Now as before, there are few groups in rock & roll that perform as brilliantly and purposefully as an ensemble as the Feelies, and on Here Before their trademark sound remains a thing of wonder that hasn't been dimmed a bit by the passage of time.

If Kristofferson never cuts another record, Closer to the Bone will have been a proud note to end his musical career on.

Despite their changes, PVT remain as hard to pin down as ever, and Church with No Magic is admirable, if not exactly embraceable.

[A] completely respectable collections of tunes from a well-oiled machine, but falling short of the almost accidental brilliance of their best work.

It's mildly disappointing that the Futureheads' first independently released music sounds more conventional than what they issued on other labels, but This Is Not the World is still a solidly enjoyable album on its own terms.

He's mastered the craft of writing tight and focused rock songs that transcend their beginnings but make no concessions to current sonic fashions.

Fidelity! is effective, suggesting that Jones has an appeal somewhere between Glen Hansard and Jeff Tweedy, an impeccably messily manicured roots troubadour who works hard to make everything look easy. He's ingratiating, but his charm is strengthened by Hynde's reaction to him.

Darker, wiser, and more personally reflective than her work with Angus, By the Horns strikes a nice balance between standard, confessional singer/songwriter fare and radio-ready alt-pop.

The album closes as strongly as it begins with "Miami Titles," a thrilling orchestra-hall-meets-club synthesis from a trio that draws from Mahler, Reich, Mills, and Hood as if they're all part of the same lineage.

The band sounds vital and energetic, and while there's still a hint of sour grapes to be heard, all in all the album feels like a return to the basics.

Often, he returns to this revved-up blues--something that's more appealing when it boogies ("You Left Me Nothin' But the Bill and the Blues") than when it slams ("Distant Lonesome Train")--and while that anchors the bulk of the record, the moments that linger are the departures.

Ultimately, while some fans may miss Beaty Heart's previous bent toward tropical indie rock jams, it's difficult to imagine anyone not swooning over the focused, nuanced pop craftsmanship.

Heartfelt and nostalgic, it's Tidal Wave's less sonically charged cuts like "Homecoming" and "I Felt It Too" that resonate most deeply, suggesting that while time may not heal all wounds, it can certainly lessen the pain.

Her richest music yet, Fool's Paradise is a beautiful portrait of Hussein's heritage and artistry.

Langford's songs reflect his fascination with the culture and legacy of the American South, for better and for worse, and if his Welsh-accented voice sometimes seems to run counter to the music, Bethany Thomas and Tawny Newsome are both marvelous, putting their own spin on this music while honoring the traditions of Muscle Shoals soul.

Metric synthesize the stadium rock of Fantasies, the moody hookiness of Pagans in Vegas, and the new wave spunkiness of their early albums into something that's recognizably their own, instantly memorable and one of their best overall albums yet.

Though they include sentiments like "Romance is dead and done/And it hits between the eyes," songs such as "Romance" and "I Can't Keep You" are more up-tempo and incorporate drum kit and multi-part accompaniment, but the album's sound, on average, is less sustained and more frail than Daughter's, and the lyrics more personal.

Conveying a sense of childlike wonder about the natural world, the album is full of life and immensely enjoyable.

While not quite on par with his best work, it is nonetheless a welcome and surprisingly fun return by one of Britain's great voices who has lost none of his wit and panache.

If not particularly important, We Are the Pipettes is both witty and filled with ear-catching melodies.

While the rest of us went to work or college or worse after graduation, Avi Buffalo hit the road, but they too spent those formative years navigating the strange cognitive duality of post-high school young adulthood, and the sad, strange, and beautiful At Best Cuckold does an awfully nice job distilling that unease into audio form.

While the more upbeat tracks on Threadbare are competent and downright catchy, they're ultimately engulfed by the fog from which they were born.

It's an ironic title for an album that's so sure, and even if his early fans frown as their dancing shoes collect dust, complaining about what doesn't happen on Lost seems silly when compared to the wonderful and intoxicating things that actually do.

Despite all of its strengths, neither the recording nor the songs are as memorable or as fully realized as his late-'80s/early-'90s comeback records -- Freedom, Ragged Glory, and Harvest Moon -- let alone his classic '70s work.

The Tarnished Gold will melt whatever preconceptions you have about the band and leave you basking in the warmth of the summer of Beachwood Sparks' career.

Songs written to sound like old pub standards helped to gain the group attention, but these heartfelt tunes gleam with McCauley's individuality.

Approach it as a much more relaxed, refined, and ethnobeat version of St. Germain.

The grim truths and fantastical tales are almost equally vivid.

Ultimately, while the album may not hit with the rockabilly wallop that marked the best of her previous work, Life. Love. Flesh. Blood is nonetheless a sophisticated and gorgeously rendered album.

Riceboy Sleeps has all the majestic calm of Sigur Ros with none of the dramatic storm, all of the lull and none of the squall.

If this record came out in 1965 they'd be superstars; however, in 2002 they would have to settle for cult favorites.

It's not as poppy as some of his other albums, but it is more focused and appealing, and one of the stronger testaments to his ornery talents.

Though he's never as instantaneously gratifying as the Streets, the Roots or Jurassic 5, his efforts to continually defy convention in both production and lyrics - simultaneously looking forward to electronics and back to days of good rhymes, talent and passion - make for a rewarding, maybe even educational, listen.

She has winnowed her dueling personas -- brilliant techno-inflected DJ and haughtily self-aware vocalist -- into a fantastically complete, wildly inventive package that offers the lunatic best of both badass sides.

Get Rich isn't quite the masterpiece 50 seems capable of, impressive or not. But until he drops that truly jaw-dropping album -- which you know he will -- this will certainly do.

The release pauses for a moment of solemn reflection with the extremely vulnerable "LOST MY DOG." "SURFING A TSUNAMI" also deserves mention for its flood of ambient synths which elevate the drama. Otherwise, the release largely sounds like what fans would expect from Future.

Neatly tied together by opening and closing cuts that include Stevie Wonder on harmonica, because Ronson could swing it, Uptown Special is another nostalgic fantasy that provides light entertainment and provokes backtracking.

Fans of System's earlier work will be used to their unique brand of lyricism by now and will be more impressed with the band's ability to make a solid assortment of songs in a toned-down genre. Even with half the members.

Even if the primary common characteristic of this stuff is how exceedingly pleasant it all is, there's always a place for that, regardless of what month it is.

Sundowner recalls the more relaxed and reflective moods of Morby's earlier albums.

It might be nice to hear them amp it up a bit on their next record for a change of pace, but this works just fine as a bummed-out garage trip.

Perhaps this doesn't make for a listen that's as wild or adventurous as its companion, but it's ultimately more satisfying, as the internal journey mirrors the evolution of the pop landscape in the 21st century. What was once a rowdy, colorful party is now a soundtrack for bittersweet solitude.

Human Ceremony is an impressive debut from a band who seem positioned to make many more excellent albums if they can continue to do such a good job of mining the past for gold and revamping it in their own fashion like they do so well here.

On most of Inside In/Inside Out, the band sounds like a more energetic Thrills or a looser Sam Roberts Band, maybe even a less severe Arctic Monkeys at times.

Doom metal fans will certainly approve of Witch's self-titled debut.

Vol. 2 shows the full breadth of the group's sound, from the ballads to the rockers to the various gems in between.

An album that gives lie to the phrase "they don't make 'em like that anymore."

This may or may not be Williams' final album but if it is, it serves as a superb coda to a career that always found deep meaning in ease.

Her livelier numbers, of which there are quite a few, aren't exactly frivolous, but they have a pulse and plenty of color which, combined with album's concise running time, give Charmer the feel of an immediate, engaging pop record.

By the end, the dizzying and beautiful piece expresses the fury and unpredictability of life while maintaining a zen-like calm at its core, finding clarity just as easily as it rises to chaos.

You Should Be So Lucky is distinguished by that casual professionalism, and the album is so comfortable, so easy to enjoy that it can take a few listens to realize how deeply Tench's original songs sink in--it's not just that ballads like "Today I Took Your Picture Down" start to resonate, but the pop hooks on "Veronica Said" and the title track seem stronger and cannier -- and how soulful this whole affair is.

The result is an attention-grabbing album that reaches inward and artfully delivers vulnerable thoughts through sharply honed production skills.

As good as these moody moments are, My Wild West is best once the darkness settles, and Lissie offers nicely sculpted miniatures that feel alternately comforting and bruised, with the human touches Lana Del Rey works so hard to remove from her own music.

Slow Club's metamorphosis feels organic and, more importantly, embraced: this is their record, and the sound you're hearing is Slow Club overcoming their struggles.

This is the sound of expert experimenters who commence with an economical, even polite inquisitive conversation before developing their dialogue to a point where total creative and emotional expression is set free.

There are some glitchy electronic beats and questionable structural turns during the album's back half that feel a little bit out of place, but the overall vibe remains one of deep and heavy existential pain. Wave is an acutely overcast album, but Watson's gift for melody, narrative lucidity, and retro-pop sensibilities help to keep things more melancholic than maudlin.

Marshall duly stuffs his concise follow-up to The Ooz with the terror and negative liquid references, both literal and metaphorical, for which he is known.

Occasionally, Knuckleball Express' loose ends threaten to unravel, but for the most part, the album is held together by the feeling that Hagerty is having more fun making music than he has in some time.

Here everything feels like a copy of something that had already been done better by another band. In the end, there's little to no reason to pull this record out instead of Siamese Dream or Nothing's Shocking. Or the other three Meatbodies albums, which have all the oddball thrills and unique perspective Flora Ocean Tiger Bloom seems to have lost along the bumpy journey to completion.

The vibe is familiar but the sound is fresh and, better still, Evolution isn't ponderous: it's brisk and bright, keeping its focus squarely on the gifts that brought Crow into the Rock Hall.

An easygoing grower that digs deeper with each successive listen, Radical Optimism doesn't need to be Future Nostalgia 2.0; it's the sound of an artist enjoying life and exploring new directions as she continues to hone her craft.

With The Crux, Keery doesn't just prove he more than owns his space in the pop world as Djo, he's found a home.

The album balances more violent, hardcore material (the Clipse-featuring "Community") with songs primed for the club (the Miami bass-influenced "WRK" and "Sk8"), with the nostalgic coming-up story "For Keeps" being a highlight.

As Battles evolve, they remain true to their unique mix of brains and brawn, and La Di Da Di just might be their most engaging music yet.

As sonically pleasing as it is, Tiger Suit isn't a mere vehicle for sound; it's built upon Tunstall's strongest set of songs yet, and it's no coincidence that they're her most ambitious, either: she may be firmly within the mainstream but she's taking risks as a composer and record-maker, never settling into the role of the earnest earthbound folkie, winding up with an excellent album that satisfies as pure sound and as songwriting sustenance.

Given that Ferry doesn't sing on The Jazz Age, the appeal for casual fans is debatable. But for the faithful, trad-jazz heads, and open-minded listeners, the musical quality--from expert arrangements, virtuosic playing, and the brilliant concept--offer something wholly different and rewarding.

Regions of Light and Sound of God is intriguing and quirky; its songs often pose big questions inside informal, loosely developed pop song structures that are instantly accessible yet whose lyrics are often metaphysically elusive.

Rateliff's world-weary, deeply expressive tenor and lyrics place him on a different level than any of the current crew of revivalists.

On The Light of the Sun, Scott sounds more in control than ever; her spoken and sung phrasing (now a trademark), songwriting, and production instincts are all solid. This is 21st century Philly soul at its best.

Perpetual Surrender's highlights might have had more impact if they were collected on an EP, but DIANA have a unique enough perspective--and enough potential--to make the album worth a listen for anyone who loves synth pop in any of its incarnations.

For perhaps the first time, his solo work feels less like a tangent to his work with the Strokes and more like something sustainable in its own right.

The release is best summed up as stream-of-consciousness bubblegum pop, seldom committing to an idea for very long, but still maintaining a driving sense of excitement.

With the music provided by orchestrations from woodwinds, strings, brass, and much more besides, the feeling is one of playfulness, a resistance to and celebration of easily grasped pop forms and a sense that the world is there to be amused at and with.

On their fourth album, Tony Dekker and his revolving cast of co-conspirators walk a little taller than on previous releases, employing a larger, more band-oriented sound that lovingly elevates (and amplifies) Dekker's simple, refined melodies into something both peaceful and majestic.

McLagan's easy but powerful groove makes United States another satisfying episode in the life and career of a true rock & roll believer.

This is the friendliest batch of neo-glam to come down the pike in quite some time, never catching fire but never really striking a match, either, and it's the least adventurous dose of eclecticism, too, with nary a sitar, Mellotron, or sample out of place.

In essence, Brute is dark ambient grime, with Al Qadiri's stamping drums and probing bass frequencies heard less frequently than her synthesized choirs and horns. At its most vivid, it evokes the feeling of anticipating a shove or a bean bag round.

A big part of what makes A Question of Temperature so engaging is that, like Travels in the South, it's the work of a musician who isn't rejecting his past experiences but making something new of them.

Overall, Tears in the Club may aim for the melancholy, but it's also pretty enough to please those in search of a lush, soothing escape.

Heartache, triumph, anger, and resolution all feel reported on from behind a melting wall of ice, drowned out ever so slightly by the sound of a late-night party raging somewhere in the distance.

It sounds fully colored in and unless you're a big fan of cold and lifeless, it's a huge step forward for Washed Out.

In an era of bloated and overproduced albums, Moorer has delivered a small wonder with Getting Somewhere, and it ranks with her best music to date.

Somewhat unexpectedly, Hidden World makes an argument for Fucked Up as part of the thriving Canadian post-rock scene, which the band has previously willfully ignored.

Hidden is not merely a second step for this duo, but real deepening in a highly individual sound.

Her partnership with Sigsworth is a fine, even seamless fit, making this consistent, and satisfying, top to bottom.

Projections, Fairhurst's first album, designed more for home listening than for dancefloors, is relatively listless, sometimes torpid, and often sounds more like a project than a form of expression.

While they're certainly not the first band in 2015 to reference the swirling dream pop of Cocteau Twins or bleak sonic themes of Portishead, they are far more original and daring than your typical experimental bedroom pop act, using their inspirations as a stepping-off point en route to their own adventures and inventions.

Little Windows clocks in at less than half an hour, which is certainly appropriate to the period that Jones and Thompson are honoring. But given how well they mine their influences and bring them into the present day, it's not hard to wish a second Little Windows will open soon.

Forget the sophomore jinx, this set delivers on the promise of that first album and then some.

Way Down in the Jungle Room includes the material from From Elvis Presley Boulevard, Memphis, Tennessee and Moody Blue, and a second disc of outtakes and alternate versions to create the definitive document of this often overlooked period in Presley's career.

Their self-described "acoustic-live remix" can be a little tentative at times. Nevertheless, it's a worthy showcase for Torrini's excellent body of work and achieves a level of quality that many live recordings fail to reach.

It's hard to say if Sallee gets a lot out of a little or intentionally little out of a lot here, but the album is at once rich, restrained, and beguiling.

This seamless blend of aesthetics is also why Resistance Is Futile works musically. First, it comes on strong-all sharp edges and gleam-but once the blare fades, the melodies and their accompanying sweetness lingers, leaving a lasting impression behind.

Longtime Districts fans may well be surprised by the surfaces of You Know I'm Not Going Anywhere, but after a few listens it's clear this music has as much (or maybe more) that connects it to their past than that which separates it from their larger body of work.

From the outset, Weight of the Sun feels less immediately accessible than Modern Studies' two previous albums and suffers a bit from its mid-tempo lull and more contemporary palette. Given some time to decant, however, it reveals hidden depths and more interesting layers than are at first apparent.

The piece is essentially a longform space lullaby, and it's as soothing and tranquil as one could imagine.

Considering the extended album drought, Here for It All is surprisingly concise like Caution, though the number of directions it takes is reminiscent of the singer's hourlong statements.

The second half of The Else is so good that it's a little frustrating that the entire album isn't this solid. Still, there are more than enough good moments to keep longtime fans happy.