Spectral effects and pulsating tones swirl through each selection, but it's the persistent rhythms that steer the aural acrobatics, making Den a harbinger of fascinating efforts yet to come.

This latest effort is underscored by sweeping arrangements and a turbulent pulse that only serves to accelerate that sense of drama and defiance.

Worship the Sun has the lemonade-y ambiguity of all good pop.

The band’s timbres are more distinctive than its songs, which means that even the shorter tunes are best when they let the instruments do the talking.

The news is, basically, modest: On the whole, Hairdresser Blues picks up where the first album left off.

This is a very good album, sure, but it adds not so much to the Rangda catalogue.

All in all, United States demonstrates McLagan’s allegiance to a pure pop mantra.

Live in Japan is more valuable as a historical artifact than as a concert recording one is likely to return to again and again.

Holy Ghost finds him coming across as remarkably unassuming, a casual, somewhat weary traveller bound for a yet undetermined destination.

Singer Brittany Howard’s vocals are as pliable as ever, a high pitched squeal one moment, an irascible growl the next. Yet, in this case, it’s the band--bassist Zac Cockrell, guitarist Heath Fogg and drummer Steve Johnson--that have evolved most this time around, providing a shifting set of circumstance varied in both tone and texture.

They play one too many Springsteen cards with the dark “Cadillac Road” (at this point, Bruce pretty much owns any lyrics that revolve around mills shutting down), but the record ends on another strong track, “Across the River.” Taken as a whole, All Across This Land is one of the group’s strongest offerings in years.

No Age has made an album devoid of joy, yet I couldn’t help but smile when listening to it.

It would have been better to be more sharply focused, and more limited in scope, so a wider audience could discover it and maybe love it as much as Johnny Boy.

Given the earthier sonic aesthetic of the band’s previous LP, the gauzy mist of Warpaint may be hard to accept at first, but given time, the record’s sensuality becomes clear, making it more of a next step than a radical rethink.

The raw, mellow, hip-hop, electronic, jazz infused solo return of Neneh Cherry is an enjoyable ride; some songs are immediately addictive while others slowly become more appealing after several listens and sonic osmosis.

Ministry of Love may wax gloomy but proves to be an enjoyable album that fans of IO Echo just may happily play repeatedly.

It’s as if the quartet decided to pay tribute to one of O’Malley’s chief inspirations: Earth. That sounds dull, but there’s something hypnotic about these songs.

As incisive a crime story as ever committed to a groove, Juarez is striking and surreal, a torrid and twisted pastiche stirred from decadence and desire.

At over an hour, Instrumentals may try the patience of anyone not already acclimated to Pearce’s mood-driven vision. But fans who can’t get enough of his distinctive approach to composition and performance may find this record to be the purest expression of FSAness yet.

COIN COIN is not an album made for casual listening (that's probably the idea) nor is it entirely successful, but it has an absorbing quality that warrants further listens.

Melodic, dark and captivating.

Though solid throughout, without hooks like the best ones on Goes Missing, Untouchable suggests the more random approach suits Kelly and his fans better.

In short, if you liked what you heard on MCI and MCII, MCIII is more of the same, only slathered in lush arrangements with a little less of the raw outbursts of his earlier garage-y grunge sound.

Though it may not be perfect from start to finish, there is plenty to like about It’s All Just Pretend and serves as a great argument that the band is much more than just another neo folk also-ran.

The best of these songs, by a long ways, is "Counting." [...] Yet elsewhere, Ashin sounds like he's treading water, emoting floridly but to no real purpose over shiny, surface-y arrangements.

Allegedly a bubblegum record, in reality this is Collins’ take on psychedelic pop, with twinkling keyboards, polite guitars and a heretofore unimagined Collins croon that could charm the panties off a lesbian punk rocker.

It’s an odd little record, a kind of confessional chronicle that gradually gets under your skin. In this era of fractured self-identification, Ten Hymns From My American Gothic nicely serves as a soundtrack for all the searchers and seekers out there.

The music will put a smile on your face and make you want to dance - which is what good, timeless pop is supposed to do, in the final estimation.