catchy indie rock songs

Favorites of 2025: The Cords – The Cords

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The Cords: how a band turns pop instincts into craft

If rock and roll really is dead, then The Cords clearly missed the memo, because their new self-titled record kicks the coffin lid open, steals the eulogy notes, and sets the funeral pyre dancing like it’s 1979 again and tomorrow doesn’t exist. This thing isn’t just a debut—it’s a declaration, a sugar-buzzed jolt of pop-bright indie rock that doesn’t pretend to be cool, doesn’t hide behind irony, and doesn’t give a damn about whatever trend some influencer is spoon-feeding their followers this week. It’s melody as oxygen, chorus as lifeline, guitars strummed like they’re trying to shake loose every last excuse you’ve ever had for not feeling something. And thank God for that—because in a year drowning in algorithmic uselessness, The Cord showed up with color, conviction, and the kind of hooks that tattoo themselves on your spine: refreshingly infectious, all-ages indie-pop and jangle pop collection with bright, melodic hooks and irresistible harmonies.

When a band chooses to release a self-titled record deep into a career or at a moment of reinvention, it’s rarely an accident. A self-title asks listeners to pay attention: this is who we are, for better or worse. On The Cords, that gesture reads less like self-importance and more like quiet confidence. The album crystallizes a group whose greatest gift is the paradox of seeming easy: songs that land as immediate, catchy pop but reveal, on repeat listens, careful craftsmanship — arrangements that balance lift and restraint, choruses that stick without shouting, and lyrics that prize specificity over cliché.

This review explores why The Cords has quickly emerged as one of 2025’s most beloved releases (or at least for us at Your Tuesday Afternoon Alternative), examining how the record was made, what each musician brings to its radiant clarity, and how the band’s sound fits squarely—and confidently—within contemporary indie-pop and power-pop currents. Reviewers have praised the album’s effervescent hooks, bright harmonies, and early-Beatles-meets-C86 charm, calling it a reminder that joy, immediacy, and craft can still feel revelatory. By looking closely at the songs and the meticulous yet exuberant musicianship behind them, this piece makes the case echoed by critics across the board: The Cords proves that in an era of over-processed noise, genuine craftsmanship not only still matters—it stands out.

Who are The Cords?

Asking “Who are The Cords?” is entirely reasonable, especially given how quickly the duo seemed to burst onto the 2025 music landscape with a fully formed sound and a debut record that feels more like the work of seasoned veterans than newcomers. Their name appeared almost overnight in reviews, playlists, and year-end lists, prompting curious listeners to wonder how a band this polished could arrive with so little advance fanfare. The question reflects both genuine intrigue and the natural impulse to understand the people behind a record that has connected so widely, so suddenly. Ok, ok… let’s answer the question directly: The Cords are a rising Scottish indie-pop sister duo, Eva (guitar, vocals) and Grace (drums and percussion) Tedeschi, known for their catchy, jangle-pop sound reminiscent of ’80s/90s C86 indie, featuring loud guitars, drums, and infectious melodies. They gained buzz in the UK indie scene, playing with major bands like Belle and Sebastian, and released their self-titled debut album this year, solidifying their place as exciting new musicians with a fresh take on classic indie pop.

So, sure, The Cords are a rising indie rock band whose self-titled debut has pushed them from regional curiosity to one of the year’s most talked-about new acts. That love comes honestly. It is built around a shared love of sharp pop melodies, jangling guitars, and choruses designed to ignite rooms both small and large. The band blends classic power-pop instincts with the earnest shimmer of modern indie. While each member brings a distinct musical background to the project—ranging from DIY home-recording scenes to more polished studio work—they come together with a unity of purpose: to make songs that feel immediate, heartfelt, and boldly melodic. Their chemistry is unmistakable, the kind of collaborative spark that makes a first record sound less like a beginning and more like a band arriving fully formed.

A band in the room, not a solo project on a laptop

One of the first things you notice about The Cords is its sense of feel. The record breathes the way a live band breathes: near-mic’d guitars trade phrases, the bass doesn’t merely hold down the root but sings counterlines, and the drums are both precise and human — they click when they should and push when the song needs momentum. That sonic chemistry suggests an actual group in a room rather than a single songwriter piling tracks onto a click-track.

On this record, the players are careful taste-makers: a lead vocalist who carries the melody with an effortless honesty; a guitar riff is economical but unforgettable; bass lines that anchor and color in equal measure; a drummer who doubles as a dynamic architect; and occasional keys and backing vocals that thicken textures without smothering them. The album’s production is shaped in large part by Jonny Scott and Simon Liddell, who not only handled the recording and overall sonic direction but also contributed additional bass and keyboard parts. Their involvement adds depth, texture, and subtle melodic detail, helping the songs land with a clarity and fullness that elevate the duo’s core ideas. That production leans toward warm melody rather than slick overprocessing — vocals swirl, the guitars ring, and harmonies bloom in native stereo. The effect is immediate and intimate, like a favorite radio station that somehow still surprises you with classic Scottish indie pop, bringing energy and authenticity to the genre.

Classic hooks, modern precision

Musically, The Cords live at the intersection of indie-pop and modern indie rock. If power-pop is the art of building irresistible choruses around smart songcraft, this record nods to that lineage while keeping its feet in the present. The guitars often prefer jangle and concise counter-motifs over endless studio tinkering with reverb; the drum sounds favor snap and presence within the mix; the bass is melodic. Production choices keep the songs forward and communicative.

What’s clever about the album is how it uses contrast. A sleek, hummable chorus might follow a verse that’s rhythmically skittish or harmonically unusual; a bright hook will sit atop an unexpectedly rueful lyric. That push-and-pull keeps songs from flattening into mere earworms. The band knows how to write a chorus that hooks on first listen, but they’re more interested in building shoulders for those hooks to stand on so the singer can mean what she has to say within the sway of the song.

Ordinary detail, emotional honesty

Lyric writing on The Cords resists broad platitudes. Instead of grand pronouncements, these songs live in particulars: a lit street outside an apartment window, the wrong song playing on a cheap jukebox, saying goodbye, not knowing what to say. Those details anchor the songs emotionally; they make choruses feel earned rather than handed to the listener.

Themes recur — the ache of imperfect relationships, the friction between wanting to leave and wanting to belong, the peculiar loneliness of modern urban life — but the band treats these themes as lived experience, not albums’ worth of slogans. There’s tenderness here, an ability to hold both humor and regret in the same line. When the chorus opens up into sing-along clarity, the words are often small but direct, the kind that a listener can latch onto and repeat in daily life.

Rather than a list of titles, the album’s architecture is worth noting: it opens with a confident, urgent cut, “Fabulist” that announces the band’s melodic ambitions; it centers itself with a pair of mid-album songs that reveal its lyrical depth while stilling rocking (“You” and “I’m Not Sad”); and it closes with a return to the jangle with a reflective piece that leaves more questions than answers, “When You Said Goodbye” — a satisfying structure that mirrors human experience rather than manufactured catharsis.

The opener works as a thesis statement: brisk tempo, jangly guitars, a pre-chorus that sets up the payoff, and a chorus that lands like a bright bruise — it’s immediate and impossible to ignore. The arrangement focuses on guitar and drums, yet leaves space for letting the lyric breathe before swelling into a harmony-rich chorus. That dynamic — economy vs. abundance — is where the record’s emotional intelligence shows. The listener feels tugged along rather than pushed.

Musicianship: pop instincts, instrumental care

One of the pleasures of The Cords is hearing instrumentalists who understand restraint within the landscape of Scottish indie pop. The lead guitar rarely indulges in long solos; instead, short melodic figures become hooks in themselves. The bass often carries melodic interest in places a secondary vocal might have; the drums use space and silence as effectively as fills and cymbal swells. These are not instrumental showpieces; they are choices made to serve the song.

Backing vocals are used sparingly but to great effect: stacked parts in choruses heighten the sense of communal voice, whereas single harmony lines in bridges add emotional nuance. Keys and synths make tasteful cameos — a pad here, a tuned key there — supporting rather than competing. The overall musicianship communicates a band comfortable with pop’s mechanics yet allergic to disposable glitz.

Production plays a crucial role in a record like this. The engineers and producers behind The Cords opt for a live-room warmth; you can hear the string of the guitar and the breath before the vocal. The mix privileges midrange clarity so the melodies cut through without overwhelming the low end. Transients on percussion are preserved to give the drums snap, and the stereo image is used to place instruments in space rather than to dazzle with effects. That sonic philosophy — preserve the room, let the song guide the mix — keeps the album feeling human. It’s pop music with a pulse rather than sterilized pop.

For whom this record is made

The Cords will appeal to listeners who prize tunes that reward attention. Fans of classic power-pop and jangly indie rock will find the hooks irresistible, but casual listeners will also appreciate the plainspoken choruses and immediate melodies. The record sits comfortably between the worlds of radio friendliness and indie credibility: radio programmers get singable choruses; critics get craft and nuance.

Younger listeners who grew up with playlist culture may be surprised by how an album built around consistent melodic logic can still create small shocks of recognition — the kind of “I know this” feeling that a succinct chorus can produce. Older listeners will appreciate the band’s affinity for tradition without nostalgia.

This record matters

In a popular music moment dominated by hyper-production, viral singles, and an ever-shortening attention span, a record like The Cords is quietly radical. It insists on songcraft: beginning, middle, and end; it assumes the listener will return; it foregrounds human voices and real instruments. The album’s lack of pretense is, paradoxically, its statement. It shows how pop can be both pleasurable and thoughtful, how choruses can be cathartic without being manipulative.

For a listener who wants immediacy without cheapness — a hook that doesn’t insult intelligence — The Cords offers reassurance: good songs still matter, and a band playing together still sounds like something worth cherishing.

A self-titled album is a claim. The Cords lay claim to that title gently but firmly: here is a band confident in its pop instincts and literate in its emotional choices. The record’s charm rests on the marriage of classic pop construction with modern precision, the musicians’ disciplined instincts, and songwriting that values detail over slogan. It isn’t a manifesto; it’s a practice. And in an era of flash, there’s a particular pleasure in watching a band quietly do the work of making songs that last.

Favorites of 2025: The Tisburys – A Still Life Revisited

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If rock & roll really is supposed to be dead, then The Tisburys clearly didn’t get the memo, becauseA Still Life Revisited sounds like the kind of record made by people who still believe guitars can change your pulse rate and a chorus can rescue you from the beige grind of everyday life. It’s big-hearted, jangly, melodically drunk on its own hookiness, and just earnest enough to make cynics roll their eyes—right before quietly admitting that, okay fine, this rules. In an era where “indie rock” has become an algorithmic suggestion instead of a real-time human exhale, The Tisburys are writing songs that swing for transcendence without pretending they’re saints. They’re too busy making music that actually moves. And that might be the most subversive thing any band can do in 2025.

And live well, let’s just say that this band will change your life. They certainly did that for me in May when they played in Columbus, Ohio.

There’s a delicate alchemy in making music that sounds both freshly urgent and comfortably familiar. With A Still Life Revisited, The Tisburys — a Philadelphia band led by singer-songwriter Tyler Asay — manage that trick across ten tracks that feel immediate, carefully arranged, and, surprisingly, wise. The album moves with the confidence of a band that’s learned how to translate small domestic crises (turning thirty, marriages, memory, the peculiar ache of hometowns) into classic, hook-driven indie rock: chiming guitars, harmonized choruses, and narratives that reward close listening. In other words, this is modern power-pop with a conscience, and it may be the Tisburys’ sharpest collection yet.

What makes A Still Life Revisited sound like more than a solo songwriter backed by colleagues is the apparent solidity of the lineup and the way each instrumental voice gets its moment. The Tisburys cohere around Tyler Asay’s warm, slightly plaintive voice and his knack for melody, but the record belongs to a group: guitarist John Domenico’s tasteful leads, Jason McGovern’s keyboards and co-production instincts, Ben Cardine’s steady bass and Dan Nazario’s drums. The band’s website and press materials emphasize that this is “a band record,” one where arrangements were built by people who have been playing together for years and know how to leave space for each other. That chemistry is audible: the guitars converse, the rhythm section moves like a unit, and the keys add texture rather than crowding the mix.

Sound and lineage: power pop, indie rock, and a Philly-Jersey DNA

If you trace the DNA of A Still Life Revisited, you’ll find a lineage that ranges from jangly 90s college rock to the more melodically ornate sides of the early 2000s indie wave. The Tisburys wear those influences proudly — there are echoes of The Replacements’ emotional bluntness and Beatles-style melodic craft, but also the stadium-ready shimmer of bands who balanced grit with sheen. Yet the album never sounds like a pastiche. It’s unmistakably contemporary: production is bright without being slick, vocal harmonies land with the immediacy of a live show, and arrangements are built to make choruses stick. The band explicitly cites its Philly and Jersey Shore influences, and that regional grounding shows up in the record’s blend of small-town narrative detail and seaside, sing-along energy.

What makes The Tisburys special — and what lifts A Still Life Revisited above many power-pop records — is their attention to lyrical detail. Tyler Asay writes about ordinary moments in a way that strips them of cliché. Songs on the record address the “first half” of life — relationships, nostalgia, homecomings — without falling into mawkishness. Lines about family photographs, local landmarks, and the strange combination of comfort and claustrophobia that comes with returning to familiar places make these songs feel lived in. The best of the album pairs those specifics with anthemic choruses: you can sing along, but you can also listen closely and discover a story unfolding. Critics have singled out the band’s knack for marrying hooky arrangements with narrative songwriting as a central strength. And, you know, they are absolutely right.

Ordinary lives, big choruses

A Still Life Revisited isn’t a concept album in the strict sense, but the sequencing creates a coherent emotional arc — from longing to reflection to a kind of defiant hope. Several tracks stand out for the way they crystallize the band’s gifts.

“Forever” opens the record with a declaration:

“April days are forever
Nineteen days not together
Show my flaws through a camera lens
No more lies waiting to forget”

Armed with a chorus designed to lodge in the skull. It’s a song built slowly: clearly, Asay rewrote and revised the arrangement until the parts clicked, and that patience shows. The song’s telescoping structure — verse to pre-chorus to a cathartic refrain — demonstrates the band’s skill at sculpting dynamics so that the chorus lands like a communal exhale. It feels right.

Elsewhere, the album dips into more reflective territory. Tracks rich in harmonies and piano offer moments of tenderness: memories, small defeats, and reconciliations appear in detail rather than in sweeping generalities. The sonics are dynamic, bloom with backing vocals and subtle keyboards — a technique the band uses repeatedly to give emotional weight to otherwise modest lines.

Other songs lean into the band’s power-pop muscles. Hooks here are not mere commercial concessions but emotional amplifiers; when the group sings together, the effect is immediate and communal. The closing track “Here Comes the Lonesome Dove” — described in reviews as an “urgent, upbeat” send-off — mixes strong harmonies, urgent rhythm, and slightly darker lyrical shades to finish the album on a note that feels both celebratory and bittersweet. It’s a perfect closer, an effective summation of the album’s themes: growth, memory, and the ambiguity of home.

Production and studio choices: warm, direct, human

Recorded at Mt. Slippery (Dr. Dog’s suburban studio) with longtime engineer/producer Justin Nazario, the album’s sonic identity favors clarity and warmth over gimmickry. That environment — a comfortable, band-friendly studio with analog sensibilities — helps the band capture immediacy without losing fidelity. The drums snap, guitars shimmer, and the vocal center is forward without being overly compressed; harmonies sit naturally in the room rather than stuck on top of a slick production. Listeners who prize the feeling of a live band in a room will find much to like here.

If you know The Tisburys’ older releases, the evolution on A Still Life Revisited is noticeable but not jarring. Earlier records leaned more heavily on 90s radio rock and could feel rawer in places; here, the songwriting feels tighter and more collaborative. Reviews suggest this is the band’s “most collaborative effort to date,” with multiple members contributing production and arrangement ideas — a shift from a single songwriter model to a more democratic studio approach. The result is songs that are fuller in texture but no less intimate; the details of domestic life are still central, but the band now frames them with broader, more anthemic musical gestures.

Importantly, the Tisburys haven’t abandoned their core voice. Where some bands try to “grow up” by abandoning what made them distinctive, The Tisburys have expanded their palette while preserving their melodic instincts and narrative focus. That balance — between continuity and growth — is what makes this album feel like a genuine step forward instead of a rebrand.

Who will love this album?

A Still Life Revisited will appeal to a broad swath of listeners: fans of modern power pop, devotees of literate indie rock, and anyone who finds comfort in songs that sound like they were written by people who noticed life’s small edges and decided to sing them out loud. In 2025, when many records either chase novelty or hide behind irony, there’s a particular pleasure in music that foregrounds craft and communal warmth. The Tisburys offer both: the skill of well-constructed pop songs and the feeling of a band that wants to connect, not merely perform.

Sure, everyone says that no record is perfect, and A Still Life Revisited has modest limits. For listeners looking for radical sonic innovation that avoids melody or confrontational protest-based lyrical stances, this is not the album for you. The album’s strengths: finely tuned melodies, thoughtful narratives, and a band that clearly knows how to shape a song’s emotional arc make this record a stellar release for 2025.

A band refining its craft

Ultimately, A Still Life Revisited reads like the work of a group that has learned how to harness its influences — The Beatles’ melodic sense, 90s power-pop energy, and early-aughts indie bombast — and direct them toward songs that feel honest and communal. The album isn’t trying to shock or to invent an entirely new style; it’s trying to do something arguably harder: write memorable songs that respect the listener’s intelligence and reward repeated listening.

For a modern band based in a city with a cultural identity as rich and complicated as Philadelphia’s, making an album this warm, melodic, and grounded is no small feat. A Still Life Revisited is The Tisburys at their most assured: a record of small truths and big choruses, sung by a band that understands the difference between a catchy line and a song that stays with you. If you like your indie rock crafted, communal, and emotionally direct, this is an album worth putting on repeat.