#New Music Friday: Stream projects from Arooj Aftab, King Hannah, Anastasia Coope, and more

Arooj Aftab was always going to keep it moving. The Pakistani-American artist’s music has always been defined by its respectful yet daring approach to the concept of the standard, whether it’s Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” or Urdu ghazals like “Mohabbat,” popular since the 1920s and the source of Aftab’s first Grammy Award. She’s described her sound as “living in its own world of, like, a marriage of many roots and heritages,” and her new album Night Reign may be her grandest union of sound yet. Its wide array of contributors bolsters this: Moor Mother delivers a searing verse on “Bolo Na” alongside vibraphonist Joel Ross; Vijay Iyer, Aftab’s collaborator alongside Shahzad Ismaily on 2023’s Love In Exile, sends his piano keys to celestial places on “Saaqi”; and, with the assistance of James Francies, Aftab pulls all the threads out of the 1945 standard “Autumn Leaves,” weaving an entirely new piece from the silken strands. Vulture Prince fans can listen to “Last Night Reprise,” a new version of a song from her previous album, for the clearest display of her growth. Aided by a band that includes Cautious Clay, Kaki King, Maeve Gilchrist, and Elvis Costello, Aftab pulls back the curtain and transforms the original’s spacious, insular dub into majestic and antsy spiritual jazz. The song channels the transformational ecstasy of communion; Aftab’s new album shows that it’s an energy that she lives by. — Jordan Darville

Hear it: Spotify | Apple Music

Liverpool-based duo King Hannah’s second album, Big Swimmer, can feel like watching a tug of war or a fiercely competitive bout of boxing. Hannah Merrick initially appears to be the dominant force, delivering Sprechgesang vocals about grim job interviews (“New York, Let’s Do Nothing”) or finding courage in the depths of despair (Sharon Van Etten collaboration “Big Swimmer”), sung with an intimate closeness. Her bandmate Craig Whittle stands his ground, though. The grungy guitars on “Lily Pad” put a little dirt under King Hannah’s fingernails while much of the foreboding darkness on “Milky Boy (I Love You)” belongs to his impressive fretwork. Feeling these momentum shifts, two musicians slugging it out and battling for supremacy from one song to the next, makes listening to Big Swimmer fascinating and an album that rewards repeat listens. — David Renshaw

Hear it: Spotify | Apple Music | Bandcamp

Anastasia Coope writes strange, ghostly folk songs that sprout from recorded improvisations. “I just sit down and hit record, and I play something and then come up with the words as I go along,” she told Byline in March. “[With] the pressure of the song being recorded, I’m like, ‘I have to come up with the next word.’” These first takes generally remain on the tracks’ final versions, shrouded by layers upon layers of vocal harmonies. And, as a function of her process, her lyrics are simple and repetitive, playing on a loop in her mind as she reaches for the next phrase. On the project’s title track, Coope recites lines that feel plucked at random from an antiquated women’s etiquette manual (“Walk ahead / Get thin,” “New sheet hole / Darn and remarry”). Other highlights include the playful “Woke Up and No Feet,” the disorienting “Sounds of a Giddy Woman,” and “Return to Room,” a surprisingly structured closer that feels like a bridge to whatever world Coope plans to create next. — Raphael Helfand

Hear it: Spotify | Apple Music | Bandcamp

It’s a shame that IDAHO never received the same amount of acclaim as other bastions of ’90s slowcore, despite their status as an underground mainstay and the release of the critically acclaimed 1996 record, Three Sheets to the Wind. Thankfully, IDAHO mainstay Jeff Martin has finally returned with Lapse, a solemn yet striking record that feels like an intimate and decidedly earnest return to roots. Everything from the past is present, including the rueful angst of Martin’s four-string guitar and yearning lyrics about floating into the clouds. The difference is that Martin acknowledges more than just his own hazy sentimentality with Lapse, which feels like a record shaped by reality and honesty. So while ringing a little bitter and resentful, Martin’s ability to openly reckon with these ugly feelings is what makes Lapse powerful, making its mournful nostalgia an even more affecting and authentically complex expression of the disappointment and hurt after 30 years of “what ifs?” — Sandra Song

Hear it: Spotify | Apple Music | Bandcamp