Taylor Swift is Spotify's most streamed artist of all time
The streaming platform released its top music lists to mark its 20th anniversary.
If 2025 proved anything, it’s that Pakistani music simply refuses to slow down. The year had everything — pop provocations, rap chest-thumping, quiet emotional reckonings, and no shortage of albums. From Meesha Shafi’s Khilnay Ko to Talha Yunus’ Shikwa (Side A), Maanu’s Thikaana and Hasan Raheem’s Dil Kay Parday, listeners were treated to a flood of new music, often arriving against the odds.
Abdullah Siddiqui dissected the state of mainstream pop with singles like ‘I Don’t Want To Listen To Your Bad Music’, while Talha Anjum seemed everywhere at once, collaborating freely and churning out tracks like ‘Departure Lane’. Across genres, artists explored grief, nostalgia and political rage.
Even as India blocked Pakistani music, listenership dipped, and labels hesitated or held releases back, songs still found their way to fans — even in India. Sabaat Batin and Rackstar‘s ‘Gal Sun’ is the biggest example.
What stood out to me most was that most of these songs weren’t engineered for virality — though plenty went viral anyway. Some sparked conversations, some annoyed the right people, and others quietly made space for voices that don’t always get the mic. From glossy pop to protest anthems, introspection to outright defiance, here are the 30 Pakistani songs that defined 2025.
Pure flex, zero filler. ‘30 Shooter’ leans into Talha Anjum’s sharpest instincts, icy confidence, drill-adjacent production, and bars built for repeat listens, courtesy Umair. It’s Anjum (sometimes Superman, sometimes Lex Luthor) reminding us exactly where he stands in the rap food chain.
‘Aag’ is the kind of song you put on when you want music to feel confrontational rather than comforting. Dulhay Mian let the tension simmer instead of rushing it, building the track on gritty textures, driving drums and vocals that sound deliberately rough around the edges. I like that it resists polish — nothing here is softened or sanitised. It’s angry without being sloppy, focused without being neat, and it taps into that very Pakistani instinct of turning frustration into noise. ‘Aag’ just burns, and I respect it for that.
A soft, romantic ballad that lets feeling take centre stage. ‘Chan Mahiya’ works because it doesn’t rush, the warmth, the gentle pacing, the intimacy all feel deliberate, almost handwritten.
‘Coffee’ is pure, self-aware drama — and I mean that as a compliment. Maanu sings about a lover who’s “like cold coffee in the nighttime,” ruining his sleep (“meri neenden haram”) and his peace, but still very much worth it. What really sells the song for me is his writing, playful, sharp and never forced. Lines like “Dil ka VPN” land because they’re clever without trying too hard, while the fun fillers keep the track buoyant. Talha Anjum’s rap verse slides in smoothly, adding texture without hijacking the mood.
This one hits me closer to the chest. ‘Departure Lane’ is Anjum firmly in his melodic rap era, with restrained production — especially in the hook — letting the writing and his vocal chops do the heavy lifting. The afrobeat groove stays infectious throughout, the fillers add movement, and that sarangi-led outro is pure chef’s kiss. Umair really is operating on another level.
‘Desi Kurriyan’ is a call-out track disguised as a fun, party track. It flips the script on desi hypocrisy, taking pointed digs at men who police women at home and objectify them abroad. I appreciate how this song uses humour, which is often used to soften the message, to sharpen it.
Whenever the Talhas link up, you know you’re in for controlled chaos. ‘Dawgs’ crackles with the kind of competitive energy I love about Young Stunners. The back-to-back bars, sharp delivery, and that undeniable chemistry remind you why these two helped define Pakistan’s modern hip-hop era.
Cinematic and slightly unhinged in the best way, ‘Drama Part 2’ plays with tension and release. Talal Qureshi’s theatrical production and Blal Bloch’s willingness to lean into absurdity make this one feel built for both headphones and chaos.
‘Fancy’ sees Talha Yunus in a lighter, slicker mode, playful flows, glossy beats and just enough bite to keep the song grounded. Here, Yunus is confident without being confrontational, proof that he can flex without shouting.
With ‘Free Fall’, Asteria leans into vulnerability, letting atmosphere and melody do heavy lifting while a seductive mood settles in. It’s indie rock at its core, threaded with traces of old-school blues. The guitar solo absolutely rips, and the song unfolds as a slow burn that rewards repeat listens.
This catchy Punjabi pop tune with a slick production and an infectious melody was all over Instagram, and it’s not a surprise why. ‘Gal Sun’ is a street-smart track that thrives on rhythm and chemistry. It feels spontaneous and lived-in. I adore the energy it brought to the table.
Shamelessly lustful and joyously upbeat, ‘High On You’ is pop at its most confident — the kind that would make anyone want to get up and move. The hook sticks instantly, the funk-leaning groove never dips, and that slick riff before the outro seals it. The lyrics may stir the pot, but Taha G knows what he’s doing.
‘Humanize’ thrives in the space between confession and restraint. I love how the experimental pop production never feels overworked here — the layered samples, hushed harmonies, and that moment where Siddiqui’s voice glitches and echoes before the beat drops. The hook pulls you back in every time, while the lyrics wrestle with isolation and the pressure to be seen. This song is quite possibly some of Siddiqui’s best work yet.
In this sleek pop provocateur moment, Siddiqui calls out lazy, cookie-cutter music with a wink, wrapping contempt in a deceptively catchy hook. The production starts clean and glossy before spiralling into distortion, like a song slowly losing patience. It’s pop that knows it’s better than the room, and isn’t afraid to say it.
While I‘m not a fan of ballads, ‘Ishq’ is an exception. It’s tender while tipping into sentimentality. It’s a slow, heartfelt collaboration that lets emotion unfold naturally, perfect for listeners who prefer softness over spectacle.
Kashmir can never not be on the list. Their song ‘Jaun Mein Kahan’ opens on a pulsing arpeggio that immediately evokes an ’80s nostalgia, setting the stage for the band’s signature sense of poetic longing. As the track unfolds, soaring guitars carry that familiar Kashmir ache, before a slick, funky riff in the closing moments nudges the song somewhere unexpected. I love how it’s comfortingly familiar, yet alive.
‘Jahan Tum Ho’ begins in quiet, acoustic territory, anchored by Ahad Hussain’s pitch-perfect delivery and soft, unshowy vocals. As the song builds, the guitars swell and the chorus opens up into something instantly catchy — the kind of early-2000s Pakistani pop that genuinely takes me back. There’s no rush here, no unnecessary drama. Rooted in the idea of letting love lead the way, the song simply sits with its feelings and trusts simplicity to do the work, and that restraint is exactly why it works for me.
Dreamy and introspective, ‘Kya Sach Ho Tum’ feels like a question whispered rather than asked out loud. Amna Riaz leans fully into vulnerability, crafting a song that feels personal without ever becoming insular — and I love that about it. She may not be the most technically polished vocalist, but the raw, unvarnished finish to her voice is exactly what gives the song its intimacy. It feels almost like a lullaby, and it’s all the more beautiful for it.
Soft pop with a steady emotional core, ‘Main Rahun’ is all about presence for me — staying, choosing, committing. It’s gentle but purposeful, making it quietly affecting.
Cool, confident and rhythm-first, ‘Matter’ shows Hasan Raheem in his effortless groove mode. It may not chase emotional highs, but it doesn’t need to.
Hasan Raheem knows how to sell a moment, and ‘Memories’ delivers one, playful, self-aware and sneakily emotional. Sung partly in Punjabi (a first for him), the track blends chill pop and R&B with wedding-season chaos, nostalgia and romantic confusion. The fake-out wedding rollout was funny; the song itself sticks because it captures that specific ache of moving on while still looking back.
A bold fusion of pop sentiment and qawwali legacy, this collaboration has the power to bridge generations. The Sabri Sisters add gravitas while Azhar grounds it in modern romance, making ‘Meri Zindagi Hai Tu’ ambitious and emotionally expansive. No wonder it was trending on Global Viral charts on Spotify.
Playful, glossy and unmistakably Gen-Z, Naazni is pop flirtation done with polish. The trio balance charm and craft, delivering a track that feels light without sounding effortless (y’know, the kind in which they put no effort whatsoever).
Built on a bouncy, unmistakably Michael Jackson–coded groove, ‘Paanch’ is pure late-night pop joy. The beat struts, the rhythm snaps, and the song’s whole vibe conveys that flirty and delightfully unserious attitude that Taha G songs thrive in.
‘Pal Pal’ proves that virality doesn’t have to come at the cost of craft. Afusic’s track glides on soft melodies and an easy emotional pull, but it’s the polish — the layering, the pacing, the restraint — that gives it staying power. It’s the kind of song that works just as well blasting through reels as it does alone with your headphones on.
‘Qabza’ is a blistering pro-Palestine, anti-occupation anthem that doesn’t trade in euphemism. Built on crushing riffs and pounding drums, it channels grief and rage into something loud, confrontational and impossible to ignore. It reminds me of how music can — and still should — take a stand.
From her album from Khilnay Ko, ‘Raina’ sits within Meesha Shafi’s most vulnerable and uncompromising body of work yet. The song opens on the delicate suggestion of rain droplets, creating a soothing, almost meditative soundscape over which her voice slowly gathers weight. Beautiful and immersive, it’s the best the record has to offer from both Shafi and Siddiqui, in my opinion.
‘Rung’ lives and breathes through Havi’s vocal command. His delivery, as always, is powerful and unguardedly candid, anchoring the song as it weaves traditional Pakistani musical sensibilities, particularly the qawwali inflections he’s known for, into a contemporary framework. I could listen to it over and over and over.
Quietly powerful and deliberately unflashy, to me, ‘Sachay Loki’ feels like an exhale in a noisy world. Built on restrained production and reflective lyrics, it asks what it means to stay honest with yourself and others. Shafi’s precision, Talwiinder’s introspection and Siddiqui’s subtle sonic touch come together to make a track that lingers long after it ends.
A fitting closer to Maanu’s eventful year, ‘Thikaana’ lands with the calm certainty of someone who’s finally figured out where they belong. It reminded me of the Pakistani pop we don’t really get anymore. I love the little details — the giggles, the moments where his voice frays, the rawness that survives despite light pitch correction. When he sings “Na mujhko sabar dilaya, na mujhko sabak sikhaya, (she didn‘t give me patience, she didn’t teach me a lesson)” it hits hard.
It even reminds me of what I admire in Hasan Raheem’s writing — that ability to sound romantic while quietly pulling the rug out from under you. I’m thinking of ‘Adakaari’, where he sings, “Uski ulfat mein adakaari hai, bari pyari hai,” a line that sounds like praise until you realise he isn’t admiring her love, he’s admiring her performance of it.