim McGraw have all liked or commented on the posts, with Swims and McGraw both recently posting flattering reaction videos to the covers, and LeVox co-writing a song with Cieri that’s yet to be released. 

The draw is in large part due to Cieri’s delivery and willingness to put his “flaws” on display in lyrics written by a guy who seems comfortable poking at his bruises. 

At 31, he’s soft-spoken and sometimes goofy but transforms into a charismatic, gravelly-throated powerhouse with the rasp of Bruce Springsteen and the emotion of Lewis Capaldi. 

What makes them even more appealing is an impenetrable commitment to their core values. This was tested when Cieri walked away from America’s Got Talent last year— integrity intact — when producers tried to rebrand him as a solo artist. However, he never considered the offer.

“When you do something like AGT and they say ‘we only want you’, they don’t understand – this group blows me out of the water,” he says. “I remember watching Springsteen’s 1975 Hammersmith Odeon and it was the show that changed my life. It was raw and emotional and connected to the audience. You do that, you get that kind of group of people together, that’s unstoppable!”

That’s the feeling captured on the EP, which is out on Dec. 8 through Nettwerk. It offers listeners a range of emotions: from the casual, seemingly light-hearted “SLIP” about giving into the familiarity of being with an ex; to the heartbreaking “Real House,” which brings a cinematic conclusion to that relationship.

“It’s not just music,” says Tabares. “Before every show, we huddle up and say the same thing, ‘Listen to each other and listen to them’. We are becoming closer and closer, and I think that’s what comes through and what the audience picks up on.”

To see our running list of the top 100 greatest rock stars of all time, click here.

After forming 15 years earlier while in high school, Arizona alternative quartet Katastro finally looked ready to take the next step in 2022.

Vocalist Andy Chaves, bassist Ryan Weddle, drummer Andrew Stravers and guitarist Tanner Riccio were ready to record again on the heels of 2021’s Sucker and had just finished playing at venues like Red Rocks Amphitheatre ahead of their summer tour with Iration. Ahead of those sessions in May 2022, the group headed west to Orange County, Ca. to visit their friends in Dirty Heads’ studio. But just a couple of days later, Chaves was killed in a car accident on May 12, 2022 at the age of 32.

While grieving their friend and bandmate, the surviving members of Katastro canceled the tour, halted the recording process, and ceased band activities indefinitely.

Roughly a year and a half later, Weddle, Stravers and Riccio are ready to move forward with releasing Katastro’s final album — having already launched the first single, the upbeat “Good Time” — featuring vocal takes performed mere days before Chaves’ death.

“It’s been bittersweet for us,” Stravers tells SPIN over Zoom. “It’s so exciting to finally put music out because we’re so used to constantly putting music out during our 16 years as a band. But to not have Andy here while we do it comes with all these different emotions and feelings.”

“I didn’t realize it until [‘Good Time’] came out, but part of me felt safe holding on to this music,” Weddle adds. “I already had it, and it was always there. But now that it’s out, it just feels like ‘OK, what’s next?’ Luckily, we do have a lot more [of Chaves’ vocals], but it made me realize how valuable every single thing we have left is. It all means so much more and feels different than any other release.”

Aside from their gratitude for the remaining vocal takes that Chaves recorded in his final days, Katastro is also thankful for the community that has supported them over the last 18 months. Despite having to drop off of the tour with Iration, the reggae rockers brought some of Katastro’s merch with them on the road and sent them all of the profits from its sales. Earlier this year, Katastro performed for the first time since Chaves’ death at Kampfest, a festival put on in his memory. Iration and Dirty Heads showed up, as did Sublime With Rome singer Rome Ramirez — all of whom are featured on the final album, along with their Arizona brethren in The Maine. Thousands of fans showed up to Kampfest, with thousands more reaching out and offering support online.

It’s the kind of reaction and community appreciation that Chaves would’ve loved, and his memory drives the remaining members to ensure that the final album isn’t just a great release, but a deserving send-off.

“The three of us feel this obligation to keep pushing through not only to withhold Andy’s legacy but also the band’s legacy and everything we’ve worked for,” Weddle says. “It was evident to us right after he passed that we’d have to take a couple of months, but we couldn’t just sit around and do nothing. We all knew that finishing it was the only way we were going to be able to get through it. We had other artists and all the fans supporting us and giving us the strength to be able to do that.”

“We started realizing pretty quickly that we had enough [vocals] to do all this, which gave us hope that it’s not over,” Riccio says. “I thought it was gonna be this huge pressure to make sure everything is great when we finally got to the point of releasing it. There is some of that, but it just feels good that it sounds like what the album would have sounded like if none of this tragic stuff had happened. It feels like the band can still have this moment together, even though Andy’s not here.”

To see our running list of the top 100 greatest rock stars of all time, click here.

“I remember my brother and I used to fill up a CD-R with songs and drive into the city. We could only pick one song each till the disc was full,” says Adam Kyriakou, who records under the name Department, over the phone from Melbourne (“the best city in Australia,” he quickly adds). “My brother (Tim) put ‘Hiders’ by (London-based electronic musician) Burial on there. I still get chills thinking about hearing it for the first time.” 

The 26-year-old was already a fan of Burial but now sees that 2013 track as a point in the enigmatic London producer’s career that became a guidepost for his approach to creating music out of samples. “There was a period, I think around the Rival Dealer EP, when he was trying to write [conventional] songs more. And that impacted me deeply, because it was like, I can construct like a verse, chorus, bridge out of other people’s voices,” he says. “Everything came together for me after that moment. I knew exactly the music I needed to create. It was my ‘Brian Wilson hearing “Be My Baby” and pulling over the car’ moment.”

Department’s debut album Dumb Angel, self-released in September, builds on that epiphany with a maximalist collage that sometimes sounds like an unlikely all-star jam in an alternate universe. On “Dreams of Youth,” vocals from multiple Ariana Grande songs are mixed and matched in a virtual duet with Jason Pierce of Spiritualized. On “Distant Voices, Still Lives (Part II),” ‘90s R&B group 702’s vocals float over an early Parliament obscurity and the thumping beat from J-Kwon’s 2004 rap hit “Tipsy.” 

Kyriakou, a student at La Trobe University in Melbourne, would enlist friends to add keyboards, strings, and 808 drums to flesh out songs and help connect the samples. “I would bring people in to play over samples without too much context,” he says. Like before, his brother Tim, who is seven years older, helped influence the shape of the record. “He helped me edit the album down in the final stages and was the only person I brought in to hear the final cuts because he knows exactly what I’m getting at with my music.”

‘60s nostalgia is Kyriakou’s unlikely muse for mixing and matching samples. The music he heard in his parents’ record collection as a child, including psychedelic pop confections by pioneering producers like Phil Spector and Joe Meek, inspired Department’s use of soaring voices and dramatic reverb. “All I’ve ever been chasing is that feeling of Odyssey & Oracle by the Zombies, Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds,” he says. “ I was like nine years old, on the internet, downloading Smile bootlegs, just kind of going down that rabbit hole.” Few of the samples on Dumb Angel are from the ‘60s, although Kyriakou samples the decade secondhand via “Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space,” a 1997 Spiritualized track that interpolates Elvis Presley’s “Can’t Help Falling In Love.” 

Kyriakou is aware of the history of plunderphonics, composer John Oswald’s term for music created out of pirated audio, and recognizes how artists and producers from Girl Talk to the Dust Brothers have creatively combined samples before. With melody as the driving force rather than rhythm, though, Department’s music hits on a more emotional level, and Dumb Angel is the rare electronic album where tracks are not locked into a consistent BPM. “There’s not one moment of the record that’s on a grid,” Kyriakou says. 

Department shares a hometown with Australia’s most famous sample collage artists, The Avalanches. Kyriakou’s Brandy-sampling 2021 debut single “Fear of the Heavens” was mixed with Avalanches engineer Tony Espie. Kyriakou pulled that track off streaming services, however, as he considers revising it for a future project. “That was kind of maybe 70% there of what I wanted,” he says. “I do wanna revisit it because there’s so much material from this period where it was really good or great but just didn’t fit with [Dumb Angel]. “That’ll probably be the next thing that I do.”

The album was largely recorded while Kyriakou was a student living at home with his family during the COVID-19 lockdown. “I’ve been pretty much in my room for the past two or three years, I barely left my house. You can’t make a record like that on a clock, you just can’t,” he says. The songs were first sketched out on entry-level open-source audio software, Audacity, and then finalized on Ableton, with occasional distortion and clipping deliberately left in the tracks to preserve the album’s raw homemade origins. 

Of course, Kyriakou realizes he’s in a tenuous position using pieces of so many other people’s records, but he didn’t think about it while creating. “I think the second you start putting limitations on artistry, you kind of don’t end up making the record you want to. This record wouldn’t exist if I was sitting there like, ‘I can’t do this, I can’t do that.’”   

Kyriakou’s larger long-term ambition, however, is to work with vocalists instead of just sampling them. “I wanna work with singers or rappers and push my kind of sound into records for other people,” he says. “I wanna try and do what they were doin’ in the’60s, even as [recently] as Timbaland, making weird, interesting, really colorful pop records.” 

To see our running list of the top 100 greatest rock stars of all time, click here.

Inside of Scowl, there are two wolves.

One wants to be the best hardcore band on the planet, while the other seeks a diverse sound inspired by various bands across the alternative rock universe.

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On the Santa Cruz, Ca.-based band’s first two EPs, and for much of 2021’s How Flowers Grow, the first wolf was clearly winning. But Scowl’s debut full-length also showed glimpses of the ferocity of that other side, specifically via the clean vocals and saxophone of “Seeds to Sow” and the pulsing groove of “Four Walls.”

Then came this year’s EP, Psychic Dance Routine, a 10-minute exploration that brought Scowl into new sonic territories and fan bases that aren’t necessarily into the growls and screams of hardcore. The EP’s five songs start with the screaming verses and slower chorus of “Shot Down,” continuing through the dance-worthy title track that would be a massive hit for the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and even throwing in a Live Through This-like song with “Opening Night.”

But despite the varied genres, influences and comparisons, it all comes together to form a cohesive sound that’s uniquely Scowl.

“We as individuals have such a wide variety of music tastes, so we wanted to showcase that inspiration and its relevance in our lives as individuals and as a band,” vocalist Kat Moss says, her bright green hair and eyebrows shining under the Los Angeles sun, as the band stops by USC’s campus ahead the first show of their recent tour in nearby downtown. “I feel like How Flowers Grow was our first attempt at writing as a solidified hardcore band, whereas Psychic Dance Routine was us taking things a creative and experimental route. I’m excited to see what comes next as we blossom as musicians.”

“I think a lot of people talk about how Psychic Dance Routine is such a stray from the path, but if you look between the lines of some of our earlier work, it hints at that sound,” bassist Bailey Lupo adds, sitting on a set of concrete steps.

Of course, any hardcore band that earns popularity outside of the scene is going to draw its detractors, and most of Scowl’s can be conveniently confined into the box of dudes saying they’re not “really hardcore” or even accusing them of being “industry plants” because Moss isn’t a disheveled guy in a baseball cap. Her elaborate outfits might not always be mosh pit-friendly, but no one else is letting loose guttural screams and hardcore dancing in a dress like she will. With a handful of songs that would make elite indie pop bands jealous, Scowl is breaking down the sonic and stylistic barriers of hardcore’s sometimes militant community the same way that bands like Bad Brains did 40 years ago — but unlike the early acts, the NorCal rockers are hardcore kids who value the community that raised them as fans before they became the next generation of leadership.

“I can look at everyone in Scowl and recognize that we’re all here because we love hardcore and the community,” Moss says. “The most enticing and exciting thing about hardcore to me was the fact that it made me feel different. I had a space to celebrate my uniqueness and to meet people who felt the same way about themselves. I’ve never had more friends in my life than when I started going to shows. It’s this community that I’m very fortunate to be a part of.”

As a band that has been touring seemingly endlessly since the end of the pandemic, it’s easy to forget that the “sound” Scowl moved away from on Psychic Dance Routine was only about a half-hour of material. The rapid ascent that’s come with diversifying their sound has taken the quintet from the brightest star in the Santa Cruz hardcore scene to the national stage, earning all of the praise, criticisms, sexism and ridiculous rumors that go along with it. They’re very much still going through the growing pains of being a young band discovering their sound, except they’re doing it while opening arenas for Limp Bizkit and others and headlining mid-sized venues.

“Personally, the pressure is hard to explain with words, and something that I think we collectively underestimated,” Moss says. “A lot of the ‘hype’ has been something completely unexpected and that we were unprepared for. We’re not complaining by any means, but it’s a level of pressure we didn’t expect. It makes us think hard about every choice that we make collectively as a band and as people.”

“It was sink or swim for us because it went from a couple of tours to opening a tour where there were arenas — and then after that, you’re always playing bigger rooms,” adds guitarist Greene. “We had to just step up and play as best we could. It had a ‘fake it ‘til you make it’ aspect in that we just had to get up there and do it.”

So far, the lack of planning and preparation have paid off. Their recent headlining tour with Militarie Gun and MSPAINT was an example of what the future of hardcore music looks and sounds like, and the direction of Scowl’s sophomore album is as anticipated as any in the entire scene right now. Whether they opt to stick in the traditionally hardcore lanes, expand into more diverse and accessible sounds, or explore something new altogether, it seems that Scowl are primed to explode in any direction they choose.

To see our running list of the top 100 greatest rock stars of all time, click here.

Unlike many social media stars who leverage massive followings to achieve overnight success in entertainment, Petey didn’t get into music due to his TikTok fame. Though the singer-songwriter, who grew up in Chicago’s north suburbs, went viral on the platform with hilarious and outlandish videos, his sights were set on creating invigorating emo-pop long before fans started scrolling his witty videos. Still, as he tells SPIN from his new home of Los Angeles, the leap from working “9 to 5 minimum wage gigs” in places like corporate mailrooms to releasing and touring two albums “happened in a really interesting way.”

Though he’d previously played drums in Chicago-based indie band Young Jesus, the now 33-year-old musician didn’t start writing songs until his late 20s. At first, he used his songwriting as a means to escape his mundane work life. Following a recording session in a friend’s studio, his hobby soon became his road to a new profession. Once Petey completed his new batch of songs, on a whim, he sent his new songs (via SoundCloud link) to L.A.-based indie label, Terrible Records through an Instagram direct message. “They wanted to meet up and chat the next day,” Petey says. “[Label co-founder Ethan Silverman] responded to the songs within like five minutes.” He met Silverman the following week, and a few months later, a record deal was in place. 

“It was kind of funny just how easy it was,” he says. “But then COVID happened like the day after.” Petey spent his time during the lockdown recording the songs that would eventually become his debut Lean Into Life. 

It was also during that time that he started creating and sharing absurd content on TikTok (one of his recent posts features him playing multiple characters fighting over the quality of their bird calls), a decision that has grown his social media to over 1.5 million followers. 

“I had the record deal in place but without music ready for it yet,” Petey says. “It took another year before we put the album out.” Instead of waiting around while his music career was on pause due to COVID, or going back to the minutiae of his previous gigs, he decided to focus his creativity on content for TikTok. “A lot of people thought I got this huge following and now I’m trying to make music, but it was music that kicked the whole thing off. The record deal is what gave me the space to build up both worlds simultaneously.”

Petey’s sound, the one threading together his latest release, USA, can be described as electro-indie pop with an emo slant. It’s a denotation he agrees with since he says his sound is a combination of “all the genres I’ve ever loved” which spans from indie rock, to pop punk and EDM. 

“I grew up listening to Fall Out Boy and The Academy Is…, then in high school, I was obsessed with Death Cab for Cutie and The Postal Service, and that later evolved into listening to LCD Soundsystem,” he says. “I ended up combining everything I’ve ever liked but the songwriting shows my unique voice and is the thing that’s true to me. That’s what ties it all together.”

The album opener “I’ll Wait” reflects the desire to create songs that are meant to be heard from a stage. It flows in slowly with echoing guitar chords before spiraling into a high-energy aggressive strumming and clashing percussion. “Did I Mention I’m Sorry” follows the same live music formula, this time with subdued vocals over drum machines and slowly climbing synths. In it, Petey admits, “I dunno why I said that I was being sarcastic /Tryna make you feel bad a childish tactic.” The entire album plays out this way, combining earnest lyrics with a combative sound. “Those rock-forward songs remind me of seeing Say Anything when I was 16 years old,” Petey says. “I feel like they are the most fun to play.”

Now, Petey’s excited for “a full year of touring” and looking forward to playing USA live. “The shows are so fun,” he says. “The energy in the audience makes it a fun experience it’s such a special night.”

Outside of touring, he also has plans to surprisingly, stay offline. “I’d like to hike around, and swim in the ocean,” he says. “People think I am super online, but I’m not online at all. I got logged out of TikTok a month and a half ago and I haven’t asked my manager what the password is.” 

Despite choosing airplane mode hikes over endless social media scrolling, Petey is still happy that his online presence has led fans to his music.

“The internet is a way for me to do my job and not really for my enjoyment,” he says. “I’ve never been an internet kid but I’m informed by internet culture and that helps.”

To see our running list of the top 100 greatest rock stars of all time, click here.

Come June may be Mitch Rowland’s debut album, but he’s no music industry newbie. For the past seven years, he’s served as one of the guitarists in Harry Styles’ band, and has been an integral collaborator with the pop star as a co-writer of hits such as “Watermelon Sugar” and “Golden.” Their friendship and onstage interactions have been hyped by stans for years, and now, Rowland is the first signing to Styles’ record label, Erskine.

Music was in Rowland’s DNA long before crossing paths with Styles. From a young age, he was drawn to classic, guitar-driven rock’n’roll, particularly bands like the Black Crowes and Aerosmith. The Ohio native started toying around with a drum kit when he was five before eventually teaching himself guitar. Indeed, it was a 2008 Black Crowes concert he attended with his dad that nudged his fledgling college songwriter era into something more serious and reinvigorated his passion and direction. “Everything was just a bit larger than life,” he says over Zoom while driving in Los Angeles. “That was fuel for me.” 

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Rowland dove headfirst into the world of open tunings and Crowes guitar influences such as Keith Richards and Nick Drake. By 2013, he’d relocated to Los Angeles with the hopes of having a career in music. Jobs outside of the industry kept him going long enough to get his foot in the door with Styles, thanks to the recommendation of an engineer friend who’d heard the former One Direction singer needed a guitar player for his self-titled solo debut.

It was life-changing for Rowland who ended up co-writing and playing guitar on nine of the album’s tracks and became Styles’ lead guitarist on his Live on Tour in 2017. Rowland once again co-wrote and did session work for the pop star’s second album — landing five songs on the record. He once again joined Styles for his extensive Love on Tour run in 2017 and 2018.

The 35-year-old Rowland’s solo career didn’t quite come into focus for a few more years. Come June began taking shape at the outset of the COVID-19 pandemic while Rowland was in London, affording him the opportunity to render his brain “quiet enough” to finish all the half-completed ideas stored on his phone.

In the studio, Rowland’s approach was antithetical to the glitter and glam of the pop world (“My inspiration was kind of my anti-production,” he quips). He opted for the simplicity of a stripped-down, folk-inspired sound, about which he says, “I didn’t realize you could get away with calling yourself a singer and having your voice be so small and subtle, and that’s all it needs to be if you want it to be.” The minimal sound “was a direct result of having two feet in the world of production with Harry, and for the last six or seven years, being able to chuck anything and everything into a song while working in the nicest places.”

Come June has drawn comparisons to the work of the late Elliott Smith, of whom Rowland was unfamiliar beforehand. The influence of Jose Gonzalez and Bert Jansch is also evident, with Rowland’s wife Sarah Jones having introduced him to the former’s vocal-and-guitar-only style. “That struck a nerve,” he says.

Smith, however, kept coming up tangentially in making Come June. Jones had connected Rowland with veteran indie rock producer Rob Schnapf, whom she didn’t realize co-produced three of Smith’s pivotal albums, but it actually wasn’t until Come June was completed that Rowland finally listened to Smith.

“It’s like, ‘Oh, shit. I’m the last person to find out about this,’” he says. “And it’s a funny thing because I’m so close to the source, between Rob making a lot of those great albums and getting to know his wife, who managed Elliot. I didn’t know what I was stepping into when I started making the record, but it’s a very funny coincidence.”

While the sheen of Rowland’s pop experience isn’t core to Come June, hints of his other life are present within it. Styles contributes backing vocals on the breezy “Here Comes the Comeback,” a song Rowland wasn’t sure really fit on the album. “I’m not finger-picking or anything. I’m not doing anything that Bert Jansch would do,” he recalls thinking of the track. But he showed it to Styles, who loved it. “We recorded a version with [Harry] doing vocals, so then I half permanently heard that in my head,” he explains. Rowland soon realized the song really was his, but having his friend lend a hand made it richer.

Rowland absorbed other lessons from watching Styles make his own music, during which “nothing is off limits when he is composing a song. Over the years, I noticed he doesn’t get boxed in very often. He always knows which bucket of paint to dip into. He just goes anywhere, and I think that’s important to remember when you write about all topics.” 

Come June is a “scrapbook” of Rowland’s time oscillating between London and the English countryside from where his wife hails, discovering they were pregnant, moving back to Los Angeles mid-pandemic and having a child. The songs “oozed” out of him during that time. “That was my form of documenting,” he explains. “I wanted to frame all these feelings in a nice way rather than letting them dissolve into my memory.”

Opener “Bluebells” was directly inspired by the impending arrival of Rowland and Jones’ new addition to the family, its sunny folk vibes setting a reflective tone for the 12-track Come June. Rowland’s storytelling talents are on display on “When It All Falls Down,” a hushed number about the loser in a boxing match that he wrote after watching UFC with Jones’ family on a pre-pandemic Spanish holiday. For the psych-folk “All the Way Back,” Rowland recruited Ben Harper, whom he met when the latter guested on the Styles song “Boyfriends.” “I know the sound of his lap steel very well. I never would have thought I would get to hear it on one of my songs,” he laughs.

While Come June has been a long time in the making, Rowland is grateful it came into the world at its own pace. “I’m glad it’s taken this long, because I’ve learned so much in the last six or seven years making music with Harry,” he says. “It happened when it was supposed to happen.”

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Ever wanted to skip down the street even when you’re kind of bummed out, or felt the need to put on a happy face when you’d actually prefer to hide from the world under the covers? Tex Crick makes the kind of music to soundtrack such ambivalence — like Donald Fagen playing keys in the dark of night on a Mac DeMarco session while Randy Newman and Harry Nilsson nod from the control room with approving glances. 

His second album for DeMarco’s Mac’s Record Label, Sweet Dreamin’, is a breezy, nine-song, 24-minute delight led by Crick’s charming piano melodies and wry interpersonal narratives. There’s also an elusive sense of time and place woven through the music, colored by Australian native Crick’s long tenure living in Tokyo with barely any Japanese language skills.

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“We’re so used to seeing advertisements and you can’t help but read them while you’re walking around,” he tells SPIN over Zoom. “Here, I have no idea what’s going on around me and I’m in my own head a lot of the time, even though I’m outside. In a strange way, it’s very, very relaxing. The lifestyle is completely different here. There’s no trash cans on the street, and there’s funny music being piped in all the time, which I really like. Everything’s just a little bit different. It feels like I’m on another planet.”

This bemused vibe extends to songs such as “Silly Little Things,” which would fit in perfectly in a ‘70s-era California-set TV sitcom, and “Barefoot Blues,” where Crick plays a Hawaiian guitar at the moment he says the words “Hawaiian guitar” out loud. Another highlight is “Mulberry Wine,” during which Crick tries to impress a paramour with increasingly outlandish proposals such as buying them an original Picasso right off the walls of a museum (“You deserve the best,” he croons).

“I haven’t been too good at writing narrative stories in the past, but there are a couple fictitious songs on the record,” Crick says. “I love cheap rhymes, where sometimes there’s no deeper meaning to the lyrics than that. It can leave you questioning if it really is intentional or if it just sounds good.”

Sweet Dreamin’ also benefits from some happy accidents, such as chopsticks falling into a glass of water and producing a sound later captured on “Easy Keepers,” and Crick finding a nearly pristine acoustic guitar on the side of the road at the precise moment he needed such an instrument to complete the song “All I’m Dreaming Of.”

“I was trying to figure out what was wrong with it, but it looks brand new,” Crick marvels of the discovery. “It still had the tag on it and it was in a case. Maybe they were moving or something.”

Leaning further into his surroundings, Crick cast two Japanese friends as his imaginary bandmates in the Luke Casey-directed video for “Silly Little Things,” which finds them dressed as a lounge act while shooting dice in a seedy industrial area. Crick even made their costumes himself by dyeing white business shirts a shade of green and adding frills. “Like most of my songs, this one is about appreciating those fleeting moments in life — small pleasures that leave a lasting impression,” he says.

As for the pros and cons of having DeMarco as his label boss, he says that “he’s so chill. Whatever I want to do, he is down to try to make it happen.” He’s certainly preferable to Crick’s supervisor at an Australian grocery store, where the future singer/songwriter once worked cutting vegetables. “I won’t mention his name, but he was not nice,” he says.

Crick only started performing his own music live since COVID has waned, and he’s looking forward to being backed by a band for some yet-to-be-announced shows before the end of the year. Sadly, U.S. gigs will have to wait for now. “I’d like people to know that I want to play America, but it’s a long process with visas,” he says. “I promise I’ll get there eventually.”

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Karina Rykman identifies as “genre-fluid.” The bassist/singer is almost frighteningly conversant on the guitar sparring of Derek Trucks and Warren Haynes, 311, Captain Beefheart and metal. After learning the White Stripes’ “Seven Nation Army” on acoustic guitar in the eighth grade, Rykman learned to play bass by listening to favorite artists — eventually sometimes playing with them.

One such artist, Rush’s Geddy Lee, sent her his new Big Beautiful Book of Bass with a personal note. They’d never met, but he’d seen an online clip of her schooling a random dude who’d questioned the propriety of Rykman wearing a Rush t-shirt. The man dared her to “name one Rush album,” and Rykman promptly rattled off four. “You want them in chronological order!? You fucked with the wrong bitch!,” she says.

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Rykman’s citizen challenger clearly didn’t know that the New York native played in a band with virtuoso guitarist Alex Skolnick of Testament while in high school. By her early 20s, Rykman had jammed with Wilco’s Nels Cline, keyboardist John Medeski, jazz drummer Billy Martin and experimental jazz/rock multi-instrumentalist Marco Benevento. Those experiences have clearly shaped her diverse but cohesive debut album, possessed of a vibe both youthful and mature.

Her first album, Joyride, was co-produced by Phish’s singer/guitarist Trey Anastasio, whom Rykman met when she was in school with his daughter. The album captures Rykman’s musical singularity and diversity without losing what she says is her “essential Karina-ness.” Her in-the-pocket playing is malleable and by turns fluid, funky and super-heavy. The modern indie psychedelic approach on Joyride serves up a generous smattering of instrumentals, while Rykman’s own voice proves delicate yet potent on the shimmering title track, which features Anastasio on guitar. 

In addition to frequent sideperson work, her aforementioned power trio—Adam November (guitar, loopers, effects) and drummer Chris Corsico—have been playing and touring since 2017. Prior to the pandemic, Khruangbin invited Rykman’s band to open for them, despite not having an album. Once shows resumed, Rykman performed at Bonnaroo in 2022 and opened for the Infamous Stringdusters and the California Honeydrops at Red Rocks. Also that year, she filled in on bass with the 8G Band on NBC’s Late Night with Seth Meyers.

Despite her musical precociousness, Rykman didn’t grow up in an overtly creative environment. The only child of a philosophy professor father and a French professor mother, she’s almost entirely self-taught. She says not taking lessons ensured she would never lose her enjoyment of making music, a philosophy further strengthened by her solitary encounter with an instructor: “I did have one piano lesson with this very strict guy when I was in fifth grade. I was like, ‘Yeah, we’re done with that.’”

As a young autodidact with musical sensibilities ranging from chart-toppers to esoteric jazz, she had the rare ability to combine and create from that base/bass. “Weaving in and out of the mainstream is very interesting to me,” Rykman says. “I like to study all of it. I like to learn and explore. I’m just a weird chameleon.” That sensibility served her well at NYU’s Gallatin School of Individualized Study, which allows students to create their own major. Rykman’s choice? “Invention and Distribution in Contemporary Music,” she says. “Both the creative and business sides.”

Well-meaning fans sometimes praise Rykman by comparing her to Tina Weymouth of the Talking Heads. “That’s a huge compliment, of course. I’m the biggest Talking Heads fan this side of the Mason Dixon,” she says. Yet, she wonders, “Why did you get that idea? Because I’m blonde, and female? I feel as much Geezer Butler and Cliff Burton in my playing as I do Tina Weymouth.”    

The cited bassists, however, are neither lead singers nor in a three-piece. “It’s really fun to play bass in a bombastic power trio because you can’t overdo it, which is awesome,” she says with a grin. There are no limits, despite the stripped-down format. “I’m a huge fan of Rush, the Police, Primus and Morphine; there are so many examples of Incredible power trios,” she continues. 

Despite her music nerd leanings, Rykman is far from the stereotype of a precious muso. “I believe in the person-to-person connection, the blurring of the lines between audience member and performer,” she says, a fact made clear at every jubilant live performance. “There’s no pedestal. I’m part of a band creating the music for that space. We’re no different [than the crowd]. We’re just energy transfer units, enjoying something together in the same moment in time and space.” 

To see our running list of the top 100 greatest rock stars of all time, click here.

When the Iron Roses formed a couple of years ago, they were a pretty basic angry punk band that stemmed from performing with vocalist Nathan Gray for his solo career. They played as a unit more than some established bands, yet it took a moment before it dawned on Gray or anyone else that the group could grow bigger and better as a singular creative entity. And as the sextet took shape in the post-pandemic years, they morphed into just that.

Now ready to release their self-titled debut album (out on Oct. 20 through Iodine Recordings), the Iron Roses’ expansive sound goes well beyond power chords and singalong choruses. Instead, they bring in sounds and styles from all over the board to accurately convey the complex emotions that come with existing in the modern day.

“We’re all punk kids — and I use the term ‘kids’ very loosely — but we found what motivated and influenced each of the diverse members in this band, and a lot of what came out were hip hop, reggae and ska,” Gray tells SPIN over the phone. “It gave us something different than the obvious ‘angry punk.’ It’s something more joyful and more purposeful than what was already being done.”

“We’re still speaking to heavy, important themes, but we’re doing it in a manner that’s more celebratory,” co-vocalist Becky Fontaine adds. “We have that middle finger up, but it’s almost mocking, like ‘You can piss me off, but you can’t take my joy away from me.’”

Throughout the album’s 11 tracks, the band dives into politics, personal lives and more. The Iron Roses are somewhat shaped by Gray’s journey from vocalist for post-hardcore band BoySetsFire to discovering their true self as a nonbinary solo artist to the new endeavor with the band. Yet each song contains a variety of styles and elements that will ring true to the much larger audience of anyone dissatisfied with the way that the power structure of modern society works.

The Iron Roses’ self-titled album is more ambitious both musically and thematically than most artists choose (or even would be allowed) to go on a debut. They incorporate elements from a wide range of genres from ska to rap to reggae within tightly crafted and well-written punk songs, which makes perfect sense for a band whose first album comes nearly three decades in to some of their members’ careers. It’s not an album of naive youth in revolt. It’s a collection of songs from people who have been around long enough to know how the world works, what they like about it and what they won’t tolerate any longer.

Their members are also a reminder to the LGBTQ kids of today that even if they don’t feel they fit in today, there’s a future for them where they’re loved and appreciated.

“As somebody who’s queer and nonbinary, there weren’t even words for that when I was younger,” Gray says. “People like me didn’t grow up. You died. You either killed yourself or you were taken out by someone else. There was not a lot of hope that there could be older versions of me, and that’s something I think kids need to see. They’ll see other kids like them, obviously, but you also need to see people who are well past your age still being who they are, so that you know that you can still be like that when you grow up. A lot of kids don’t get to see that onstage in this older generation, so it’s nice to be able to be the elder weirdos.”

“I have two kids in their teens, and one of them is trans, so I’m speaking songs into the universe that are meant for those ears,” Fontaine adds. “It helps them feel seen and helps them have reasons to get up every day and stay alive so that they can save us from ourselves when they get to that voting box or into Congress. There’s something powerful in providing that for the younger generation who might not have role models in our age group.”

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