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.