It feels like they could keep making these records forever with no diminishing returns; the level of quality and imagination never drops an inch on LP4.

There's enough honesty in his rich, warm voice to render even the most forgettable tracks into pleasant diversions on the way to future favorites.

This feeling of isolation envelops the bulk of Apparitions. It's a psychedelic, claustrophobic mush of layered synthesizers, organs, drum pads, and breezy voices reflecting against the walls of wide-open corridors; evocative of the unsettling feeling of being completely alone in a very big space, a la David Bowman or Sam Bell.

In sum, this the most representative outing from Grace Potter & the Nocturnals to date, and displays, however slickly, a heady quotient of strut, crackle, and groove.

Without even the slightest concessions, Goon Affiliated isn't the Plies album to start with, but fans who never wanted their gutter hero on the radio to begin with should file this next to their favorite mixtape.

As ridiculously high as his [Quinn Walker's] voice may be, and even though it may take several spins to become acclimated to it, the melodies are sharp and enticing.

Blood Like Lemonade exceeds expectations, coming in a close second behind fan favorite Big Calm.

Naming your band after one of the most famous rock & roll songs of the '50s takes a lot of chutzpah, but this trio pulls it off with a soulful, minimalist sound that's all their own.

This is music of the mind that remains fiercely visceral, music that feels of a piece of Weller's entire body of work, but is quite unique in its execution and impact.

Given that Sleigh Bells' sound is so big--and undeniably exciting-- songwriting falls lower on the band's list of priorities than taking all the dramatic moments from everyone's favorite songs and turning them into songs in their own right. That doesn't stop Treats from having a boldness, immediacy, and sense of fun that's missing from too much other music.

As The Chaos teeters between slick professionalism and rampant expression, it still sounds like the Futureheads are having more fun here than they have in quite some time.

Break off a single or two and leave the rest for aspiring producers to study.

Withstanding some strange experimentation - including a steamy a cappella version of the Canadian folksong "Peggy Gordon" and a sludged-out, seven-and-a-half-minute cover of the Who's "My Generation" - The Bride Screamed Murder is surprisingly accessible.

Call it the signature of a surfer so bleached by the sun that he rushes nothing, but To the Sea substitutes the sunset strum-alongs of his earliest records for a sleek daytime sheen that might glimmer too brightly for hippies but it makes for a better overall pop record.

While the music may seem more scaled back, the lyrics feel rawer and more emotional, even without the use of the screaming vocal dynamic.

At times, it seems like Born Ruffians elude pure pop magic--sometimes by choice, sometimes by chance--but they way they bounce off of each other and lock together again is never less than impressive, and one of the greatest joys Say It offers.

There's a modesty in Tift Merritt's music that makes it more compelling than a lot of artists who make a grand show of their joy and/or grief, and See You on the Moon finds Merritt weaving her spell as effectively as ever; it's marvelous music well worth your time and attention.

Dangerfield’s solo foray is a (for the most part) sparse production (it was recorded in just five days), and that extra room is a little jarring at first, but fans of the band, as well as the elusive quarry that is love, will no doubt walk away from Fly Yellow Moon a step or two lighter.

In the 40-odd minutes that follow, the sisters' simplistic, repetitious song structures may start to grow stale, and their fine but unfussy folk instrumentalism may seem less than inspiring, but those harmonies are never far from hand, ensuring that The Big Black and the Blue is never less than an entirely pleasant listening experience.

The Family Jewels is a record that is creatively ubiquitous and aggressive, traits that make this album not unlike Amy Winehouse's Back to Black or maybe even Liz Phair's Exile in Guyville.

As it stands, Stone Temple Pilots is a good solid record and an inadvertent testament to the fact that these guys need each other.

Now in her mid-sixties, LaVette is singing better than ever, and if she isn’t a household name, she ought to be. This is a remarkable album because this lady is a remarkable singer.

As opposed to the sometimes overwhelming whimsy of Black Moth Super Rainbow, admittedly conveyed more on record than on-stage, Maniac Meat is a glowering fuzzed-up sprawl.

Dirty Side Down is a tad long, but when the songs are this good, WP gets a pass. This is easily the band's finest studio offering in over a decade.

None of these songs have the concise punch of a single, but that's surely intentional: they're not designed as hooky statements of intent, they're dreamy teasers for what promises to be Corgan's most varied set of music since the days of Mellon Collie & the Infinite Sadness, whose title is quite deliberately echoed in the very name of Teargarden by Kaleidyscope.

Blasts of feedback and other dissonant elements crop up at points, but otherwise this is an album of focused calm in both singing and playing, a vision of concern and empathy amid unease.

Fans of Far will be able to appreciate At Night We Live as a further evolution of Water & Solutions, but new listeners will have a hard time finding a fresh experience.

It's not as if any of this breaks new stylistic ground (in fact, it bears no small resemblance to his pals and sometimes collaborators Thee Oh Sees), but it sure sounds like Segall is having fun, and it brings some additional heat and spice to his rich brew of sound.

While The Ghost Who Walks occasionally feels a little long and scattered, it's still a beautifully made album that earns Elson a place among moody songstresses such as Neko Case, Amanda Palmer, Hope Sandoval, and Paula Frazer.

This Is Happening doesn’t quite reach the monumental heights of Sound of Silver, but it serves as a almost-there companion and further proof that LCD Soundsystem is one of the most exciting and interesting bands around in the 2000s.

For those who let it sink in, Infinite Arms could be a contender for the year’s best summer album, not to mention the band’s most cohesive album to date.

That’s the great thing about the Black Keys in general and Brothers in particular: the past and present intermingle so thoroughly that they blur, yet there’s no affect, just three hundred pounds of joy.

Distant Relatives is this African contradiction explored further with hip-hop, dancehall, and by way of samples, jazz, and African music showing the way. It's a royal and a striking reminder of why these two artists have reached legendary status.

As on any good Beck record, Compass finds time for everything from R&B to hard rock to the type of gut-bucket experimental rock that Tom Waits would be proud of. The big difference is in the vocal performances. It's clear that Lidell is wearing his heart on his sleeve here, and we see a portrait of a person, not a personality.

Understanding all this stuff enhances the enjoyment of the album, but it is not required. A few tracks merely push the album along, and a gaudy Of Montreal collaboration is disruptive, but there are numerous highlights that are vastly dissimilar from one another.

It feels utterly natural, a continuation of the emotional navigations she's spent her career documenting with characteristic insight and sensitivity.

It's another extraordinary musical experience from the Claudia Quintet, who deserve all the high marks they receive as an innovative, thought-provoking, singularly unique contemporary ensemble.

A Small Turn of Human Kindness, finds the band returning to the top of their game with an album that is as heartbreaking as it is crushing.

Higher Than the Eiffel is most reminiscent of the work that Freestylers and Lo-Fidelity Allstars were doing eight to ten years ago. Both of them aged into their classic full-length statement with surprising grace, and made intriguing music long after most punters had deserted them.

The uptempo songs are full of life and happiness, the few slow songs have a subdued grace that is trademark Club 8, and when taken together, they add up to the band’s best record to date.

Pretty much every track on Spirit Youth sports a bewitching melody that makes perfect use of the hypnotic swirl of guitars and electronics, moving in an elegant arc as it unfolds. You can hear it in the delivery, too, with nuanced vocals that seem to say "Hey, after all the trouble we went to in writing these tunes, we're damn well gonna give ‘em their due."

Revolutions Per Minute is an album that’s been a long time coming, and Kweli and Hi-Tek prove once again that there’s more to rap than club bangers, delivering another dose of socially and politically conscious music that’s more about opening people’s eyes to what’s happening in the world than telling them how to feel about it.

There is no album in her catalog like The Foundling; it's a terrible beauty whose jewels gleam darkly, endlessly. Its songs hold truth for anyone who has either shared this experience or merely has the willingness to ask difficult questions with an open heart.

The relatively stripped-down setting winds up letting the rockers of the album’s first half latch in, particularly the rather propulsive “Trouble,” the nimble “She’s Alright,” and rolling “I Got Your Number,” and does keep the succession of anthems and ballads on the second half from seeming too languid.

White and company make almost no concessions to their audience, and fewer songs stand out here than they did on Horehound. And yet, this is a more satisfying album overall. Fortunately, Sea of Cowards' mysteries are more intriguing than frustrating.

scular, miserable, mighty, and meandering, High Violet aims for the seats, but only hits about half of them.

It’s all very eclectic and a bit unexpected -- two qualities that seem to be Keane’s modus operandi as of late -- but what’s missing is a pop anthem along the lines of “Again and Again” or “Bend and Break,” both of which allowed Tom Chaplin to flex his vocal chops on past albums.

For Holy Fuck, Latin is a monumental step forward. By trimming back the choppy art-house disjointedness and quirky Casio tones, the band has successfully evolved their sound into something much more provocative, heavy duty, and rewarding.

It’s an explicit leap into new territory for the band, and though the second half may drag a bit, songs like “Natural Selection,” “Joy Factory,” "The Answer," and “On a Wire” make for some of UNKLE’s all-time best singles, ones that rank right up there with “Rabbit in Your Headlights” and “Lonely Soul.”

Not that dignity was ever that important to Meat Loaf, but the shallow spectacle of Hang Cool Teddy Bear lacks the absurd joy of his best: you can hear everybody involved working far too hard to achieve next to nothing.

[Moody has] created a record that could have been released in 2005 instead of one that sounded just a bit like 2010.

As a band, AILD has grown most is in their songwriting and production skills (the latter of which are now off the charts in terms of precision). The Powerless Rise, delivers on what their previous outings have handsomely promised.

The only downfall is that Here's to Taking It Easy is so easy to take that at only nine songs, it flies by in no time at all.

While they have many good ideas, sometimes they have too many good ideas at once and end up gilding the lily (or putting a blue fake fur mustache on it, as the case may be).

Taking on both the BS and sobering-side-of-life lessons while straddling genres would be difficult for any musician, but Sage did it and came up with a B-plus effort. More tangible proof that he’s a gifted artist.

Nothing Hurts is a strong debut, even when it's gentle.

With a slower pace and dreamier, echo-laden feeling than the original, guitars sounding somewhere between Morricone and the Cocteau Twins, it's an inspired nod back to a still underrated team of artists that works equally well on its own.

Like the title suggests, Warm Slime is gooey but curiously inviting stuff, and sinking into it might not be the safest way to pass the time, but it's a genuinely pleasurable experience.

Unlike some underground bands, Indian Jewelry just get more uncompromising and honed as they go, and this eerie, unsettling album is a perfect culmination of the duo's work so far.

The Optimist won’t make anyone forget Fantastic Playroom, but it does work as a nice complement and shows that the group may have some staying power.

Stuck on Nothing isn’t going to change rock & roll history even a little, but for a good time, give the album a listen and you won’t be disappointed.

The album has a quality about it that's sweeping without being out and out uplifting, feeling more informed by the rigors of touring than the denizens of the Twin Cities and their lapsed Catholic revelations.

Too insider to cross over or consider one of their classics, but an otherwise solid Fall effort offering everything fans require.

Luckily, the endlessly creative and surprisingly fluid Forgiveness Rock Record dispels any notion of opportunism by sticking to what the group does best: crafting clever, ramshackle, occasionally soaring bedroom pop songs (listen close for sirens) in a big expensive studio.

Cosmogramma is an instrumental genre-jumping journey for head-bopping intellectuals, and the meditative melodies by vocalists Thundercat, Laura Darlington and Thom Yorke only add to the experience.

More than any other of the New Pornographers' albums, this feels like a group effort, each element united to create uniquely cerebral power pop.

Above all, it’s a mature album: Deftones skirted the obvious response to their tragedy, realizing that the left turn is a more rewarding journey.

Equally steeped in Southern and Midwest Gothic Americana, the son of a pair of neuroscientists has crafted his most unique collection of songs to date, borrowing characters from mythology, literature, and world history and letting them run wild in the increasingly adventurous, neo-traditional folk style that his become his forte over the last decade.

All the pieces that make Minus the Bear an entertaining listen are still here, but rather than experimenting with more progressive arrangements, the goal is to carefully control the mood of the album, creating a soundscape that's more restrained than anything they've ever done, but just as affecting.

Perhaps the results are predictable, but they are satisfying, and it’s better to have new music from this duo than none at all.

Dynamic bombast is his specialty, and amazingly, it all fits perfectly within the confines of Italian pop. As outlandish as Mondo Cane is, it all somehow amounts to the most easily digestible thing in Patton's scattered discography.

A couple ballads are sonically lukewarm and lyrically platitudinal, but even so, this is easily the singer’s best work since The Heat.

Those fans seeking a return to Godsmack's roots will not be disappointed; for others, the sound may be a retrenchment because there was no place else for them to go. The only undebatable thing is that The Oracle is the most aggressive disc Godsmack have issued since their debut.

While Two Door Cinema Club don't yet have the flawless style or emotional weight of some of their influences, Tourist History just gets catchier and more stylized as it goes on, offering a promising foundation for the band to embellish with even more personality next time.

In the case of Nobody's Daughter, the tattered, ragged survivor in the gossip rags is no different than the one on record, both capturing Courtney in an inevitable, not so romantic decline, inadvertently turning every cliché into truth as she slowly slips into her final role as alt-rock's Norma Desmond.

It's when they stomp their feet on that middle ground that their eponymous debut kicks up the most sand, and with a little more nuance, their future endeavors could leave some pretty hefty footprints.

This isn't a pathbreaking album by a band with any chance at reshaping their genre in their image; it's a solid disc by a group that knows its own strengths.

Mary Chapin Carpenter doesn't sound especially concerned with how much product she'll move on The Age of Miracles; instead, she's made an album that speaks with honesty and clarity about the mysteries of love and fate, and she communicates well enough that it's hard to imagine anyone who has ever thought about the ways life can turn on a dime not being moved by the beauty of this music.

There's plenty good here, that's undeniable, but the album lacks the spark to push it forward and place it at the top.

He’s an amazing ringmaster for the age of mash-ups and wonky pop, and for his debut album he’s equally thrilling as the main attraction.

There are no real standouts, no (relatively) big hooks as heard on Scary World Theory's "Lowdown"; instead, there is a steady stream of hushed electronic pop songs that is as easy to enjoy as it is to ignore.

Perhaps if this production were scaled back a notch or two, Fearless Love wouldn’t feel quite so oppressive, but its oversized sound fits Etheridge’s sense of self: she’s boxed herself into a corner where she only makes music that sounds important…whether it actually is important winds up being beside the point.

If there's darkness and pain in these grooves there's also plenty of lightness and joy, with a consistent, compassionate message of redemption through acceptance — as Burhenn sings on "Ways of Looking": "It can be easy if you just let it." That simplicity informs both the album's unstudied songwriting and its deft, uncluttered arrangements.

As is the case with nearly every other Frog Eyes release, Paul’s Tomb may be riddled with claw marks, broken needles, vomiting angels, and eternal suffering, but it’s well worth the visit.

Its lengthy incubation process notwithstanding, V.V. Brown's clever debut album, Travelling Like the Light, is as genuine, natural, and deep as mishmash throwback pop can get.

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.

Looking for a testosterone-heavy rock album that is 100 percent ballad-free? Airbourne have created quite an offering — in the form of No Guts. No Glory.

So even though you could call this move toward the dancefloor a surprise, Swim retains all the qualities that make Snaith and Caribou so impressive. It just dresses them up for a night out at the club; no, make that a great night out at the club.

The song, as with most of of All Days Are Nights, is a bold, absolutely emotionally naked statement that still retains Wainwright's devastating talent for artful, universally compelling songcraft.

The aim over too much of this record seems to be simply getting Kate Nash airplay without worrying overly much about a musical backing that suits her songwriting.

Most of the time, Nelson just sounds like an old pro happy to play with whoever is in the studio, happy to sing whatever the producer puts in front of him--and that's what makes Country Music not all that different from Songbird or Countryman, which were also driven by their respective producers to places that don't seem as classically country as this purports to be.

Basically, the album plays out like hit song after hit song. Love or hate the new direction, the Apples have made a long, long career out of constantly changing and reliably creating songs and albums that overflow with hooks and happiness. This may be their hookiest, happiest album yet.

At 15-songs long the album can stand tall after the required trimming, making Rise Up a giant leap in the right direction after the lukewarm "Till Death Do Us Part."

Last time around, the bandmembers referred to that aspect of their sound as "post-classic rock," though in interviews for La La Land, they declared it "barbecue rock" instead. Whatever you call it, that predilection for juicy hooks is a major part of what keeps this mercurial bunch solidly grounded.

Further spins reveal the charms of the non-single tracks, and the whole thing ends up being one of the best examples of all the things that help make Swedish pop so magical. For once, all the pre-release hype and anticipation has been justified; the Radio Dept. have delivered the best work of their career.

This may not be an expectations-defying album, but it is a satisfying and well-rounded one that shows once again what a well-oiled man-machine Trans Am is.

Now a septet, Ozomatli are tighter than ever. Berg manages to keep the grit and dirt in the band’s live sound while adding just enough studio ambience to make the album jump hard.