Discover Blogly: Listen to new projects from Dean Blunt, Akira Umeda, Guitar, and more

Dean Blunt rarely gives interviews, doesn’t appear on any official social media channels, and frequently drops without warning. But his elusiveness has always gone beyond artifice and reflected his work’s foundational quality. Sometimes, it doesn’t hit till years later: BBF, Blunt’s 2016 experimental rap mixtape with his group Babyfather, felt like a lived-in-if-baffling tribute to the Black musical traditions of inner-city London; today, it stands out as a definitive document of the rising political consciousness in the Black Lives Matter era, painfully aware of its necessity while taking a wary view of culture’s place in the movement.

Today, Dean Blunt occupies a space somewhere between a high fashion streetwear company practicing artificial scarcity and a revered figure of the underground. New drops are detected by dedicated fans, who furiously pour over them, dutifully place them in the Dean pantheon, and then do the good work of spreading the gospel. So it was with Hackney Commercial Waste 22/23, a 70-track, two-and-a-half-hour-long collection uploaded to YouTube and WeTransfer a week ago (the links were soon removed, so your best bet for a download is now Reddit). As the massive length suggests, the songs are mostly sketches, showcasing Blunt’s keen talents as a producer and crafter of loops, whether they’re pulled from previously existing sources like film soundtracks or created in studio with a full band. There are relatively “complete” songs here too, like the sludgy dream-pop nightmare of “CRYBABY” and the Panda Bear collab “VIP Mix,” where Noah Lennox’s Brian Wilson-y vocals clash against Blunt’s, which sound recorded through the world’s most compressed onboard mic. More than other official Dean Blunt projects, this massive dump of unfinished work both undermines and boosts Blunt’s enigma, a fitting representation of how he always keeps one foot tantalizingly outside of his ether. — Jordan Darville

São Paulo is bubbling over with innovation. The most populous urban area in the western and southern hemispheres is home to some of the planet’s most radical sounds, most notably the demented mandelão strain of baile funk that seems primed to take the world by storm this year. Akira Umeda lives roughly 50 miles outside the city proper, and his music sounds more like transmissions from a distant galaxy than anything a terrestrial radio signal might produce. Normally, these experiments come in humble packages, self-released at an impossible clip. (He’s uploaded almost 50 tape-length projects to his personal Bandcamp page in the past three years alone, none of them coming with cover art.)

Up close, the apparent randomness of these releases looks like a bid for placelessness, an active evasion any signature pattern. A bio for Akira Umeda (1988–2018), a career-spanning project arriving on the progressive local label Lugar Alto — also home to one of last year’s breakthrough mandelão releases, DJ Ramon Sucesso’s Sexto dos Crias — paints Umeda as a pure cosmonaut, a queer polymath who’s applied the spontaneity of cruising to his entire philosophy on life. The description implies that Umeda could have dropped from the sky into any old town and come out sounding the same. But a bird’s eye view reveals that his fractal compositions could only come from somewhere in the orbit of São Paulo’s superdense star.

Compiled from 30 years of recordings stored in Umeda’s house and sorted (by Umeda) into four 17-minute-plus tracks, Akira Umeda (1988–2018) is at moments infuriatingly shifty, refusing to stick with any pulse, texture, or thematic tangent for longer than a minute or two. But with each pivot comes a million new potentialities, portals to parallel dimensions that would never have opened had he chosen to stay put. Global in reach but regional in approach, it’s the work of an infinitely restless spirit who’s steeped in cultural history nonetheless. — Raphael Helfand

Taped Over, the latest EP from Novelty Island, the surreal psychedelic pop project of Liverpool-based songwriter and producer Tom McConnell, sounds like a sonic time capsule, capturing moods and emotions from the past three decades. Trippy analog beats and lo-fi synths course through the record, adding a nostalgic texture to the existing sound, evoking a dreamlike atmosphere, or the feeling of trying to recall film footage you ever only got to see on a VHS tape. McConnell’s songs themselves evoke a nostalgic pop feel, having been inspired by the likes of Kate Bush and The Beach Boys; Taped Over is most influenced by the medley found on Abbey Road’s B-side, a short collection of experimental, synth-pop songs that weave and blend into one another, a fever dream of whimsical verses and retro soundscapes. — Cady Siregar

Are Guitar the least searchable band of 2024? There are some strong contenders (@ spring to mind while !!! remains a classic) but Casting Spells On Turtleheadis worth digging through the SEO weeds for. Guitar is largely the project of Portland-based Saia Kuli whose bedroom pop jams favor melody over dissonance, but always contain a good dose of the latter to bury their hooks in. "Create Mode" is scrappy and speedy, like entering a soap box car in a street race. "Kiss Me You Idiot," meanwhile, features the kind of rip-roaring solo you're contractually obliged to include when you name yourself Guitar. There are echoes of Alex G's most electric moments throughout Casting Spells On Turtlehead, particularly on "Baying Of Dogs," but Kuli's songwriting remains unique. By the time "Unleashed" rolls around the album practically collapses in on itself, the itchy chords soundtracking a feral sprint to the finish line. — David Renshaw