Laura Jane Grace’s life and career changed forever in 2012, when the lead singer of the Florida punk band Against Me! came out as trans. But many fundamentals stayed intact: Her visceral, relentlessly outspoken music remained both blunt and jagged as she adapted to (and commented upon) the radical changes in her life and relationships. Against Me! recorded two of its best-received albums (Transgender Dysphoria Blues and Shape Shift With Me) in the aftermath of the announcement, and as their titles suggest, both leaned hard into relevant issues of gender and identity. Against Me! remains active, but it’s no surprise that Grace also needed the looser, lower-stakes musical outlet she’s found in a ramshackle new band called Laura Jane Grace & The Devouring Mothers. The group’s new album, Bought to Rot, bounds around outside the boundaries and margins of punk, while still bearing the unfiltered, playfully profane, overstuffed-with-ideas trademark of its leader. After the frayed tone-setter “China Beach” — “Are you my enemy?” she asks plainly, adding, “And are we at war?” — Bought to Rot gets swept up in conflicts both internal and otherwise. Sometimes, as in “I Hate Chicago,” the vitriol spills over into outright satire. In that song — which gets docked three-tenths of a point for sparing the Chicago Bears from her spite, even though the rhyme was right there — Grace spits venom about traffic, pizza, O’Hare and Wilco, only to drop the act and acknowledge, “You caught me, this is actually just another divorce song.” But she also finds causes for celebration: In “The Friendship Song,” she dishes out heartfelt praise and acerbic self-deprecation mere seconds apart: “You accept me for who I am / And I don’t judge you for that.” In interviews, Grace has cited Tom Petty’s Full Moon Fever as an inspiration for Bought to Rot. And while the points of comparison might seem superficial — they’re both solo records by Floridians who accent their songs with a recurring guitar jangle, though Full Moon Fever mustered only a small fraction of Bought to Rot’s aggression — there are deeper connections, too. Grace grew up idolizing Petty, and each built a distinct artistic persona around direct plainspokenness. The former will always fit more syllables into any given couplet, but both have thrived by speaking — and living — their truth as they’ve seen it.

Whether hearing The Glands for the first time or singing along again to tunes that soundtracked turn-of-the-millennium summers in the band’s Athens, Ga., hometown, there’s one question that everyone within earshot seems to echo: Why wasn’t this band famous? For about five years beginning around 1997, it seemed they might be. Emerging from one of the United States’ hotbeds for eccentric and seeking rock, the Glands felt like a potential boon for the state of indie rock, which had started to sprout from small-town hobby to bustling little industry during the previous two decades. The Glands gave the slackness of Pavement new power, the looseness of bandleader and mastermind Ross Shapiro’s heroes, the Grateful Dead, consistent melodic gravity. You could hear their songs once and swear your parents had cooed them to you in utero. The band’s debut, reissued in 1998 by the stalwart Bar/None after a small private pressing, tried to match its audacious title of Double Thriller with a bevy of variegated wonder — the scuzzy psych of “No. Zero,” the country organ drift of “Pretty Merrina,” the madhouse jangle of “Welcome to New Jersey.” Shapiro had recorded it largely by himself late at night, in a slapdash downtown studio after the bars closed. For its follow-up, though, he focused, pulling the live band he’d built into a studio and aiming to get to the essence of these ideas. He did: The band’s self-titled second album, issued in 2000 by a reborn-to-die Capricorn Records, is one of the best indie-rock records ever made, bar none. Its irrepressible lead sequence, “Livin’ Was Easy” and “When I Laugh,” is a peerless gambit. In a slight, imperfect, enthusiastic falsetto, Shapiro built hooks that betrayed both sardonic armor and a soft heart. Lively but nonchalant, the band stood on the accelerator, even as the frame rattled to pieces. But, of course, it never happened: The Glands stalled after that second album, with its follow-up lost to nearly two decades of hesitation and perfectionism, compounded by sporadic reunions that mostly went nowhere and Shapiro’s stint as a record-store owner. He died of lung cancer in 2016 at the age of 53. In his absence, the label New West is trying again to give these songs the wider audience they have long deserved. With his deathbed blessing, Shapiro’s friends cobbled together his third and final album, Double Coda, from not-always-finished recordings dating back to 1996. It is a standalone LP, but it’s also bound with its out-of-print predecessors in a glorious box set named for another Glands treasure, I Can See My House From Here. As Glands zealot, Athens expatriate and Drive-By Truckers cofounder Patterson Hood writes in the extensive liner notes, Double Coda and the attendant collection offer “long-awaited closure to one of Athens, Georgia’s longest-running unfinished chapters.” Much like Double Thriller, the Glands’ debut two decades ago, Double Coda feels more like a vivid mixtape or a sketchbook teeming with ideas than a proper album that’s been sequenced to tell some definitive story or unfurl through some dramatic arc. A late-night instrumental shuffle, cheekily titled “Piano Jazz,” sits between a harmony-lifted rock rumble about promiscuous sex (or lack thereof?) that could belong to Fountains of Wayne and a hypnotic take on mid-’70s Dylan pastiche. Nearby, there is a grunge piss-take, a haunted chanson, and a three-minute slice of piano pop (backed by scratching records, no less) so punchy and triumphant that you’ll never need to hear Ben Folds again. The uneven sequencing results, in part, from Double Coda’s very origin story, or that a dying Shapiro had never gotten around to finishing that third album he had teased for so long. He entrusted the duty to Joe Rowe — the only other permanent Glands member and a dazzling drummer whose near-anonymity is another minor Glands tragedy — bassist Derek Almstead and David Barbe, a veteran Athens instrumentalist and producer who went from Shapiro skeptic to unabashed champion. What stands out anew from this odds-and-ends approach, though, is Shapiro’s total command over melody, no matter the shape the song took. If bands had batting averages, the number of hits among these 23 tracks would humble even the mighty Ted Williams. Back to that question, then: If these songs are so wondrous, why did the Glands never become famous, “the Cars of our generation,” as Elephant 6 anchor Laura Carter poses it in the liner notes? There are a half-dozen different theories, and they may all be correct to some degree. They signed to the wrong labels. They didn’t love to tour. They were too slow and particular. They came from the wrong indie-rock cradle at the wrong time. Many, including some who knew Shapiro best, wonder if there was even a sense of self-sabotage, so that he participated in the music industry only enough to get his records released but little more. He was an obsessive student of rock and roll, an itinerant Deadhead who had seen firsthand the toil that the obligations of careerism could have on creativity. Listening to Double Coda, that latter hypothesis doesn’t seem so far-fetched — or unfortunate at all, really. This collection suggests that, for Shapiro, making music remained a lifelong playground, a way for him to indulge himself and openly explore ideas with the freedom of being almost almost-famous. There are no boundaries here, nothing off limits. His stony mumble backed by mocking high harmonies, “So High” nearly matches “Livin’ Was Easy” as a masterclass in starting an album. He is as magnetic during the broken-hearted, keyboard-and-percussion lament “Sadie Song” as he is during the open-road, Petty-forever rock of “Pleaser.” A love song that sharply renders the confusion of trying to articulate new feelings, “Possibilities” is immersive and elliptical in the way The War on Drugs used to be, while “Sofa” actually calls for more cowbell in the bridge. You get the sense that Shapiro simply loved the definite form that songs afforded his most personal thoughts — that these tunes were a lifeline, not an income source. During closer “Save a Place for You,” Shapiro sits at the piano by himself, trying to map his troubled emotional terrain in a voice that conjures a schoolboy singing at his first elementary school recital. He wants to be vulnerable, he implies, but he doesn’t want to be hurt again, either. It is a devastating song, and, considering the path of the his own life, a little hard to hear. But that’s the thing: If you hear Shapiro sing the chorus — “Hearts may be broken / But only if you’ll give it away / In yours, could you save a place for me?” — only once, his voice curling as sweetly as a puppy’s whimper, then you’ll hear it in your head for the rest of your life. At his best, that’s how good Shapiro was — and, as Double Coda proves, how good he remained.

Earl Sweatshirt is a one-of-a-kind musician with his own unique style. He has been belting out catchy tunes right from time. He started with his debut mixtape called Earl which was released in 2010. He followed that up with Free Earl. He eventually ventured into rapping showing his versatility. His latest release called Nowhere2go is an old soul vibe that is sure to make heads sing along. Before releasing the track, he had been teasing it on his social media handles and YouTube. He posted a few snippets that hinted at new music before releasing the full thing. The man sure knows how to keep us all anticipating what he’s cooking. His new track has him delving a little into mumble rap as they call it these days. But it is clearer than other mumble rappers with strong lyrics that tell a deep story of his past, his present and his future. Quite unlike mumble rap which is majorly about the party life, the women, the drinks and the drugs. Nowhere2Go is a deep reflective song that has Earl Sweatshirt reflecting on his past. He talks about depression, just going with the general flow of life and not thinking much about things. Earl Sweatshirt constantly changing music style tells us that he is still on the path to discovery and this new track confirms this. Nowhere2go is no different, and it tells us more about his journey to self-discovery. He explains how he’s had to do a lot of things all by himself and how he’s always being a loner without friends. He explained that he had to find himself and he relied on his wits to make it this far. Earl Sweatshirt hasn’t said much about any full-length project, but it seems that Nowhere2Go will be a forerunner for an upcoming full-length project. That will give fans something to anticipate since the 2015 release of the album ‘I Don’t Like S***, I Don’t Go Outside.’ Since the release of that album, Earl Sweatshirt had only released singles like ‘Balance,’ ‘Solace,’ and ‘Wind in My Sails.’ He also appeared on Vince Staples album called FM and he recently performed at Mac Miller’s tribute concert. Thankfully, Earl Sweatshirt is getting back on the radar after being out of public eye for so long. He cancelled some tour dates due to depression and anxiety. Early this year, his father Keorapetse Kgositsile, a poet passed on so we can understand his reason for keeping a low profile. Some fans hoped for a full-length project after the teasers, but they will have to make do with Nowhere2go for now. Hopefully, the song will keep them satisfied for the moment until Earl Sweatshirt decides to bless us with more songs. Nowhere2go was produced by Adé Hakim Sayyad (fka Sixpress) and Darryl Johnson. It was first released on Apple Music alone for signed in users. But it is now available on Spotify, YouTube and other platforms. Go get it now and have a feel for yourself.

In metal, lineage can be everything. These musicians are lifers — sworn to the riff, defenders of the faith. It’s what keeps metal alive. But when the bloodlines cross streams, the lineage doesn’t get broken so much as emboldened. Azusa contains decades of experience, but Heavy Yoke reaches across the metal spectrum for a debut album wrapped in rapturously beautiful discord. Azusa began with a message from American bassist Liam Wilson (The Dillinger Escape Plan, John Frum) expressing his admiration for Extol, the long-running Norwegian progressive metal band. Years later, demos were traded online with guitarist Christer Espevoll (who left Extol after 2003’s Synergy) and drummer David Husvik. The songs reflected the unconventional nature of both bands, but the switchback energy demanded a far more dynamic vocalist. The Berlin-based Greek singer Eleni Zafiriadou makes incredible leaps from her indie-pop duo Sea + Air to claw, coo and scream through a labyrinthine construct of Azusa’s making. Heavy Yoke gallops from the first few seconds of “Interstellar Islands,” a thrilling fusion of Espevoll’s melodically furious riffs, Husvik’s pin-drop-precise drumming and Wilson’s brawny bass tone. Every 30 seconds feels like a time-warp to another level of metal wizardry, as the band revs to thrash speed only to break apart the melody in a psychedelic waltz. Zafiriadou here, and across the album’s brisk but crucially executed 34-minute run time, is more than up to the challenge; her elastic voice doesn’t adapt so much as it evolves Azusa’s sound in real time. You can find more twisty-turny patterns in the title track and “Lost in the Ether,” but also more straight-ahead hardcore (“Heart of Stone”) and songs that split the difference — like “Spellbinder,” which takes brief detours to atmospheric, Cynic-like death-metal. But then there are the metal ballads bathed in crushingly elegiac riffs. The heavy pop experiment “Fine Lines” feels like it should extend past two minutes, but acts a beautiful breather between tracks. “Programmed to Distress” is a fractured waltz that picks up in the back half, when Zafiriadou pointedly sings, “Are you ready to kill my dream in a heartbeat?” This is a central theme to Heavy Yoke, which explores humanity’s dual nature and the weight of relationships. Likewise, the album works in tension and release to create a harmonious (and heavy) resolution.

When he’s not busy on a movie set, Jeff Goldblum owns Wednesday nights in Los Angeles. The actor, known for roles in Hollywood blockbusters and a singular, chin-stroking comic persona, plays piano in a jazz band with a standing weekly gig, which he calls The Mildred Snitzer Orchestra. The performances are casual and unstructured, with the man of the hour playing keys one moment, holding court and posing for photos with attendees the next, just generally being … well, Jeff Goldblum. NPR’s David Greene joined Goldblum to talk about The Capitol Studios Sessions, an album that captures the live show by recreating it — bringing a stage, a buffet, a live audience and guest stars including comedian Sarah Silverman into the storied recording space. <strong>Interview Highlights On discovering jazz as a teenager</strong> Some of these chords started to do something to me that I hadn’t experienced before, and that was just delicious to me — when I discovered that blues scale, my God. So I learned a little bit about that, and got to start to play things. And then — listen to this, what a strange boy I was — one day when I was 15, I locked the door from the inside in our study, where I didn’t think anybody would find me, hear me or bother me. Got the yellow pages, looked up cocktail lounges, and starting with A and going down to Z, I cold-called. I thought I was some kind of scammy salesman or something like that. And I said, “Hi, I understand you need a piano player.” Most of them would say, “No, you’ve been misinformed” — hang up on you. [But] some would say, “Well, jeez … we have a piano. Nobody’s been playing it. You play?” And so I did, and I got a couple of jobs. It was magical. <strong>On how his two creative practices affect one another</strong> There’s a cross-training aspect of this, so that my music, I’m just doing it for fun, without nerves really. It has bled over into my acting experience. … I didn’t [used to] feel like a fraud exactly, but I felt like I had to shock myself into functionality. I felt I had to rearrange my molecules and achieve some kind of condition of freedom or aliveness, in order to be worthy of participation in some show or another. The seeds of me knowing myself were there, but it was unformed and underdeveloped, and I had good reason to be scared. <strong>On the social element of his jazz shows</strong> It has become kind of an improvised show, where I commune with people and meet them, and interesting people show up. It’s kind of a living room experience that we turn it into. No one’s turning on the lights or introducing me; I kind of start talking and taking pictures with them and finding out who they are and playing games with them, which I like to do. Everything is sort of playful. … People seem to get a kick out of it. And then I go on my Instagram account the next day, see if they’ve posted anything … see how I looked the night before, see how they looked. See if they’re people I can remember. “Oh, yeah. They were nice.”