This is the work of an artist eager to explore new paths, and if it isn't a complete success, I Aubade confirms Perkins is still a vital and imaginative artist with a singular vision.

A bit of a grower, Jaakko Eino Kalevi is a subtly enticing album that establishes his niche within experimental pop.

Cemetery Highrise Slum is a worthy effort with a highly crafted vibe, but Creepoid's personality only shines through some of the time.

Many of the songs are sturdy, constructed to support these grand ambitions, but these individual pieces are not as consequential as the big, big picture

Fleeting likenesses notwithstanding, Bilal is a one-off, and his hip-hop soul summit with Younge, tucked inside the art of Angelbert Metoyer, is one for the ages.

Bleeder is one of the best outsider metal albums of the year.

Freedom sounds as furiously principled as this group has ever been, and it's a liberating, hard-hitting exercise in punk for smart people.

Vulnerable, seductive, and expansive, Inji is a promising reintroduction to Eastgate's music that honors his past while moving forward.

If the individual message may wind up fading like yesterday's newspapers, the music will keep The Monsanto Years burning bright.

While the reduction in lucid hooks and the uptick in wince-inducing lyrics diminish the album's appeal, the charms are hard to repel.

With equally quirky lyrics and coming in at under 30 minutes, Teen Men is a tight little ten-track parcel of kooky sweetness where head bobbing is unavoidable.

When Koze finally gets around to mixing in some house tracks, they're midtempo and bittersweet rather than high-energy floor fillers, and uniformly excellent, particularly Frank & Tony's sublime "Bring the Sun. One wonders how astonishing the mix would be if it had consisted entirely of tracks like this, but the variety is refreshing, and Koze's adventurous spirit is always admirable.

While Dancing at the Blue Lagoon brings Cayucas' shortcomings to the fore, more often than not it's more blandly pleasant than irritating, serving up a watered-down tropical drink of an album that just doesn't connect the way Bigfoot did.

A surprising amount of funky electro helps separate this groovemaster from the competition.

Everybody Is Going to Heaven is a bold statement full of creative ideas, but it's not without its growing pains.

In the end, the infamous LP isn't the album of the year, but it isn't an artistic flop either, just a pleasing effort from a punchline-dealing party gangsta who knows the power of a good hook.

Producers Wheezy and London on da Track handle most the beats on this freaky and fantastic release.

Ask a Yelawolf regular for a listener's guide then split apart this purposeful beast accordingly.

Odd that "Beautiful Now" goes from horny ("I see what you're wearing/There's nothing beneath it") to Maroon 5-esque (the cloying "ba, ba, ba-ba, bah!" chorus), but otherwise the slick and skillful True Colors is built for fans of Zedd's music rather than his social media followers.

Even though Vieux Loup is markedly different from its predecessors in the Acorn's catalog, it feels like a natural, graceful evolution, and is an elegantly understated, resonant listening experience.

Any Prurient release is a demanding listen, but Frozen Niagara Falls is one of his most surprising and rewarding works.

File this one next to C-Murder's Truest $#!@ I Ever Said as it's a gripping prison album that is embracing freedom upon its release, but know that this is a much more polished effort.

This may be Prinz and Horn's most minimalist music yet, but it's also some of their most rewarding.

Consider it the slow and softer Major Lazer album that's built for headphone listening, but most of all, consider it.

Drenched in Auto-Tune and more frustrated than a ringtone rapper should be, Lil Durk turns in a surprisingly down effort with Remember My Name.

The lack of urgency is also welcome, with Alternative Light Source slowly unfurling as the most natural and comfortable Leftfield album to date.

What they lack in adolescent kick they more than compensate with savvy, smarts, and muscle, sounding like passionate survivors who are happy to fight for what they love in an era that takes such spirit for granted.

That bifurcated sentiment is best laid out on prime cuts like "1999," "Too Late," "These Arms," and the luxurious title cut, all of which ooze atmosphere and vulnerability, but are denied oblivion by the grounding force of Grossi's remarkable voice.