Mischief and mayhem are afoot as Boston working-class Celtic punks Dropkick Murphys gear up to release a set of vibrant tracks for their 25th anniversary, “Turn Up That Dial” (Born & Bred Records). With wailing bagpipes and reedy accordions, DKM have maintained their status as a pub rock cornerstone. They do however take a somewhat noticeable folk approach to the album, incorporating banjo with acoustic guitar melodies sprinkled about. The album is predictably what you would expect from the band, with song titles such as “Middle Finger” and “Mick Jones Nicked My Pudding.” “Finger’s” lyrics reveal the middle digit as being both literal and metaphorical with the band singing, “I’ve learned from my losses and I know when I’m wrong/Still my life’s sadder than an old country song.” “Pudding” is a punk song stripped of any Celtic soundscapes. The record kicks off with the title track, a rollicking upbeat jig with lead singer Al Barr expressing his love of music as a means of creative escape. “Turn Up That Dial” presents the DKM both evolving as a band a quarter century into their career and let’s the listener know they’re staying loyal to the influences that got them there in the first place.

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Relative newcomer Amy Shark returns with her sophomore effort, “Cry Forever” (Wonderlick), a moody affair, as the Australian singer brushes on subjects such as relationships, love, the world and self-reflection. A formidable songwriter, Shark released two singles from the album as teasers last year: “Everybody Rise” a poppy gem and a recent winner of the ARIA Award for Best Pop Release back in June; and with Blink-182’s former drummer Travis Barker on the massive single, “C’mon” a beat-heavy bop back in October. On “Cry,” Shark works with the likes of previous collaborators Joe Little and Dann Hume, as well as the nascent talent of Jamie Hartman (Lewis Capaldi), Dan Wilson (Adele), and Sammy Witte (Harry Styles). Shark showcases her writing and delivery chops and displays her growth as an artist in front of the local music industry.

Her new single, “Baby Steps,” borders on a new-age combo plate of pop/rock/folk, reminiscent of bands like Mumford and Sons and Monsters & Men. The tune is catchy and well crafted. Traversing loneliness throughout the album, Shark never reaches any points of no return and that probably helps buoy the record when things get too dark.

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Birdy (aka Jasmine van den Bogaerde) releases her first album in five years, “Young Heart,” a beautiful, poetic journey through heartbreak. The songstress discovered a new affinity for Joni Mitchell and liking that Laurel Canyon sound, she simply retreated there to the Hollywood Hills to recover from a recent break-up. The result is a shimmering album, like an emotional road map marking the spots where Birdy felt hurt and alone. On “Voyager,” she senses what might be on the horizon (“Watching satellites lying in the grass/I know our days are numbered” she sings). The stellar “Nobody Knows Me Like You Do” finds the singer trying to make sense out of the empty space next to her in bed. Last time out, Birdy sounded more theatrical on her album, “Beautiful Lies.” This time around, she takes it down a notch, singing in more simpler turns with resounding affect. She sounds vulnerable but determined to weather the emotion. “Deepest Lonely” treks with nods to Lorde and Sarah McLachlan, as a mist of piano, percussion and guitar covers the space beneath her voice. “Young Heart” embraces love, shakes it out and tries to neatly fold the corner back into place. The album loses momentum on the tracks “Little Blue” and “River Song” but otherwise, it’s a beauty.

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“Second Line” (Merge) is Dawn Richard’s latest foray into the world of electronic beats and funky R&B. The New Orleans native and daughter of Frank Richard, who was the lead singer of the funk band Chocolate Milk, active in the ’70s and ’80s, electrifies as she continues to carve a niche all to herself – she was a comrade of P Diddy – releasing a string of solo releases on her own imprint that show her progressive and wide-ranging approach to rhythm and blues. “Second Line” is meant to be listened to as a complete album, with careful sequencing and recurring themes that develop over the course of a full record. “Jacuzzi” is a sunny radio-ready hit that celebrates “Creole girls,” while “Mornin’ Streetlights” is a slow jam, Luther-style. Through her own production and synths, plus her mother’s narration, she pays homage on “Second Line” to house and footwork, bringing Black women’s perspectives to the forefront of the whitewashed electronic music scene. “Perfect Storm” is a midtempo ballad on which strings and the highest parts of Richard’s register dance in common time with synths that sound like a refrigerator beeping inside a space shuttle. “Radio Free” is neither an intimate confessional nor a club track, though its squelching, amorphous synths leave more space under Richard’s voice than usual and starkly elevate her pointed reflections on the challenges she’s faced in the music industry. “They only love her if she making money/ When they stop they looking for the next honey,” she sings, as though she’s both holding her breath and about to scream, and amidst the relatively pared-back instrumentation, the tension is exhilarating.