In the end, Love Songs for Robots is well represented by its title: weird, heartfelt, haunting, stimulating, and unexpectedly sultry; it holds much for humans to appreciate, too.

They don't appear to be aiming for a masterpiece; instead, they wanted to write some good songs and let them shine in the studio, and on that level, The Traveling Kind is a rousing success and a deeply satisfying work.

Boys is where they solidify that position and really start to have some fun with it.

Good as his bandmates are, on Can't Forget, Cohen is the star, and he's as strong, as witty, and as willing to lay himself emotionally bare as ever; it's anyone's guess how much longer he intends to keep going, but there's nothing here to suggest he needs or wants to quit now.

Accept Bush as a delayed dank disco triumph, and then drop it like it's hot, one more time.

Blade of the Ronin comes shockingly close to the sound and the excitement of their 2001 effort The Cold Vein, and offers the same kind of combination of street knowledge and sweet punch lines, all delivered over rickety yet compelling beats.

He may be prolific, but he certainly isn't spread too thin, as The Good Fight is inspired, infectious, and artistically grand.

Ultimately, Deeper's most important location is his heart; by looking within it, he's made his most relatable, and compelling, music to date.

Throughout, It's All Just Pretend is infectious, warm, and bright, offering positive but not airheaded guitar tunes for a melodic, feel-good fix.

The album is a true meeting of mood, melody, and sound that any of the bands Death and Vanilla so clearly take inspiration from would be proud to call one of theirs.

The group's self-titled second album cuts down on the group's more excessive tendencies, with only "A Pleasure to Burn" surpassing the five-minute mark, and seems to have more of a stripped-down songwriting style as well.

I Can't Imagine is confident, assured, and fiercely independent.

Within the context of a playlist, any one of a dozen songs here could bridge '50s bop to '60s MPB, or '70s art rock to '80s boogie, or '90s neo-soul to 2000s dubstep. Equally remarkable is that none of it seems devised. It's like these musicians simply radiate the stuff.

Cronin could have just kept cranking out the same album over and over; that he chose to take a risk and go big showed some real guts. That he was able to make it work as well as he did shows some real skill and should make anyone who liked the first two albums really happy.

Building on the strong foundation of their last album, Anxiety's Kiss adds even more sonic and emotional variety to Coliseum's sound, and is easily their most interesting album to date.

Solo work, if he can keep making records this special, should be where he focuses his prodigious talents.

Those who go along with her for the ride will likely connect strongly; Sprinter is not for passive listening.

The album flows easier than Drift and Home, yet it somehow comes off as comparatively fragmentary, with 15 tracks playing out in just over half an hour.

Despite its many head-bobbing moments, Danger in the Club feels more like two EPs--one that builds on 180's exuberance and one that explores new territory--than a consistent album.

Rituals oozes dread, but ultimately it's that contrast between finery and paranoia that makes it so vital.

Even if the first cut is the deepest, second album Fast Food is still wicked sharp.

Despite these small tweaks to his established, well-oiled formula, Hypnophobia feels like a natural follow-up to Cabinet, with Gardner not looking to do much of anything new.

There are no outright clunkers in the mix, but a light trim would have further distilled the power of this excellent sophomore release.

Heirs demonstrates a band that can be articulate without speaking in words, and And So I Watch You from Afar are a smart, inventive group who continue to progress with each visit to the recording studio.

If Metz's debut was unnerving in its most powerful moments, II is the rock equivalent of Wes Craven's Last House on the Left; just keep telling yourself, "It's only an album ... only an album .... only an album ..."

On California Nights, they made a risky choice and it pays off in a big way. They come off assured and confident, fully in control of the songs and the sound in a way they never have before.

The Waterfall suggests maybe My Morning Jacket would be better off doing a few things well rather than losing their way down several different paths.

Without their old-timey affectations, the band seems interchangeable with any number of blandly attractive AAA rockers, a group that favors sound over song.

The album borders on monochromatic at times (possibly because there are no songs by Graham Lewis, who provided some of Red Barked Tree and Change Becomes Us' finest tracks), yet its subtle subversions are thoroughly Wire, and thoroughly befitting the band at this stage in its career.

No Control shows it's a better and more fitting choice for the band than one might expect, and it's arguably their best work to date.

At times, Lucid Dreaming can get a little too hazy and downbeat for its own good, but as a portrait of a duo in motion, it suggests Say Lou Lou are heading in the right direction.

Free from any sort of major-label constraints, the band sounds both invigorated and restless, and while deciphering their skewed Danish pop sensibilities can often prove challenging, it's well worth the effort, as the results can just as often be breathtaking.

Millencolin are no doubt a tad older and wiser, but even bereft of any of that context, True Brew manages to sound refreshingly vital, which is more than can be said about many of their contemporaries.

Russell's view of history may be romantic but it is also gritty as hell, and enduring. This is his masterpiece.

This is a record for longtime fans: it not only evokes warm memories, but it speaks to the band's present.

Gary McClure knows how to write a strong melody and a great hook, and he's no slouch on guitar; those are gifts that would serve him well under any circumstances, but on American Wrestlers he's shown that he can make a great record with any old junk at his disposal, and quite simply, that's just what he's done here

The stylistic range of Jekyll + Hyde proves that ZBB's reach is almost limitless, and this set will more than likely delight the group's legions of fans.

The band is undeniably tight and flush with ideas, and Hale is such a force of nature that the occasional foray into AOR snooze-ville can be forgiven.

The only disappointment here is that the album is basically only five songs, so here's hoping it's just a taste of more to come.

Ultimately, The Longest River is a brave album in which Chaney presents her music without filters, and reveals herself as a major talent who embraces the past and present with confidence and remarkable skill. In short, she really is that good.

Throughout Perfect Abandon's nine vocal songs, Brosseau's unhurried delivery transports the listener from her own world into his seamlessly.

Perhaps Musique de Film Imaginé is intended as a résumé item for the Brian Jonestown Massacre, but if it is, it's a fine sample of Anton Newcombe's work, and anyone who thinks Take It from the Man! or Strung Out in Heaven represented the limits of his abilities will encounter a pleasant surprise with this album.

As they navigate these darker emotional waters, it's hard not to wonder what Hemming and his crew would sound like if they loosened their collars just a bit.

The album cools down with ambient interlude "Miyajima" and midtempo closer "The Waiting," providing a patient ending to an album that gracefully deals with personal upset and disappointment.

Deep in the Iris honors emotional states that aren't easy to express--musically or otherwise--and brings a clarity to them that make it some of the band's most empathetic music.

The hard-driving, barely-holding-on-to-the-wheel songs are the main draw here, though, and the band delivers so many of them it's hard not to be breathless by the end of the album.

Scott could probably keep releasing this same kind of crazy, funhouse psych pop record forever and it wouldn't get tired, especially if he keeps writing songs this catchy and keeps giving subtle tweaks here and there.

If there's a complaint about Never Were the Way She Was, it's that it's too brief. These pieces last only as long as they hold interest for the players, though they all create a real desire for more in the listener--which is no complaint at all.

MG is an intriguing diversion that might appeal to Depeche Mode fans who were put off by the pure, minimalist techno of VCMG, and it could also come as a surprise to listeners who aren't DM fans, or haven't kept up with their later work.

Presented with genuine humility, these relatively simple songs are nonetheless brimming with moral authority.

Like Everyday Robots, there's an existential loneliness thrumming throughout The Magic Whip, but there's also camaraderie, a sense that companionship can pull you through, and that's especially true of Albarn and Coxon, who prove once again to be the other's ideal collaborator, refining, expanding, and sharpening their ideas, turning a potential throwaway to something quietly resonant.

Hospital Handshakes offers tarnished but steely hope forged from an extended period in a personal and spiritual wilderness. Its determination marks the end of this transition (and trilogy) and exposes a new and open road that will likely serve as instructive to the listener as it did the songwriter.

From the lonesome drift of the melodies and the brilliantly rendered dynamics of the performances to the uncluttered detail of the production (by engineer Justin Shane Nace in collaboration with the group), this is a splendid mood piece that excels in concept and execution.

Subtle, yet curiously persuasive, No News From Home is as unassuming as it is alluring.

Pokey LaFarge delivers something old and new on Something in the Water, and no matter how much he reaches to the past for inspiration and influence, he's able to make his music sound fresh and alive, and this is his strongest studio set to date.

No musical ghetto here as White Men Are Black Men Too suggests Young Fathers are quintessentially ahead of their time, even when their music is tight, attractive, and vital enough to be enjoyed today.

Cute he may be, but he has charisma that lasts no longer than a GIF, as Handwritten makes painfully clear.

Driver feels composed more than written, not in a way that elevates or alienates, but rather one that draws the ear to each presence in a landscape that shifts, unfolds, and surrounds; a quietly intense ride and mix recommended for headphone listening.

This is a confident, refined return--a necessary one in a field starving for group harmony singing. It's as solid as a reasonable longtime fan could expect.

Returning customers who like Tyler the ringleader, or Tyler the producer, will find this to be too much of a good thing, and can embrace the free-form Cherry Bomb as another freaky trip worth taking.

The album, though brief, is not only better than it had any right to be, but is close to perfect. Can't wait for the next one.

Untethered Moon is the usual strong Built to Spill effort.

With Damogen Furies, the results of his strange ways lead to moments of slack-jawed befuddlement as much as awestruck astonishment.

Frontman Michael Angelakos presents a gratitude-imbued, relatively ballad-heavy, but still sparkling third Passion Pit LP in Kindred.

Song for song, this is some of Speedy Ortiz's best work yet.

They play Southern soul-rock in an era where the past is indistinguishable from the present, and how the band interlaces the old and the new on Sound & Color feels startlingly fresh.

The performances are strident and lean, suggesting the players are every bit as invested in delivering the best reading of Ludwig-Leone's complex and often gorgeous songs as he was inspired in creating them.

Fast Moving Clouds is superb smart pop for a lazy afternoon; it's also an impressive first salvo from Sarah Bethe Nelson, who as both a vocalist and a songwriter confirms she's an artist to watch.

It never feels like Simonetti and Wight are dabbling on The Past We Leave Behind; instead, the changes they explore just add to the feeling that as they say goodbye to what was, they're saying hello to a promising future.

Third albums are often career-killers, exposing a band's lack of ideas. No worries here, though; Surf City sound like they still have another few years of greatness left in them.

Summoning Suns is no less ambitious than Blackshaw's more deliberately experimental records. Though it is the first time he has brought his vocal skills so prominently to the forefront, he does so with so much confidence (not to mention aplomb in his arrangements) that he commands the listener's attention through gentle seduction.

This album is a potent reminder of the virtues this band had from the start, seasoned with the experiences of almost 15 years, and it's a welcome and satisfying return to form.

Rundle, Burns, and Clinco are all strong musicians and it's usually their intricate post-rock pedigree that helps to pull them back into the present, making Salome a step in the right direction for them.

Throughout, The Silence doesn't rush, it slowly emerges; it doesn't bludgeon the listener with cluttered instrumentation or sonics, but it is seductively heavy due to spaciousness in the mix, warmth, and colorful imaginative textures.

Era of Manifestations is fine stuff for listeners who appreciate a challenge rather than a passive experience, and it's a must for those who enjoy Oneida's sonic experimentation.

Throughout This World Is Not Enough, Rønnenfelt plays with rawness and sophistication and gets to have both on his own terms. In its own way, its uncompromising, jolie laide mood makes it one of his most truly punk projects, and a cult classic in the making.

n. As with the best music of this kind, Sonnet rewards paying rapt attention to its minute changes as well as its wider sweep. Either way of listening reveals it as a beautiful, affecting exploration of form and freedom.

A successful exploration of dance music both subtle and sharp.

Portico still holds appeal for ambient music fans and those who embrace the fringe, along with Portico Quartet regulars who might find this trio's temperament a bit different, but the musical textures will be familiar.

I Don't Like Shit is heavy and lacks much hope, and yet it communicates these feelings with such skill and artful understanding that it still fills the soul.

Exhaustive but not exhausting, The Complete Recordings is a veritable jukebox full of fun for Frank Black obsessives.

No Sad Songs is a quintessentially solid and affective offering from the band, and with the continued rise of indie folk stylings well into the 21st century, the Nick Drake-inspired approach they've been loyal to since the '80s might not be embraced by the masses but should at least find itself in fashion.

While the snap into tightly focused and sometimes more fiery songwriting is remarkable, the songs aren't as across-the-board strong as they'd need to be to make the entire album as remarkable as the shift it represents.

While Black is lucky to have friends as skilled and giving as the Brewis brothers, he brings plenty to Slug, and though it's tempting to think that the Brewis brothers' participation is the main draw here, Black proves on Ripe that he's good enough to stand on his own.

Second Hand Heart is prime Dwight Yoakam: traditional yet modern, flashy yet modest, a record that feels fresh but also like a forgotten classic.

Despite their best efforts to thwart it, Stealing Sheep's intoxicating otherworldliness ultimately wins out.

While there's no clear mission statement or overarching theme to the album, the group's collective energy is exciting and propulsive throughout, sounding very much like a group of close friends ecstatically pushing each other into uncharted musical territory.

More accessible yet no less honest than their first two records, Bonxie is an expansion of Stornoway's best attributes.

The album is a bit too pretty and polished for its own good, with the kind of approach that fades into the background at times, but there's no arguing the quality and thoughtfulness that Calder put into this work, and if you like the notion of indie pop as ambient music, then this may be just the album you've been looking for.

With Infinite House, Ava Luna don't narrow their ambitious scope of sound, but manage to rein in the rapid-fire impulses that made earlier albums harder to swallow.

All that is certain is What For? is the best one so far, with Bundick really coming into his own as a songwriter, vocalist, and producer.

Admittedly, these are also slower-burning compositions that lack the hooks and pop immediacy of much of Villagers' previous work. Ultimately, however, the pulling back feels intentional and fitting for an album of songs that always seem born out of O'Brien's most personal experiences.

Born of D.I.Y. punk culture, Waxahatchee's fuzzy, introspective pop stands out due to the fearless honesty of the songs, and Crutchfield's refusal to dumb down her emotional currents or underestimate her audience. Ivy Tripp is another excellent and remarkably bold chapter of this exciting, unflinching sound.

Ultimately, it's this kind of life-is-short pop energy, imbued with Murphy's well-curated sense of time and place, that helps elevate the Wombats' Glitterbug from just a one-crazy-night soundtrack to an album that might stick with you for years to come.

It's the group's most lived in and emotionally authentic sounding release to date; it certainly doesn't fiddle too much with the formula, but that's hardly a negative.

You don't have to care about wrestling to be knocked out by Beat the Champ, but Darnielle makes it clear that these stories mean something real to him, and this is a fascinating portrait not of who wins or loses, but those who play the game.

The resulting album successfully fleshes out Shlohmo's previous sound into his most accomplished work so far, and ultimately manages to find hope in darkness.

More atmospheric than their regional contemporaries Baroness, but just as keen on opening up the blast furnace doors when an exclamation point is needed, Royal Thunder spend much of Crooked Doors skillfully dancing around the almighty power ballad (the Nazareth radio standard mentioned earlier looms large throughout), but not truly succumbing until the very end.