“This Music May Contain Hope”, the second album by British singer Raye, places high demands on its audience. The record runs almost as long as a feature film – and most of the 17 songs sound as if they could be set to music. When the credits roll at the end – she thanks her in “Fin.” six and a half minutes of every single person involved in its creation – bringing a wonderfully disorienting listening experience full circle. Throughout most of the album, Raye takes you on a journey through despair and self-doubt, which she celebrates with fighting spirit and prayer to keep hope alive.
This battle sometimes unfolds in songs that sound like musical numbers or gospel hymns. In the case of “Click Clack Symphony,” it builds to a dizzying Hans Zimmer composition. The album demands patience and willingness to meet from its listeners: at once confrontational and confessional, “This Music May Contain Hope” is not made for distant, casual listening – and it is part of a wave of current releases in which artists create ambitious works that invite conscious listening.
Last year, Hayley Williams released “Ego Death at a Bachelorette Party” as 17 individual singles. The fans put together their own order and developed their own narratives, guided solely by the themes and sounds they chose. A few months later, Rosalía’s “Lux” was released, a captivating 18-track album in 13 languages. It shares the musical complexity of “This Music May Contain Hope” and the probing spirit of “The Apple Tree Under the Sea,” Hemlocke Springs’ debut album from earlier this year. Each of these records is as all-consuming as the ideas they deal with: mental anguish, faith and religion, internal and interpersonal decay.
Music as medicine
Raye often describes music as healing. Carried by the London Symphony Orchestra and the Flames Collective Choir on “I Know You’re Hurting,” their melodies and harmonies are like bandages and seams. When she asks the listener to “close your eyes and let this music get to work,” she radiates the wisdom of an elder who passes down home remedies through generations. In a time when easier access to music means increasingly passive listening, these albums replace fleeting distraction with connection and compassion. They give the audience something to keep coming back to.
Raye incorporated her grandparents’ voices at the beginning of “Life Boat.” Her grandfather’s contribution – “I’m living, not giving up” – was recorded just days before his death. In the following four minutes, more voices stream in. They all repeat some variation of “I’m not giving up, yet,” some with more desperation than others. “Say it,” says Raye, firmly and directly. “Say, ‘I’m not giving up, yet.'” The mantra lies over a pounding club beat that defined the early phase of her career. Drums and synthesizers alternate with delicately arranged strings, but there is something transcendent in the contours and echoes of Raye’s voice.
It is exactly this kind of vocal power that Rosalía describes again and again: Duende. The term flamenco describes a kind of enchantment that arises from a particularly haunting vocal performance – it is not necessarily about technical mastery or precision. “There’s something so ethereal and divine about el duende,” Rosalía told the New York Times last year. “El duende is something that visits you. It’s something that comes to you.” It makes the listening experience seem targeted and personal. This is exactly what you can feel on “Lux”. The record unfolds in a way that transcends language barriers.
Rosalía’s linguistic diversity
Rosalía begins “Mundo Nuevo” in Spanish. The translation shows: She is looking for a spark of truth. She finishes “De Madrugá” in Ukrainian – this time it’s something that’s looking for her. “I’m not looking for revenge,” she sings. “Revenge is looking for me.” The London Symphony Orchestra and the Choir of the Escolania de Montserrat i Cor Cambra Palau de la Música Catalana support the album; their arrangements range from tense and erratic to soothing and hypnotic.
Rosalía introduced “Lux” with the first single “Bergain,” which splits between German, Spanish and English. When Yves Tumor’s voice breaks into the song’s outro, the insistent repetition of “I’ll fuck you till you love me” seems harsh and abrasive against what has come before. This friction runs through “Lux”. Like her language mix, Rosalía tests the listener with existentialism and ruminations on the afterlife. This may put some people off – those who stay will be rewarded.
The majority of the record was inspired by saints, such as Teresa of Ávila and Joan of Arc. Her story adds a third layer of depth to “Lux”; Hemlocke Springs similarly fixates on religious motifs in “The Apple Tree Under the Sea.” She weaves together medieval tales and impulsive adventures that could come from a picture book. By presenting herself as a character in her fantastic stories, she gives her audience someone to root for – and in doing so creates a distance between fiction and reality.
Theater and spectacle
In this sense, “The Apple Tree Under the Sea” shares a theatrical accessibility with “This Music May Contain Hope.” Raye’s cautionary tales about traitorous South London men who should be banned from WhatsApp serve the same spectacle as Springs’ “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Ankles” and “Moses.” Towards the end of “The Apple Tree Under the Sea” there is a prelude in which the voice of a man can be heard preaching, as if from far away, about sin and the Last Judgment. He becomes even more difficult to understand as the sound of galloping horses and marching footsteps enters. The tension erupts into an orchestral outro that leads into “Sense (Is)” – a powerful, optimistic song about making the most of a fresh start and a glass half full.
Springs’ journey is the shortest in this album quartet. Ten songs in just over half an hour – and yet full of complexity thanks to confusing twists and turns. Where Springs relies on stories and allegories, Raye on a form of theater and Rosalía on something like multinational cathedrals, Williams’ “Ego Death at a Bachelorette Party” brings the listener into a painfully vivid reality. The eerily haunting “True Believer” roams the streets of Nashville. It moves along Broadway, past converted clubs. It visits churches and questions the messages proclaimed there. It parallels the moments on the album that take you into a house with fragile glass walls.
The album’s most harrowing moment comes toward the end: “Good ‘Ol Days.” It’s not as disturbing as “Negative Self Talk” and not as sobering as “Whim.” He glides over a warm groove and sprinkles in searing one-liners with deliberate precision. What gives it the most support is an appearance by Williams’ grandfather midway through the song. “You are so tacky/I think that’s why I love you so much,” he says in a voicemail. “I just had to call you first on my new phone/I love you, y’all have a blast, bye.” The interlude underlines how much the album draws from within – from real moments, people and feelings.
Proximity instead of arbitrariness
There’s a misconception in pop that the best way to get masses is to keep things vague – that vague generalizations are easier to get caught up in. But the hyperspecificity and confrontation on these albums create real connection: the feeling of being entrusted with another person’s secrets and struggles – and welcoming your own in the process.
There is courage in the way these artists are driven by conviction. They know the reach of their platforms, but have little interest in idolization. Each uses different formats to create a sense of community in even the most intimate moments – as if showing someone they are not alone is more meaningful than telling them. They demand patience and remind listeners that it is praiseworthy to even try. Not everyone looks for that experience in music; It can be challenging when an artist whispers in your ear to bring your most fragile feelings and memories to the surface. But these are exactly the records that endure over time.
