KEN mode have arrived to put on a clinic in muscular, unfiltered anger with their fifth album, Entrench.

Add it all up and it's a weird and wonderful set, as hyped-up, hallucinatory, and hot as the film that either oozed or sweated it out.

The record may be a little short on variety, but it is long on mid-fi energy, and will give fans of the kind of stripped-down and live-sounding rock Dead Moon and the Wipers cranked out plenty of warm and nostalgic feelings.

Fol Chen could probably stand to become even more accessible on their next album, but on The False Alarms, they still make listeners lean in close to hear exactly what's going on, and still leave them wanting more.

Steve Mason is realizing his musical vision confidently, typified by the jump between the rather moving sampling of Brazilian commentary from a glorious Ayrton Senna lap, complete with soaring engines ("The Last of the Heroes"), to the pained yet undoubtedly uplifting, piano-led gospel of "Lonely."

Water on Mars is unexpectedly hooky, taking just enough from the catchy '90s alterna-pop it borrows from to root the songs in the listener's mind, but offering enough of Polizze's own voice to keep it from being a mere throwback.

While more accessible than most of his previous work, the three pieces here are just as tormented, in particular the septic relentlessness of the 18-minute title track.

The eight tracks here are more high definition than most of what he's done in his career, with all the various noisy elements easily distinguishable and with more depth than usual.

While operating inside their own little corner of the musical world, Clutch made a reputation for themselves based on solid songwriting, lyrical weirdness, and quality--all of which are present on Earth Rocker, which is still unmistakably a Clutch album.

As the Soft Hills continue to hone their sound, the moments of spaced-out production meeting tender harmony make more sense, as do the blasts of fuzz and tension.

What's clear about Hurts on Exile is how skilled Hutchcraft and Anderson are at seamlessly incorporating their influences, so you can hear the bands' inspirations in every line even as you marvel that this album is like nothing you've heard before.

A collection of songs that are both ardent and humble.

Musgraves has a sense of humor, too, and all of these traits add up to make Same Trailer Different Park more than a collection of songs just aiming for the country charts.

Given its length and glacial pacing, Ensemble Pearl may not resonate for all fans of O'Malley's--or his collaborators--other projects, but it is a singular work that offers considerable rewards for those who will engage with it on its own terms.

Fanatics seeking that Ralf and Florian style of restraint will certainly be thrown. Others will find their respect for Bartos has grown after a listen, and once the revelations settle, Off the Record feels like an enjoyable journey back to "Ohm Sweet Ohm."

The album closes as strongly as it begins with "Miami Titles," a thrilling orchestra-hall-meets-club synthesis from a trio that draws from Mahler, Reich, Mills, and Hood as if they're all part of the same lineage.

Bragg and producer Joe Henry, owner of the aforementioned basement where Tooth & Nail was recorded, make for a solid team, allowing their shared love of rural Americana to run wild and each song enough elbow room to get comfy by sticking to a pantry of few seasonings.

A little more passion in the vocals and songs that are actually about something would have made The Happiness Waltz a triumphant return, instead it feels like backtracking.

Berlinette fans may not find a lot to grab onto here, but the graceful way she explores different directions on LISm will impress fans of her more abstract side.

Sometimes the looseness that makes 180 so charming borders on unfocused rambling, but for the most part, the Palma Violets keep it in check on this entertaining, promising debut.

Poignant yet triumphant and joyful in tone, the cover [Call's "Let the Day Begin"], as with all of Specter at the Feast, stands as both a heartfelt tribute to their bandmate and a rallying cry for moving forward.

Never once do they sound desperate on Bloodsports; they sound confident, and comfortable in the knowledge that this is where they all should be.

The Chronicles of Marnia is an album that demands multiple journeys through the wardrobe, only this time it's to fully take in the album's melodic depths rather than to make sense of its technical achievements.

A pleasant and grown but tedious release from a charismatic entertainer and exceptional vocal arranger who is not a great recording artist.

The stories of grim wedding scenes, hospital visits, and the various disappointments of daily life are all harrowing and intense, but Crutchfield's deft arrangement of lyrical details and their slow-release impact keeps the darkness from ever coming off as self-indulgent.

Like some of his peers, Woolhouse can be a little too subtle for his own good, but on Life After Defo, he's crafted a promising debut with a distinctively cozy take on life's bittersweet moments.

What is clear, even through the sometimes heavier-than-necessary arrangements, is that Muchacho has some of Houck's best songwriting since his early days, seemingly tapped into the grainy pain, hard-living tendencies, and wandering muse of his subconscious with the most listenable results Phosphorescent has produced in years.

Low give us a definitive chapter for where they are presently, and present it with more clarity and joy than we've heard from them in some time.