Historical Conquests is above all a fun record. It's got all of the heartache, acute observation, and crushing truth that fans are used to, but it never preaches without a wink and, most importantly, sounds as good blisteringly loud as it does drifting out of a clock radio in the garage.

It rivals "Dance Hall at Louse Point" for its willingness to challenge listeners, but it's far removed from "Uh Huh Her," which was arguably more listenable but a lot less remarkable. In fact, this may be Harvey's most undiluted album yet.

Not only did Moore record Trees Outside the Academy with some of his closest friends, but the album's good-natured sprawl is so appealing that it makes its listeners feel like friends, too

Smokey Rolls Down Thunder Canyon is many things--perhaps too many things, but its successes outnumber its failures, and it essentially solves the problems inherent in confining a freeform singer to time signatures and arrangements and rhythms imposed by outsiders.

The whole album is a barn rattler from top to bottom. Play this for anyone who thinks rock & roll is dead and gone. Heavy Trash again prove that theory dead wrong.

Boasting the best album-length production of the year, will.i.am's Songs About Girls is a tour de force of next-generation contemporary R&B.

Even in this mellowed state, Gira's still never going to be a majority taste, but Angels of Light come up with a thoroughly respectable and diversely arranged vehicles for his vision on We Are Him, traipsing through an array of interesting moods without diluting the leader's offbeat visions.

It's as gorgeous a collection as "Bare," and pop music should be so lucky as to have more of this kind of thing out in the world.

Our Ill Wills is an impressive, depressive album that could scare away all but their hardiest fans in one 48-minute swoop.

Some fans will miss Múm's wispier, bygone days, but those willing to give the band a chance to change and grow will welcome the chance to get to know them all over again.

Ultimately, The World Has Made Me the Man of My Dreams, with its irony, sincerity, seeming contradiction, and elliptical paradox, is the most expansive, complex record yet released by this always provocative artist.

Musically it's imaginative, fresh, full of a more studied elegance and a leaner kind of pomp that we heard during her Geffen years.

Good Bad Not Evil isn't a major leap forward for the Black Lips, but it shows their sound is slowly but surely evolving, and they still rock with a nasty enthusiasm that's bold and compelling; this is quality stuff for your next black light party.

Last Light is an altogether different album from what we've heard before, as Matt Pond has rarely put himself in such close contact with his idols. Nevertheless, it's a leap forward for an artist who rarely, if ever, heads in the wrong direction.

The Markers strip away the most abrasive parts of their previous work, add just the right amount of melodies and structure, and somehow maintain the free-flowing, experimental heart of their music. It's not much of a stretch to say that the results are something of a revelation.

It's thoughtful and fun and sophisticated, utterly alluring, another fantastic success by Zach Condon.

Widow City's major accomplishment is how it captures the band's live power and sheds some of their mannered studio sound. It rocks hard, and often.

Rimes illustrates her range as a singer along with some true strength as a writer, and they help make Family a canny blend of the commercial and the confessional--an album that feels heartfelt, yet is as accessible and enjoyable as her best records.

Fans of "Blackberry Way"-era Move, Berlin-era Bowie, late-period Of Montreal, and the Danielson Famile will eat this up like the candy it is.

A sophisticated, mature, and altogether superior follow-up.

On North Star Deserter, the musicians working with Vic Chesnutt serve as collaborators rather than simple accompanists, and they've truly brought out the best in one another; this is powerful, adventurous music that's as challenging as it is beautiful, and ranks with Chesnutt's finest work to date.

Jourgensen's covers are usually all-party time, but this album holds no hope for and finds no joy in America and expresses it brilliantly.

Make Sure They See My Face, is a much more cohesive record, one that may have an easier time making it onto MTV and mainstream radio.

This doesn't make for an album that holds together thematically the way other latter-day Neil albums do, but its mess is endearing.

More immediately accessible and warm than "Cuckooland," more ambitious than "Shleep," Comicopera, in three acts, is the end result of Robert Wyatt looking around and examining the craziness and wild unpredictability in real life in 2007.

Sound and feel do mean a lot, but country records really survive on the strength of their songs, and the remarkable thing about Carnival Ride is that it's stronger song for song than Some Hearts, some of this due to Carrie herself, who bears four songwriting credits here, often in conjunction with some permutation of Steve McEwan and Hillary Lindsey, who pen a bunch of other tunes here.

It's an ambitious egotistical solo release, and one with the chops to pull it all off. The well placed spaces and lithe textural moments of delicate instrumental engagement and interlude prevent Elect the Dead from going by in a blur.

Canada's greatest contribution to Americana since Blue Rodeo have been consistently topping themselves with each new album, and their sixth, New Seasons, is another triumph.