Led Zeppelin recorded in mansions, but today’s rock progenitors are recording their music in barns.

But you can’t tell that Oliver Perry, otherwise known as D.D Dumbo, recorded his debut by a stable. There isn’t a single whinny anywhere on the record, and he’s not making country music.

What’s he making? I suspect only Perry knows.

D.Dumbo is hard to define, and harder still to contextualize. Songs like “Satan”, which is about a UFO landing and the aliens among them (who are unaware of our own concept of Satan), completely defy our expectations for songwriting. Partly inspired by video game music, and largely inspired by alt-rock prog-rock geniuses like Radiohead, D.Dumbo’s debut is hard to predict.

This isn’t just about the music, either. In case you haven’t gathered, the lyrics are equally strange. Perry is writing about the modern-day “paranoid androids” of our future, about the end of the world and the death of religious tradition. And if you asked him, he might tell you the future is a dystopian utopia — an unpredictable cacophony. That’s how I’d describe his vision of where we’re going. It’s also how I’d describe his music.

Take the really weird songs, like “King Franco Picasso”, which has an industrial beat and an Alt-J like flow from verse to chorus and bridge. I don’t really even know how to describe his music, although “alternative” seems like an appropriate enough label.

I’m a particularly huge fan of “The Day I First Found God”, which reminds me of Radiohead and U2 and modern worship music all at the same time. (It could easily be argued that U2 is modern worship music, so there’s that.)

It blows me away that this is D.Dumbo’s debut record. Musically, his ideas are fully fleshed — if bizarre — and lyrically, he’s got the whole world as his oyster. Utopia Defeated is one of the best albums I’ve heard this year, and certainly among the best debuts I’ve heard this year. I’m eager to hear where he goes next, but I’m also eager to listen to Utopia Defeated again.

There’s depth to every track on this record. That means the album isn’t easy to absorb on first go, but it’s worth repeated listens. It rewards them. If you want to be surprised by an album, and you want something you can sink your teeth into, look no further than D.Dumbo’s Utopia Defeated.

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In other words, the track titles force us to talk about the album as a whole.

And as a cohesive whole, 22, A Million is worth talking about. Remember how weird it was when Bon Iver started singing on Kanye West tracks? It didn’t make sense then, but it does with 22, A Million. The transition is now complete. Bon Iver, Bon Iver was a stepping stone towards this, and in retrospect, it feels like an awkward sophomore attempt. This was always the future.

Justin Vernon interest in fusing electronic music and folk goes back to the beginning. And can you blame him? He recorded For Emma, Forever Ago on his laptop. Electronic sounds are an obvious direction to pursue.

Many of the tracks on 22, A Million exemplify this change. “10 d E A T h b R E a s T “, “33 ‘GOD’”, and “715 – CREEKS” are easy examples. What’s incredible about the tracks isn’t just Vernon’s unbridled creativity, but the fact that he actually pulled it all together. He made something beautiful out of all of this.

In a lot of ways, it’s fitting that we first got hints of this new Bon Iver sound from his performances with Kanye West. With 22, A Million, it feels like Bon Iver is trying to make a similar statement of creativity and power. This is Bon Iver’s 808s & Heartbreak. People might revile the record now, but we’ll look back on it with fondness as the turning of a corner.

If that comparison doesn’t resonate for you, it’d be fair to compare the album to Radiohead’s Kid A. It’s as if Justin Vernon said that too much of the folk scene sounds the same, that he didn’t want to add to the noise, and he wanted to make a change.

That change ripples through every track no this record. It’s almost impossible to talk about them individually. Lyrically, Vernon continues to be somewhat cryptic. But despite the distance that the electronics introduces, his voice feels more intimate and earthy than ever.

“8 (circle)” is a great example. Vernon’s voice makes it feel like the song is a private performance, but the electronics give the song a spacious depth it would otherwise lack.

It’s all so fitting for Justin Vernon, a man who seems bound to his neurosis of musical self-doubt, uncertainty, and reinvention. 22, A Million is a record about the ripples new sounds introduce, and the butterfly effects they create. It’s a beautiful record that’s reminiscent of watershed moments of the past, but only time will tell how we remember it.

As for me, I don’t want to be on the wrong side of history. 22, A Million could go down as Bon Iver’s first masterpiece.

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I use the past tense because Opeth doesn’t make death metal anymore. Sorceress is their third prog rock record. The band is more interested in musical ideas than they are in pure intensity. There isn’t any screaming on Sorceress, and the music is less aggressive than it’s ever been. (And yes, Äkerfeldt may still be one of the best singers in the genre’s history.)

With Sorceress, the band has finally grown comfortable with the sound. This is the best they’ve sounded in ten years. Äkerfeldt has developed a soundscape that brings constant variety to the band’s compositions, without making the music less challenging or absorbing.

No two tracks on Sorceress sound the same. The title track, with all its pummelling rivers, is completely different from “The Wilde Flowers” or the gorgeous “Will O The Wisp”. The songs share lyrical themes about failure and poisoned love, but they rarely share musical ideas. While most musicians write love songs, Opeth writes about love as obsession.

There’s a metaphor to be made here about the band’s songwriting, which reflects an obsession with the new. “Time waits for no one,” Mikael sings on “Will O The Wisp”. “It heals them when you die. And soon you are forgotten, a whisper within a sigh.” It’s often hard to separate Opeth’s music and lyrics from their fear of stagnation and death. They would rather reinvent themselves.

But Opeth struggles to reinvent themselves on this go-around. What hasn’t the band done at this point? If there’s a single noteworthy addition to the band’s sound, it’s a newfound appreciation for jazz.

“I started listening to jazz and bought a lot of Coltrane records,” Äkerfeldt explained in a press release.  “I never really thought Coltrane would be for me because I like ‘dinner jazz.’ Like Miles Davis’ ’50s stuff.” That transition is obvious on Sorceress. Structurally and musically, there’s more than a passing resemblance at time to John Coltrane and other heroes of jazz’s golden era. “Strange Brew” was an obvious ode to Miles Davis’ later work, as well as Coltrane.

“The Seventh Sojourn” experiments with many of the same Eastern sounds that the jazz greats experimented with decades ago. (The track could double for a film soundtrack.) Even on tracks like “Era” or “Chrysalis”, which experiment by combining jazz and rock, the band embraces experimentation and intensity without returning to old habits. They’re better for it.

The difference here between this and the last Opeth record is more subtle than ever before, but it’s noticeable if you know what to look for. But three albums into Äkerfeldt’s new vision for the band, it’s clear that nothing is safe.

Sorceress is the band’s third prog rock record,and they sound more comfortable than ever before. It’s also the band’s first record with Nuclear Blast, one of metal’s most prominent labels. But the new label doesn’t restrict them: the band continues to experiment with new sounds and styles.

For some fans, Sorceress may allow them to embrace the Acceptance phase of grief in Opeth’s new sound. But there’s a maturity here that no longer sounds like experimentation for the sake of experimentation. Simply put, it sounds like Opeth is finally comfortable being themselves. The music is great, but the band’s attitude is refreshing.

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You don’t have to read too deeply into the record to get that impression, either. Even by the second track, the band has made the record’s theme clear: masculinity is fake. “Big Cat” and “Tough Guy” are two songs on the same thematic idea, working through the idea of the ridiculousness of masculinity one small step at a time.

More notable, though, is the music. Whether the album is thematically and conceptually sound is almost a side point when the music is so interesting. Few songs sound the same; Wild Beasts truly experiment here. “Big Cat” and “Tough Guy” sound totally different, as does “Alpha Female”. And each track could be considered a favourite; the quality doesn’t dip.

What’s interesting, at least to me, is the way that the guitars and the synths and electronics all blend. The way Trent Reznor used to marry electronics to his drum beats on Nine Inch Nails feels coyly copied on Boy King; the drums carry the record forward and push it into another stratosphere (check out “Get My Bang”). But yet, the electronics don’t feel synthetic. The guitars and the electronics are married, not unlike OK Computer or Kid A.

Perhaps the point is that masculinity never feels inauthentic, and the electronics are part of the album’s theme on the plasticity of male behaviour and alpha dominance. Even when the album leans towards electronic sounds on tracks like “2BU” (which strongly reminds me of Petite Noir), it feels like the band is being authentic to the point of being outrageous — or perhaps vice versa.

This musical building of sounds, though, makes the album feel almost surreal. It’s as if Boy King is a study of masculinity, immaturity, and excess — veiled through a study of art rock as a genre. The pinnacle of the record comes on “Celestial Creatures”, when Hayden Thorpe sings: “We are celestial creatures.” The surrounding music builds, rock music is deconstructed and put back together with electronic noise, and it feels like he’s telling the truth.

With Boy King, Wild Beasts pull out all the punches: they deconstruct their own music and put the pieces back together, arriving at an altogether different conclusion of what rock should look like in 2016. But they also deconstruct themselves and their genres and their meaning and find ways to marry music to theme. Boy King is one of the year’s most exhilarating records.

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All of that makes The King of Limbs makes it hard to recommend to casual fans of the band. It lacks most of what made them successful, often becoming twitchy. Like most Radiohead records, people were confused by it — particularly the (still hilarious) video for Lotus Flower. But some now consider the video, the song, and the surrounding record a classic.

I’ve long thought The King of Limbs to be Radiohead’s quirkiest record, the one that always felt the most uncomfortable for them to make. It’s an album based largely on rhythm, almost entirely removing the melody from the lyrics in favour of the loop. Some people would jokingly (or maybe not jokingly, I’m not sure) suggest TKOL is everything the band warned us about with OK Computer.

Despite all the issues with it, it’s a charming record. Radiohead had become much better at jazz-like moments like this. Bloom’s erratic drumbeat is at once as hard to follow as it is Miles Davis-like. Morning Mr. Magpie follows a similarly difficult rhythm, this time using guitars as a punctuation points for the loop. Thom Yorke doesn’t choose to blend in with instrumentation, but to use his voice as a way to elevate the music and give it a sense of direction.

The album’s best tracks are the quieter, more introspective moments. Give up the Ghost is one of Radiohead’s best tracks, excelling with a (comparatively) minimalistic soundscape, drenching Yorke’s voice in reverb and delay to give it maximum impact.

Amnesiac, Radiohead’s followup to Kid A, featured Humphrey Lyttelton on one track. Johnny Greenwood (Radiohead’s not-so-secret songwriting weapon) admitted in an interview with Spanish newspaper Mondosonoro, “we realized we couldn’t play jazz. You know, we’ve always been a band of great ambition with limited playing abilities.” This is why they had to bring in an expert.

I’ve always thought that bothered Radiohead. That’s not to insult their musicianship; the folks in the band are genuinely incredibly talented. But it’s difficult to admit your weak areas without wanting to improve them. I think The King of Limbs is their way of writing a jazz record in the style of Radiohead. Naturally, their focus is on the beat, and on the polyrhythms and the madness of the Miles Davis records they so frequently talk about adoring.

In that sense, The King of Limbs feels remarkable, special even. It’s a record that completely defies what everybody thinks Radiohead should do, ditching guitars and melody almost entirely. While they had proved to everybody they weren’t just a rock band, The King of Limbs is undisputed proof that they can do anything they want and do it well. Maybe it’s coming from a place of unease or unrest, and maybe it’s coming from a desire to continue to push the limits. I have no doubt that it’s all of those things and many more.

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And that’s not without merit. The story behind the album is as fascinating as the record itself. Thom Yorke and the rest of the band all seemed to suffer massive paranoia about OK Computer’s dominance, and had an interest in sounding like anything other than themselves. Playing music became depressing. Guitar-based rock became insufferably boring for them, if only because they felt they were adding to the noise, and they began to listen to a lot of music from Warp Records, like electronica legends Autechre and Aphex Twin.

I’ve come to understand that Radiohead is a band whose basic interest is subverting itself, rebelling against everything it stands for from one record to the next. Kid A fits into that narrative nicely. It’s an electronic record made to be the exact opposite of what OK Computer was. Kid A is an open embrace to technology.

Everything in Its Right Place is a hauntingly beautiful opener. The National Anthem is one of the most memorable Radiohead tracks, a true deep cut that fans everywhere love — largely because of its mid-track instrumental breakdown that sounds like Miles Davis going insane during the making of Bitches Brew.

In that sense, while OK Computer aspired to take influence from jazz musicians like Miles Davis, Kid A aspires to be as good as those records. It’s a stunning accomplishment, because the record largely achieves the same density of texture and sonic mayhem, despite Radiohead’s experimentation with new musical forms and sounds.

That experimentation is littered throughout the record. There are no “cute” tracks, no Fitter Happier’s. Yorke’s voice is barely intelligible; his goal is simply to blend in with the music and become part of the instrumentation.

(As an aside: this is the first record I’m aware of where a vocalist intentionally buries himself in order to become one with the instruments. It had certainly happened before, but it seems only by accident. Early Black Sabbath records, for example, are often cited for their power thanks to Ozzy Osbourne’s monotonous vocal delivery; his voice blends in with the instrument and makes it sound even more like a wall of doom. But the thing is, the only reason he sang like that was because he couldn’t sing. It wasn’t by choice. In that sense, Thom Yorke is breaking grounds here by doing something similar for artistic reasons.)

There are few tracks on Kid A that sound conventional, to what I’m sure was likely Capitol Records’ chagrin. How to Disappear Completely is perhaps the most straightforward track on the album, but it’s hardly “easy.” Similarly, Optimistic isn’t too different from some of the howling angst present on OK Computer, but in hindsight, it feels like Optimistic is perhaps more sarcastically despondent than anything from that record.

Idioteque and Motion Picture Soundtrack feel like two of Radiohead’s most undeniable accomplishments. These tracks are utterly and inescapably inventive and powerful, particularly for their time.

It’s fun to look back at these records now and consider their importance: even Radiohead, despite all their rebellion against themselves, can’t avoid coming back to Kid A time and time again. So many of their recent tracks sound like they were written around the same time as Kid A, as if the album is a blueprint for music and sound that they can’t find a way to escape from.

Perhaps it’s because in trying to do something different, in looking for a way to escape the ordinary, Radiohead found a sound that is simply extraordinary and wholly them. Few artists, if any, have been able to really steal from the Kid A sound — at least, not successfully. It feels like the maturation of Radiohead, and also like the whole of their purpose, the big reveal of their identity.

If that all sounds grandiose, it might be because it’s impossible to talk about Radiohead in anything less than grandiose terms because their albums are so much larger than life. If OK Computer was their Sgt. Pepper, then Kid A is their Abbey Road: an album that dares to embrace everything that makes them unique and explore it, mining it for its best ideas and creative concepts.

Kid A might be Radiohead’s strongest achievement.

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And it sounds like they’re angry about everything: technology, trains, police, the upcoming new millennium (OK Computer was released in 1997), and… Well, so much more. While their rage is sometimes felt through raw power (Paranoid Android’s guitar parts are mind-numbing), they’re just as often likely to explore nuances within electronics and instrumental manipulation. (I’d reference a single track, but there are so many when they do this.)

The album, as a statement, was deeply surprising for Radiohead. It’s not that Radiohead hadn’t made good music before — I have a couple friends who insist that The Bends was the best alt-rock record of the 90s. It’s that they never made a record that felt so important, or so consistently impressive. They had also never made anything so daring.

Consider Exit Music (For a Film): the backing track initially appears to be solely a guitar, and eventually is filled in with a choir. This hadn’t been done before. Muse wasn’t around in 1997 (and frankly, Muse is garbage next to Radiohead and has never compared). Exit Music (For a Film) stands on its own, and on lesser records, would be considered a standout track.

Karma Police was the last time that Radiohead would write a “typical” radio-friendly song. Electioneering was some of the last “typical” stadium rock they ever made. But both songs, despite their genre trappings, feel like the band is thinking completely out of the box.

By the time the album is over with The Tourist (which has a number of small flourishes that call back to earlier songs on the record, if you’re looking for them), it feels like you’ve been on a journey that went well outside comfortable rock music. It feels like an opera that you went on with a rock band uncomfortable with being called a “rock band.”

At the end of the day, OK Computer is a record that feels inspired by Miles Davis and Pink Floyd, as well as many of the techno bands of the day. It inspired everybody. It was a revolution because rock music was supposed to be rebellious, but Radiohead saw that it was becoming trite and rebelled against it to do something new.

For a lot of people, myself included, that all adds up to a lot of magic. Some critics think OK Computer is the best record of all time. Many think it’s as important as Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. The easiest statement to make is that it is both over-rated and misunderstood, beautiful and farcical, inventive and ceaselessly borrowed from. At this point, there’s little doubt Radiohead’s OK Computer was the most important — and best — record of 1997, and perhaps the defining album of the late 1990s. It’s a guitar record that sounds like an electronica record, and honestly, I’m not sure it gets any cooler than that.

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I’ve heard this from so many people. They’re not necessarily wrong, because it’s easy to look at Radiohead and hear only their pretentious music and wonder what anybody loves about them. Their music isn’t easily understood, and it’s hard to love something like Kid A the first time you heard it.

To be fair to people who dislike the band, it’s easy to find things that make them unlovable: the bad dancing in Lotus Flower, or the way they let anybody pay their own price for In Rainbows drew serious criticism after some artists said the business model would never work for indies, and Radiohead seems blissfully unaware of the privileges that come with their success. (There are pros and cons to everything, right?)

Despite all that, Radiohead remain relevant and one of the industry’s most successful rock bands. They invent genres and styles long before anybody else does, and almost everything they do becomes ceaselessly imitated in years to come. Everybody claims to have been inspired by Radiohead, except the band themselves.

And that’s exactly what makes the band so great.

First, some history: in 1995, Radiohead released The Bends, an alt-rock album that built off the success of their hit single Creep. The album didn’t make millions overnight for anybody involved, and “only” hit 88 on the Billboard charts, but over the course of a couple years it had developed a cult following. According to Ed O’Brien, everybody had told them a proper sequel to The Bends would sell several million, and their natural inclination was to push back against that.

This is a key for understanding Radiohead and why their fans love them: they never settle, and they’re uninterested in what people expect of them.

That might sound pretentious — perhaps it is — but more importantly, it’s an indication of how seriously they take their music. The resulting record, 1997’s OK Computer, was widely considered a masterpiece that anticipated the paranoia and unease we’d enter the twenty-first century with. Perhaps it was the band’s malaise or general distrust of radios and disinterest in making what people wanted to make, but they struck a chord with the public, and the record sold approximate a bajillion companies, despite Capitol Records expecting to sell less than half a million.

Simultaneously, Radiohead were suddenly rock’s saviours and its doomsday: the band wasn’t interested in guitar rock the same way their predecessors were, and because they were hailed by so many as geniuses, a significant amount of people immediately found them repulsive. Their fame brought them a reputation for being pretentious, and it was one they were eager to use for their advantage.

This disinterest in making the same record repeatedly, though, is what people love about Radiohead. OK Computer was a natural reaction to The Bends. Kid A is a natural evolution — and repulsion — from everything that OK Computer was, opting to become even more electronic. When they began to get intimate and organic again with In Rainbows, their next record was The King of Limbs, an unapproachable record that largely eschews melody in exchange for difficult rhythms and unusual song structures.

Radiohead is a reactionary band. With one exception (their awkward Hail to the Thief), Radiohead is largely apolitical, focusing instead on channeling their own feelings of cultural malaise and technology-oriented paranoia. Every fan of Radiohead has one or two favourite records that they connect with the most, and will vigorously defend them.

In that sense, Radiohead isn’t different from many more-approachable and less-reviled rock bands. They tap into feelings that represent the cultural zeitgeist, and make songs many people can relate to. But they refuse to settle musically. They’re tremendously ambitious, despite their limited musical ability (something they’ve spoken about in interviews).

It’s this fearlessness that also makes people love them: their ability to continue push themselves, and the music industry, towards something new is astonishing. They embrace their limitations, but still want to expand their capabilities. With Radiohead, anything is possible — largely because they seem to believe it to be so. Despite their (often) sad music, they feel inspiring and uplifting for so many people because of their endless ambition.

Radiohead is to rock and roll what Miles Davis is to jazz: they were able to take something incredibly complicated and make it easy for the masses to consume and digest. Like Miles Davis, their albums are densely layered and intricate, but remain culturally relevant despite their complexity. It’s a difficult balance to grasp. I’ve noticed fans of Radiohead are often fans of Miles Davis, or just jazz in particular. They go together well.

Radiohead have also influenced everybody from Rush to Porcupine Tree, allowing a generation of art rockers to flourish thanks to their success. Because they lead the genre, they take the brunt of its criticism as well — particularly the criticisms surrounding art rock’s lack of approachability.

For some people, the pretentiousness surrounding Radiohead comes from their refusal to accept responsibility for the genre. If the band was willing to admit that art rock was “their fault,” they wouldn’t be so haphazardly making music that sounds so remarkably different from one record to the next. They would be refining their sound. But in the act of rejecting and subverting expectations, Radiohead has made it clear that they are uninterested in what people want or think of them.

Despite the fact that Radiohead isn’t always easy to listen to, they’re a reminder that anything is possible. They’re also a testament to unlimited ambition: for many of us, they’re the musical embodiment of shooting for the moon and making the stars. With David Bowie gone, Radiohead is also the last of the patron saints of art rock. We should all expect to hear more about them in years to come, if only because they’re the last surviving bastion of the target so many bands would like to hit.

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Originally released independently (in small quantities) in 2015, Iron Mountain has since been picked up Prophecy Productions. The re-release features new artwork, but the songs remain the same.

Despite its short five-track length, Unum is almost fifty minutes long. It doesn’t feel as long as that: with a seemingly endless bevy of ideas, the band comes alive with each track, building them with successive layers of intensity. At moments, their sludgey riffs conjure memories of Black Sabbath or Mastodon at their gnarliest. A couple tracks are reminiscent of Metallica’s thrasher approach (particularly their instrumental work). Blitz reminded me of Iron Maiden.

Yet Iron Mountain is working entirely within their own framework. With flutes, fiddles, and pipes, there is jazz-like backing track happening here (Blitz being another great example of a jazzy bass line with some memorable solo work). The band is completely comfortable with their own identity.

Tracks like Powow begin quietly and slowly ease their way into distorted power chords, still using the higher-pitched flute and pipes and fiddles to cut through the bass-heavy tones of the guitar tracks and the drum kits. The song’s mid-point becomes a total riff-fest, but yet it never descends into simple chugging. Rather than going the route so many metal and rock musicians go now — high-speed chugging on low guitar strings to create an ominous, train-like sound — Iron Mountain forges their own trail.

It’s worth saying that these gentlemen really know how to play their instruments. The drummer keeps excellent time, and the guitar work is particularly intricate. But what really shines are the solos throughout, which are rarely played on a traditional instrument associated with the genre.

The sound Iron Mountain’s got going for them is unique. Thanks to their appropriation of many genres, Unum has more to reveal with every listen. If there was going to be one album you listened to over the next week (or month), Unum would have enough depth to make the cut. It’s also a refreshing listen for those of us who think metal has had little to offer lately; it’s a reminder that it’s still possible to do something original in what’s beginning to feel like a stale genre.

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Throughout the album, that first impression never fades.

Mothers’ debut moves from one style to another, dabbling in the baroque folk on Too Small For Eyes, but also playing songs that sound more like Canadian musicians Rah Rah (like It Hurts Until It Doesn’t or album stand-out Copper Mines). There’s a swirl of building tension in each song, shifting tempos and shapes as every song morphs from its beginning to its (usually) cacophonous end (Hold Your Own Hand being a great example).

But the star of the show consistently remains Krstine Leschper, whose voice sounds at once fragile, powerful, acutely sharp, and terrifying all at once. She has a habit of nearly whispering into the microphones, hitting notes that force her voice to crack, or refusing to let a note hang long enough in the air before she lets the guitars swallow it alive. She falls apart on the microphone.

The resulting record isn’t for everybody. Blood-Letting isn’t a crowd-pleaser of a song, and I suspect many people will think Leschper’s voice has an odd, screechy quality. But I think the band knows this. The whole record is drowned in treble, forcing everything to sound wobbly.

For Mothers, that theme of sounding broken, or like it could break at any moment, is sort of the point. They play to their strengths throughout, writing remarkably consistent songs that never falter from the album’s core strength of self-loathing introspection.

When You Walk A Long Distance You Are Tired is a debut record that sounds like nobody else in the genre. With the exception of Lockjaw (which is a great track), it doesn’t go after the hook or groove of a singles-filled record, and it’s not terribly catchy. WYWALDYAT hits on an emotional level that few bands ever succeed with, especially not on their first try.

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