albums i listened to all the way through

posted this week and every week (39)

Nov 16, 2025

Despite my having listened to more albums this year than I know what to do with, I’ve missed quite a few of 2025’s new releases. I’m planning a few different kinds of AOTY lists, so I’m using the month of November to play catch-up. That said, I’m just one person. I needed a crowd-sourced list from which to partake. Last week, I sent out this call on Notes for your favorite underrated albums from 2025.

A few of you lovely listeners, including Kevin Alexander, Billie Shafran, Lacey Cohen, Brigitte, Adam Voith, A Day For Clouds, and Sarah March sent me a treasure trove of albums to peruse in a variety of genres. (This goes for everyone! Send me what you’ve got!)

While I haven’t gotten to listen to all of them yet, rest assured I made a running checklist on a Google Sheets doc. I’ve also made a list of my personal favorite releases from the year. I’m still figuring out how I want to characterize my AOTY lists, considering it feels impossible to actually rank them.

That said, this week was an insane meld of albums, many of which I loved. Highlights include Ribbon Skirt’s Bite Down, BRONCHO’s Natural Pleasures, and chokecherry’s Ripe Fruit Rots & Falls. I also fell into the worlds of Ill at ease by Preoccupations and 1991 by Drop Nineteens.

I’ll save my detailed thoughts of these albums for a future post, but just know, these all come highly recommended, especially if you enjoy post-punk, new wave, shoegaze, and/or psychedelic music.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve tried to lean more towards music in this newsletter, as opposed to treating it like my weekly diary. For one, I wanted to practice writing more about the music and artists I listen to, as opposed to relating them entirely to me and my life.

The thing is, I need this space to reflect this week.

Boy, do I feel the imposter syndrome right now. A year ago, I had a total of eight subscribers. I’d written a only few essays, most of which were just attempts to reach out into the ether and ask the universe to send me people to listen. Now, I’m teetering at 840 subscribers and have met so many incredible artists, writers, and tastemakers. I can hardly keep up!

I had a realization at show on Friday night. As hemlock and Merce Lemon played their emotionally-charged sets, I started thinking about the vulnerability it must take to write and perform like that. How one can take their experiences, thoughts, fears, and desires and turn them into something total strangers choose to hold close to their hearts—it’s so human, it hurts.

Ted Gioia recently posted this great essay on the future of live music. I encourage you all to go read it, especially if you are a believer in the power of live music. This quote from it stuck out to me:

“Live music triggers stronger emotional responses than recorded music due to the dynamic relationship between the audience and the performers. The visual cues, collective energy, and real-time responsiveness of live music engage more sensory and emotional systems than listening alone, deepening our visceral connection to the experience.”
This is why live music will never die. Nothing else can replace it.

Standing there, watching as the audience of careful listeners stood in awe of these incredibly talented and humble performers, I marveled at the magic of the moment. It’s something I first became aware of as a young child, going to church, marching band competitions, and bluegrass festivals. I sometimes wonder if I was already tapping my foot in the womb. I can’t help it. If the rhythm is going to get you, it absolutely got me early—long before I could talk.

A friend of mine recently asked me if I would ever consider singing or playing music again. The truth is, I don’t feel the need to perform. I do, however, feel the intense need to express, and by extension, write.

This platform has, practically overnight, become my main mode of expression. I am mixed on that fact, especially because I am aware of how often I censor myself for fear of offense or retaliation. Also—Substack is just another form of social media, no matter how you spin it. It’s not really mine. Yet, this blank white page is where I find I get most of my writing done these days. My drafts are full of half-finished essays, poems, and short stories, all waiting their turn to be released into the ether.

I tinker here and tinker there, and then tinker some more. Poems make up the bulk of this constant tinkering. I debate whether to post them. I watch and listen to all these incredible artists who release their words with such bravery. I wonder if I will ever be that brave—that open.

I wrote this poem back in September for a Sunday poetry reading in Elizabeth Street Garden. I didn’t end up submitting it. I chose another that I ultimately didn’t even commit to reading. I couldn’t imagine standing in front of all those strangers and reading anything. I posed this challenge to myself and faltered.

It feels in line with my thoughts on public and artistic vulnerability, so I thought it would be a good one to publish, finally.

“Dal Segno”

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

You still see her ruby red fingernails,
spattered like blood across the piano keys. 
“Enunciate,” she repeats.
“Let the breath flow like ribbons
in and out of your diaphragm.” 
At her touch, your heart quickens. 
Exhaling slowly, you nod eagerly. 
“Yes, ma’am.”

You still see her there, 
head bent, hair dispersed.
“Second verse same as the first.”
Like a ship captain over his manifests, 
she rests, circling a split, twisted S, 
punctuated in its symmetrical mess.
“Dal Segno,” she says. 
“Do not forget.” 

Like song birds, 
you learned how to sing
by following measures
on a summer breeze. 
Now, you’ve lost
whatever it was
that called you to survive
solely on instinct. 
Proud adolescent dreams
give silent way to middling
notes app poetry, tumbling out
fast like long-repressed memories.

When they ask you now, 
you give the same, broken look,
staring up at them from behind a book. 
The words get easier to say
the longer grief is kept at bay. 
“No, I don’t sing anymore.”

Here are the albums I listened to all the way through this past week: