Let God Sort Em Out
Clipse
(Roc Nation)
In 2025, brotherly unity is back: true of Oasis, also true of sibling rappers Pusha T and Malice, who form Clipse. Let God Sort Em Out, their fourth album, also reunites them with their simpatico old producer, Pharrell Williams, who recorded this comeback from his office at Louis Vuitton in Paris, where he is men’s creative director. He sprinkles his stardust over innovative beats: the winking sample “this is culturally inappropriate” enlivens Ace Trumpets, an appetite-whetting pre-album cut.
In the late 00s, Malice found religion and retired. Pusha T went on to solo glory – his LP Daytona remains a high-water mark. This record was further delayed because of a label change.
Clipse made their name rhyming about street life with authority and erudition. This comeback reflects updated concerns: All Things Considered and The Birds Don’t Sing mourn the loss of family members. Kendrick Lamar provides a guest spot on Chains & Whips (Pusha T’s feud with Drake preceded Lamar’s). But even these tracks restate Clipse’s status as, to use their own phrase, “snow magicians”. The pleasures here include the inventive way the pair throw out drug metaphors and references to everything from luxe brands to Mahatma Gandhi – and an older, wiser Malice, still sounding deadly. By Kitty Empire
Moisturizer
Wet Leg
(Domino)
Even though it won a Grammy for best alternative music album, Wet Leg’s self-titled 2022 debut was an uneven affair, dominated by the all-conquering Chaise Longue but padded with more than its fair share of workaday 1990s indie filler. With core duo Rhian Teasdale and Hester Chambers now part of a five-piece – thanks to the addition of touring band members Joshua Mobaraki (guitar/synths), Henry Holmes (drums) and Ellis Durand (bass) – the follow-up is rather more consistent and coherent.
Teasdale’s lyrics rightly take centre stage once again, even if there are no “buttered muffins” here. Instead she oscillates between the unambiguous “You wanna fuck me? / Well, most people do” on Mangetout and the similarly direct Pillow Talk with more vulnerable, archness-free reflections on falling headlong in love (“How did I get so lucky to be loving you?”).
This time her words are backed by instrumentation that no longer comes across as an afterthought. The pop smarts of Davina McCall and Liquidize recall the band Illuminati Hotties. Jennifer’s Body counterintuitively combines staccato verses with a shoegaze-woozy chorus. Catch These Fists nods to the muscularity of prime Elastica. An impressive step forward. By Phil Mongredien
No Sign of Weakness
Burna Boy
(Spaceship/Bad Habit/Atlantic)
Damini Ogulu is on a remarkable run. As Nigerian superstar Burna Boy, his last four albums have delivered unprecedented, stadium-filling success. I Told Them…, released in 2023, was his best yet, a wonderful parsing of Afrobeat as global pop without diluting the genre’s essence. On No Sign of Weakness, he doesn’t mess with that recipe. In the ever-evolving world of pop, though, to stand still is to go backwards.
One thing Burna could jettison is the insecure defensiveness of his self-promulgation: the truly strong don’t need to say how strong they are. The legacy of being blacklisted by the Nigerian music business in his younger days clearly still rankles, but the self-styled “African giant” should be above that by now. Bundle By Bundle is relentlessly catchy, and 70s reggae stroller Sweet Love is a gorgeous confection. There are imaginative features from Stromae and good-time guy Shaboozey but a low-energy Travis Scott hobbles the promising TaTaTa, and Mick Jagger is wasted on the lumpen Afro-blues of Empty Chairs. The sound of Burna treading water is still enjoyable, but he can do better.
Africa Express Presents… Bahidorá
(World Circuit)
The latest in Africa Express’s lengthy list of “cultural exchanges” sees the mega-collective descend on last year’s Mexican festival, Bahidorá. There, local acts mixed up the medicine alongside African stars like Fatoumata Diawara (Mali) and Moonchild Sanelly (South Africa), and western acts such as Joan As Police Woman, Nick Zinner (Yeah Yeahs Yeahs) and Damon Albarn, who co-founded the Express in 2006.
With a huge cast and ambitious set of collusions between artists, Bahidorá was quite a show, and the mood of the 21 tracks here is upbeat. What’s lacking is a sense of composure; with most cuts clocking in at three minutes or less, the editing has clearly been fierce, and what must have felt like a feast on site is now a collection of tasty small plates.
Spiciest are a clutch of hip-hop offerings; Uganda’s Otim Alpha and the Pharcyde’s Bootie Brown cook up a storm on Otim Hop, while Son Rompe Pera bring a touch of punk Marimba to Defiant Ones. Local connections are, if anything downplayed, though the aptly named Mexican Institute of Sound fill in admirably, not least on a Spanish cover of the Smiths’ Panic. And for the downcast comes Luisa Almaguer crooning Soledad (loneliness) alongside Albarn. A joyous, fleeting snapshot. By Neil Spencer
The One to Watch: Jessica Winter
Hedonism meets heartbreak on the singer-songwriter’s debut album – a flamboyant exercise in self-discovery
Multidisciplinary artist Jessica Winter earned her stripes writing for the Horrors, the Big Moon and Jazmin Bean, so it’s only fitting that she’s incorporated those indie, gothic and pop influences into her theatrical debut album, My First Album.
The set, which explores aspiration and how the relentless pursuit of a dream can lead to profound self-discovery, feels semi-autobiographical. She also went through a breakup halfway through the writing process.
The experience helped Winter craft an intoxicating blend of all-out party tunes and stripped-back introspection, affirming her as an exciting solo force.
“I’ve always had the light and the shade,” she told NME earlier this year. “I tried to push that further by actually trying to really go in on different tones and messages … let’s see how sad I can make something sound, but still make you feel uplifted.”
That sense of duality is encapsulated on lead single All I Ever Really Wanted, in which flamboyance clouds hopelessly desperate lines such as, “Now everything has gone / And heaven knows I’ve used up everyone / Yeah, all I ever really wanted was a feeling.” It sums up what Winter does best: raw, unashamed melodrama. By Georgia Evans
Photographs by Cian Moore; Alice Backham; MG25/Getty Images/Vogue; Camila Jurado Aguilar