If False Idols was the return, Adrian Thaws is the great diversification, and if being disappointed with your universally accepted classic inspires greatness like this, then Maxinquaye be damned (but only in Tricky's presence).

When you put together the sympathetic production, the strength of the songs, and the power of the performances, it adds up to another great record by a band whose members are in complete command of their thoughtful, tender, and sneakily hooky sound.

Ultimately it doesn't matter because hearing him play fresh material is a bit of a gas and certainly welcome after many years of Christmas and covers records.

The dreamy otherworldliness of Kenedy's voice transforms even the tunes that border on upbeat scrappiness into lush dream pop.

Given the atmospheric and diaphanous makeup of most of the tracks, along with titles such as "Casiopeia" and "Redshift," Whorl is more likely to enhance stargazing than to provoke movement.

Four albums in, Lateness of Dancers reveals the arrived-at maturity in Taylor's songwriting, and his ability to convey, in the first-person narratives of his protagonists, a way through the complex notions and pain of living in the world by embracing them on their own terms, with no attempt at escape.

Sometimes, the group achieves a delicate balance between the two extremes--"It Was Always You," "New Love," and the aforementioned "Feelings"--but the best moments on V are when Maroon 5 embrace the tuneful, slightly soulful adult contemporary pop band they've always been.

Whatever the reason, Seen It All: The Autobiography shakes off all the challenges of Jeezy's lesser releases and finds new inspiration from the same old rap sheet.

There are moments where Single Mothers feels like art therapy as much as music, but this album communicates its pain with intelligence and a gentle touch, and as a singer and lyricist Earle grows with each album; there are more than a few moments of brilliance on this set if you don't mind sharing a rough and lonesome road with Earle for a while.

Twenty-six albums in, Loudon Wainwright's signature is etched even more deeply into the American songsmith grain on Haven't Got the Blues (Yet).

He's building upon the past, both his own and the larger traditions of his homeland, both spiritual and actual, and that gives lullaby and... The Ceaseless Roar a bewitching depth. It's an album to get lost in.

The muted analog production meeting with cartoonish arrangements and religious sentiments leave the album feeling like some kind of pleasant soundtrack to a Christian summer camp where Van Dyke Parks and Of Montreal's Kevin Barnes are the counselors.

The whole thing succeeds as a sort of night music, and Parry's engineering team, sending the music rock-style among several different studios, gets superb results.

Nothing here is innovative or particularly startling, though, but it's all solid, and it's comforting to know that Winter went out in peace with the blues and his legacy, and most importantly, without his skills diminishing.

There's no denying that Zeus are very good at what they do, and refining their process with each album; there's no real call for false modesty when you're making albums as good as this.

Though "exciting" isn't exactly the word, there is a sense of both purpose and drive in all of Bitchin Bajas' blurry, diversely composed drone-scapes, and this album as a whole is easily their best and most carefully crafted work up until this point.

With a sound falling somewhere between low-key, late-night indie fare and a seasoned arena rock act, Dismantle and Rebuild is a strong, colorful debut and points toward even better things in the future from the Ramona Flowers.

The surfaces of Overjoyed might surprise a few longtime Half Japanese fans, but at heart this is still the passionate expression of a man who has embraced this life and its many curious possibilities, and that certainly fits with this group's narrative while allowing just a bit more room for new explorers to consider his world view.

The pervasive, blinding darkness that saturates this bleak, sublime music is driven by the band's collective desire to seek ecstasy in the very heart of the void.

He has highs, he has some lows, but spends most of his time somewhere in between--largely because he's doing it the same he always has.

Just as poetic, mysterious, and bewitching as Blonde Redhead's more baroque albums, Barragán is a quietly audacious set of songs that ranks among the band's finest music.

Where the self-titled record felt like a vivid explosion of feelings, sounds, and ideas in line with the end of a summer full of motion and conflict, Anchor sounds grounded and wintery, a little older and making the space to look before it leaps.

Hello, the group's second issue for Alternative Tentacles, highlights the rock side of this noise rock ensemble more than any of their previous albums.

What makes Picture You Staring so deeply enjoyable is the band’s acute sense of when to obscure their sound and when to let it shine through. Walking this tightrope, TOPS never go so far off the deep end of their experimental recording side to completely hide their sad-hearted hooks.

A true obsession with sound comes through on Mean Love, and regardless of the mode Gallab finds himself in at any given moment, stellar production and heartfelt songwriting keep the album engaging and beautiful at every turn.

This set makes one yearn for (some of) the prog excesses of old; Heaven & Earth is the most creatively challenged and energetically listless record in Yes' catalog.

Ultimately, Wand's gift for songwriting guides the endless psychedelic tug of war that is Ganglion Reef, offering listeners something turbulent and strange but deeply rooted in strong tunes.

Building upon the anthemic synth pop of their previous 2013 album, Anna, the Manchester outfit delve even deeper into a layered post-punk sound that finds them adding more guitars and even strings on some cuts.

[A] well-crafted album, which was made with love and intention by seasoned artists who have landed on a combination that truly works.

Durvitz's raspy voice and lucid, lyrical stories always hold just a hint of desperation, and even decades into a staggered career, these new tunes can’t help but feel like part of a larger narrative that began during the band’s '90s glory days but finds further, greater refinement here.

Especially after the staid Junk, the deliberate liveliness of Listen is indeed welcome, and sometimes, the results come close to infectious.

Foster is wearing her open heart on her sleeve but she's never pushing too hard, never overselling her message; she's charming with her warmth and sly skill.

Yes, the production on Homo Erraticus is too precise--there's too much air, there's too much room to roam, decisions that diminish the impact of the music --but the contours of the compositions deliberately and delicately recallclassic Tull, so Homo Erraticus winds up satisfying: it's as close to '70s prog as is possible in 2014.

You've almost certainly heard other acts do what Shovels & Rope do on Swimmin' Time plenty of times; the difference is, this duo can do it better than most, and that's enough to keep them going until they're capable of developing a more unique personality to call their own.

This is, for want of a better word, his wheelhouse, and while he may not be leaving his comfort zone here, Moonshine in the Trunk proves his strengths remain mighty potent.

If you have a grand desire to take on the world and want a suitable indie rock soundtrack, Brill Bruisers will certainly do the trick, and if this isn't the best effort to date from the New Pornographers, it most certainly doesn't disappoint.

Even if Junto isn't quite as brilliant as Basement Jaxx's early EPs or nearly flawless first three albums, it doesn't sound irrelevant or like the duo is chasing after past glories either--instead, it's some of their most exciting music in quite a while.

On Neuroplasticity, her ear-popping sophomore long-player, she takes the "doom soul" architecture to an exciting new level, pumping it full of nervy post-rock and no wave, resulting in something that sounds akin to Santigold, St. Vincent, TV on the Radio, Laura Mvula, and Macy Gray at their most despondent.

Dry the River's best asset is the conviction with which they sell each moment, and the aptly named album, for all of its cacophonous posturing, always feels like it's coming directly from the heart, even as it's set to explode.

For his second album, also released on Warp, Rustie indeed slows it down a bit and peels away some layers, but he does so without making any concessions to politeness.

Another Martin masterstroke.

Certainly more mature and thoughtful, with no "Friends of P" in sight, but plenty of songs that sound like timeless hits, and plenty of powerfully felt and delivered songs that hit hard right in the nostalgia zone, drawing blood and tears with every blow.

Manipulator is a reminder that Ty Segall knows his rock & roll, but he knows a lot more than just that, and this '70s-inspired madness results in one of Segall's best and most pleasurable efforts to date.

There is little time for respite during their breezy debut album that bridges the gap between heavy-hitting rock and digestible pop/rock.

This set is a massive leap forward, not only in terms of style but also in its instrumental and performance acumen; it is nearly unlimited in its creativity.

J. Mascis is developing a distinct persona for his solo work, and so far it dovetails nicely with his other projects, sharing certain virtues while having a mind of its own, and Tied to a Star is another step in an unexpected and quite welcome career evolution.

Five choice covers and five new originals that flirt with the fantastic, yet avoid an unnecessary trip down the rabbit hole.

While it's unlikely to define its own era, it calls forth some classic elements from a prior era to great effect, and with some top-notch songcraft to boot.

Perhaps Grande doesn't embody the songs the way an old-fashioned diva would, but she functions as a likeable pop ringleader, stepping aside when the track calls for it and then unleashing a full-throated wail when it's her time to shine.

Stronger than ever is the group's proclivity for shiny pop.

This young band delivers well-written and unapologetically retro pop/rock; that said, their enthusiastic delivery and clever arrangements are decisively modern.

They've made a lasting impression, and fans of indie pop looking for a band that isn't afraid to work to win them over should be forking over their hard-earned cash for Chorus as soon as possible.

Wild Onion makes a huge impact from beginning to end, and serves notice to all the bands out there who think they are playing rock & roll the way it should be played that there are some new kids on the scene who can show them a thing or ten.

Impressions is a wonderfully fun and deep listen that stuns right away with its channeling of ABBA, but also sticks around thanks to the craft and invention that went into its creation.

Cory Branan may not have any hits--yet--but No-Hit Wonder shows that's sure not for lack of talent or a voice that makes his songs go down easy.

The album's middle third is exceptional, where Moiré's output once again draws from Parrish, Lawrence, and also Moodymann with raw, almost jacking beats, sustained high-pitch strings (either sampled or synthetic), and entrancing, downcast melodies.

The highlights continue, and come from many different styles of underground hip-hop, so put Statik somewhere between Tony Touch and the Alchemist on the short list of producers/DJs who also offer solid albums.

This is Yorkston's world and story, and his gently picked guitar and rough-hewn voice provide the heart of yet another fine release.

An album that just becomes more engaging with time, The Golden Echo lives up to its name: it refashions the best of what came before it into something alluringly modern and a lot of fun.

This theatricality is easily the album's most engaging feature, making The Resistance: Rise of the Runaway a unique offering in an otherwise dull post-hardcore landscape.

Though a couple of cuts fall short of the mark, and the set may have a few too many guests, Ske-Dat-De-Dat is a solid tribute to Armstrong. It does take chances and almost always pulls them off thanks to Dr. John's signature blend of musical imagination, wit, and savvy cool.

The Wytches show some genuine promise on Annabel Dream Reader, but they need to come up with a few more ideas of their own in addition to the many clear influences they draw from.

With a purported 30 songs to pick from, the Magic Numbers ultimately boiled everything down to 11 of the group's most solidly engaging cuts to date.

The album and its production make catharsis part of an evolutionary process, not an end in itself.

V is a solid, dream-inducing, quietly dramatic step forward for JJ.

Compared to the originals, or even the better covers released during the intervening years, these versions are pleasant if sterile.

It sometimes walks the line between close listening and a wash of sound, but it's intriguing from whatever angle it is approached.

Even though Albumin doesn't quite hold together as a coherent statement, it's a densely packed, often fascinating work and a welcome return.

There is a warmth, joyfulness, and sly humor to Bahamas' sound here that keeps you listening even when Jurvanen turns toward melancholy sentiments, as he often does.

They take things just seriously enough that their albums don't feel like a joke, but aren't afraid to have a little fun, making Maximum Overload another dazzling heavy metal romp from the stalwart shredmasters.

Whatever Bishop Allen's intention, there is a sort of miasma hovering over Lights Out that supports the "sad party album" claim, adhering these clever pop songs together but deflating some of their energy in the process. It's an odd effect making for a pleasurable yet confusing listen.

An album that caters to the sensibilities of the Lips'-voracious fan base without doing so exclusively, providing an entryway for old-school prog lovers to check out how weird the guys from that little band that did that jelly song have gotten over the last couple of decades.

Clamping down and checking out rarely sounded as good as it does on Blacc Hollywood, and sometimes it's even Greta-Garbo-"I want to be alone" good.

This is the sound of an artist open to a range of possibilities so vast they can't help but contradict each other, and he just can't be bothered by the confusion or annoyance those contradictions may cause his listenership. In the end it doesn't matter anyway, as Raposa is already on to one of the album's many moments of brilliance by the time our heads have stopped spinning from one of its moments of unfettered oddness.

Beal quietly weaves an environment for listeners to drop in on, ignore, or linger in as they choose.

The Phoenix shouldn't shock those who know the producer's past.

2014's more than servicable Strange Weather EP rounds up five covers, all of which are delivered with the usual impeccable taste and gothic flair that have become Calvi's trademarks since her debut in 2011.

They Want My Soul is more of a welcome return than a comeback, and too complex to be considered back-to-basics--especially when they reinvent the basics on each album.

Despite being only a side project, the sheer quality and array of styles found on Owl John's self-titled debut is testament to the prolific songwriting skills of Scott Hutchison.

While The Feeling's playfulness is missed, on Television Man Naomi Punk are a more singular, more insular act, and their cerebral approach to visceral sounds is still fascinating, if perhaps a shade less novel than before.

Crafted with artist Chris Shen, the album is a spatial wonder, reflecting the outdoor nature of its title with a soundfield that sounds like the great outdoors.

Creed's commitment to Chrome's vision is as strong as ever, and the results will put a demented grin on the face of longtime fans.

It's uncompromising yet masterful, an auspicious and perhaps even magical first offering.

They've constructed a vivid and often mysterious beast of an album with snippets of commentary and perspective hidden within, highly enjoyable either taken at face value or dug into deeper.

Lacking any of the imagination of previous albums, The World We Left Behind feels brilliantly disappointing, almost to the point of undoing the good work that came before rather than just standing on its own as a weak album.

Long in the Tooth features ten new Shaver songs, and if his voice by now (the album was released in his 75th year) has worn to a deep, rough rasp, the songs are as strong and as vital and world-weary wise as ever.

From years six through ten, Hyperdub has remained as reliable and forward-thinking as it was during its first five years.

This is the satisfying return album fans have waited for, no more, and certainly no less.

Lucero are musicians and showmen at the same time, and Live from Atlanta captures both sides beautifully. If you're any kind of fan, this is essential.

Get Hurt shows that so long as they're passionate about their music, it doesn't matter where the band are getting their inspiration from, because genuinely caring about something is always compelling.

FKA Twigs' music was already so fully realized that LP 1 can't really be called Barnett coming into her own; rather, her music has been tended to since the "Water Me" days, and now it's flourishing.

Bassett and his fellow knuckle-dragging stargazers are having far too much fun to care about anyone else's perception.

Country funk, no matter how one defines it, might not be a real musical style per se, but as presented here, and in the first volume of this series, it emerges as a reminder that no musical style stands in isolation.

Through several clumsier moments, it's evident Robinson's still getting the hang of making music that translates outside clubs and festivals. Going by what he has accomplished and what he aimed to achieve here, his development should be fascinating.

A promising debut with a few flashes of brilliance, Lacuna is an appealingly summery set of songs despite a few lulls in its energy.

That I'm Not Bossy, I'm the Boss continues a string of strong, entirely enjoyable releases is a bonus for Sinéad's audience, but as evidenced by liner notes that proclaim "this album is dedicated to me," she's still doing it for no one but herself.

All of it fits together surprisingly well here--a satisfying, if imperfect, sampling.

The album isn't going to send chills down spines or invoke great gusts of adulation, but a couple listens will be enough to firmly establish Melted Toys as a go-to relaxation and/or meditation aid for the discerning indie pop maven.