The Errant Charm is by no means a bad album, but it's not great either; it's just nice in a way that is too easy to ignore for its own good.

There’s quite a lot of music here, some tracks abstract and open-end, others more conventionally song structured, all of it rather good.

It’s fairly impressive that Stars could make a record that comes this close to replicating its predecessor while still offering discrete pleasures of its own.

PH's previous efforts (the live shows, in particular) have been experiments in what an average listener can take, punctuated with bursts of pleasant catchiness. On Laced, Whitehurst has inverted the ratio, which works, which means the more grating leftovers can be appreciated for the oddities they are.

Formulaic but thoroughly satisfying.

Though the harmonic material isn’t always major keys, everything (mix, production, sonic universe) is pleasant, resolves nicely; the song structures are divided into equal measurements; much peace and congruence are present.

Vanishing Point serves as a 34-minute distillation of what those who still expect things out of Mudhoney expect from Mudhoney.

Jet Lag is a modest slice of lonesome lo-fi indie folk as they used to make it back when the para-Pavement galaxy was still busy splintering into its constituent planets, the ruminative Bermans and the verbose Pollards and the melodically off-kilter Barlows.

Songs to Play is a quiet success, maybe not as quiet as it seems at first, but operating with a definite modesty and restraint. It’s a record that takes some playing before its warbly charms come clear, but it’s worth the time.

Volume 8 explores some interesting byways of the Bardo Pond sound.

Too many records are boring. This one is visceral and scary, which is an improvement.

The tunes still aren't anything too memorable (though in fairness that's never been Boris's particular forte), and the frippertronics and sonic detail on songs like "Galaxians" makes things less ordinary than they might otherwise be, ranging between fairly standard chugging and brief breakdowns intended to sound heavily narcotic.

There’s nothing wrong with the playing here--it’s all good and some excellent--but these guys are still looking for their killer song.

Knowing that music of this stripe is only pretentious if it doesn’t work, it’s a near miracle that the entire album holds up, front to back, even those ballads in the second half that might have ruined lesser works.

Silver’s a markedly better songwriter on Outside than on Continent, more adept pacing and structure, more keen on crafting variegated moods and atmospheres. But Continent’s strength was its insistent hip-hop thump, which is largely lacking on Outside.

This is the very best kind of post-reunion album, the one that allows you to rediscover things you'd forgotten about a band you always loved.

If the last Red Krayola With Art & Language record, "Sighs Trapped By Liars," surprised with its gentility, Thompson’s dialectical relationship to/with form pretty much dictated that its follow-up had to jut out at right angles from its predecessor.

[Space Homestead] is another in a long line of seductive drift-songs from this most wise, peripatetic and yet enigmatic duo.

Before Today accomplishes exactly the same thing all his other good records do, so I’m not sure it does much for me that, say, House Arrest didn’t. Nonetheless, it’s still one of his better records--there are some excellent pop songs here, and it’s a good place to start for listeners who are unfamiliar with Pink’s bizarre schtick.

If you like your Sufjan Stevens in neon electronic mode, armed to the teeth with abrasive drum sounds, dive right in — and keep swimming. For anyone more enamored with his folk and chamber-pop records, it may feel like a rude assault to the senses.

Mohn is a foreboding album that also has its comforts.

Jaill's indie-major debut, That's How We Burn, further refines the strengths of its predecessor--tight, no-nonsense songwriting and straight-ahead arrangements with tinges of jangle and psych.

On Time Out of Time is conceptually fascinating, playing as Basinski often does, with very large abstract ideas that seem to have no obvious analog in music. Yet the concept yields a calming ambient sonic output that sounds not so different from other kinds of music that have nothing to do with black holes.

As strong as this set is, it still faces the originality conundrum. Rather than a group of songs individually composed and packaged under the banner of a soul album, Faithful Man can occasionally feel like one extended, vaguely monochromatic exercise in proving the vitality of a brilliant yet aging art form.

This album doesn't reinvent the sound, nor does it subvert it--but on its own modest terms, it provides a concentrated dose of smart, verbose pop.

Its melodic songs lack the fiery drive and urgency of rock and roll, consciously recalling an era of music of interest only to people looking for something truly vintage.

That flair for the undramatic has produced yet another fragile and entrancing record.

If you want stark, memorable melodies, you’re better off turning to McCombs’ combo Brokeback; for inarguably affecting rhythms, seek out Herndon and Parker’s turn with Ken Vandermark’s Powerhouse Sound; and for shiny sounds molded into pop songs, you’re better off with McEntire’s other band, Sea And Cake. But if you want that patented Tortoise blend of electronic tones, varied beats, and just-so textures treated as ends unto themselves, The Catastrophist delivers.

Dye It Blonde ends up capturing the post-Beatles hole in the most authentic way possible.

Bakesale's consistency allows it to work tremendously well as a beginning-to-end album.

In 2018 few singers could convincingly build a career as the next great crooner and William’s gambit to do that sometimes sacrifices the effectiveness of the songs, especially on those that serve his voice over craft. But when songwriting matches the talent of his voice the songs coalesce, and the results are spectacular.

The first couple times through Rejoicer, you might easily dismiss it as self-indulgent, unconstructed indie pop, lead by a pitch-uncertain singer with no great gift for catchy tunes. But after a half dozen listens, the album opens up, resolving its contradictions and bringing its juxtapositions into sharper focus.

The melting pot metaphor has fallen out of favor lately, but it’s alive and well in this breezy, engaging mixture of smooth sounds. The music wafts and flutters in a warm air current, landing lightly on syncopated rhythms and percussive bursts of keyboard, but it dances, never settling for long.

Caught between abandon and damming the stream of consciousness, Hopkins’ work seems to require a commitment from the listener that is not always reciprocated. It’s often beautiful passages feel somehow manipulative. But, when he lets loose, Ritual becomes, for 13 minutes, extraordinary.

Répercussions exists in a completely different universe, far removed from rock tropes, and sits comfortably within the spectrum of modern electro-acoustic and minimal composition.

Truth first: James Blake is not a great record. It is a good record, and maybe even a slightly provocative one, in that an album this spare, minimal, and myopic shouldn't, by rights, be stirring the pot so much.

While the album is beautifully recorded, there's a certain sterility throughout, something approaching caution.

Listen to the tracks that are not being released as singles and you'll see that the band truly does have something to offer outside of their super-fun-party-time aesthetic.

Noah's Ark is not an end-to-end stunner. But there are bright spots throughout, and the sisters display a consistent penchant for deviating from standard folk and twee pop lyrical imagery.

While I'm not convinced Biophilia overcomes the slump as an album, every song has something going for it.

It’s Blitz isn’t FTT, and may not be remembered as highly (particularly by those who never give it a chance), but it is a logical progression.

When there are fewer tracks, Anderson contrasts foreground sharpness with distant background. “House of the Setting Sun” and “Chimes” present fatigued leads pushed along by hazy, distant clouds of tone. What the new climate hasn’t changed is Anderson’s persistent restlessness, wandering off the road to find unusual details. Into the Light heads into the desert, knowing it’s hardly a deserted place.

It's a given that Excellent Italian Greyhound is a masterful offering of jagged minimalist rock from a seasoned and almost ridiculously venerable band, but its mastery is expressed in exclusively expected ways.

While the band's celebrity rose in the wake of national tragedy, Interpol will remind you that it's time to be worried again.

While MacLean isn’t a self-conscious wit, he’s never seemed too invested in trying to not sound silly, and it doesn’t cost him. Sometimes, when the darkness gets heavy, his limitations add a much-appreciated levity. As Brody Stevens might say, “Enjoy it.”

The music is a lot more accomplished here than on, say, Up for a Bit, but still loose, unpremeditated and a little bit straggly.

The Gathering is weighted in every way, heavy with distortion-crusted guitars, sluggish tempos and an earnest, perhaps even over-earnest, search for meaning.

"Third Mouth" is arrestingly pretty, with its delicate guitars and looming, swelling synth notes, but also unfathomable.

“Six Six Seven (Monsieur Faux Pas)” is all rushing, clambering, beat-wrecked chaos (and very early Liars), while the single “Strawberry Hill” fills well established structures with pastel colors, a pop song melting into dream state. You could fit this latter song onto an Animal Collective-family album, Avey Tare or Panda Bear, possibly.

Though generally safe and un-"sexy," Nouns is the sort of album around which healthy musical communities could grow, and that seems to be the point.

The band still knows how to move gracefully over the duration of long pieces and flash occasional glimpses of that once unrivaled crescendo toward catharsis. But on 13 Blues, it seems like SMZ are more interested in making their own movie than just providing a backdrop.

The power of Carpenter’s best soundtrack work, the title themes to Halloween and Assault on Precinct 13, comes from their relentless, single-minded drive. But when this approach is stretched to full, eight minute tracks as it is on Lost Themes, it can wear thin. This being said, there’s still some fun to be had on Lost Themes.

There is the danger that The Voidist comes off as a collection of songs, not an album. But for the most part they’re really good songs, and sometimes that’s more than enough.

There are differences around the edges that are making Fresh & Onlys ever more interesting, fresher and more singular, a better version of what they have been promising all along.

When Religious Knives stretch their limbs, they’re still good, but both 'The Storm' and 'On A Drive' lack the power of their more formed songs.

We get a brief chance to eavesdrop on a band of unique genius at its most raw, its most prankish and its most fun. It almost makes up for the chills, the sweat and the free cans of watery domestic.

The orchestra’s nearly perfect. Cline’s selections are non-traditional but trustworthy and intelligent. The album keeps a persistent mood even as it reflects on the mood. But 80 minutes of it requires patient listening, and there aren’t enough moments to really grab here.

It’s a solid album where both songcraft and the estimable loud-quiet-loud dynamic can share the spotlight.

This is Cornershop doing Cornershop very well.

While there’s not that much darkness in this album, there’s plenty of scratch and friction to balance out the pop.

This is brink-of-apocalypse dubstep, wringing your guts with its internal tension rather than banging you over the head - without being didactic.

This is an impressive statement from a band that’s still forming itself. Its sound is distinctive and compelling, but still audibly shifting as they go. It’s hard to imagine where they might end up ten or even five years out, but my guess is it’ll be someplace cool and very different from where they are now.

Not much of a change then, is it? But if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Nothing on In Evening Air quite achieves the slow-burning power of the title track to their In the Fall EP. But as a distillation of Future Islands' textured, unpredictable approach to pop, it's a fine starting point.

The production jars mainly on the opener, "Snakes For the Divine" - Pike's leads sound wankier, and Kensel's drums flatter and softer, than one might want. But overall, Fidelman's work doesn't obtrude too badly.

Tempting as it is to try, given the linear nature of both the album’s first half and the journeys it references, Raft resists being poured into any one narrative container.

There are perhaps ways to defy expectations and still capture that truth about oneself, though that's not present in Two Matchsticks. Holding that against The Wooden Birds is certainly unfair in many ways, but still must be accounted for.

So what’s a band to do that sticks to its guns and produces some of the finest sludgy blues-punk this side of Blue Cheer? Well, for starters, add horns. Call it a gimmick or a last-ditch effort at reinvention, whatever the case, but it works.

Thee Oh Sees conjure sweet, sticky fuzz, and there's very few spaces on Warm Slime to take a breath, or think about what you've heard. Then again, it's this very saturation that makes Warm Slime such a natural high.

What A Pleasure drips with what so many second-outings lack: promise. If this EP is an indicator, what comes next from these dudes will merit anticipation.

The Host is a sun-blessed electronic album drawing from the now, as well as two decades ago, and that works well enough.

Sagittarian Domain is an intriguing offering from Ambarchi, if not something with a great deal of potential for repeat success.

Car Seat Headrest feels, at this point, like it’s about half under control, with Toledo at the wheel, yanking desperately to keep it on the road, and yet it’s sort of magnificent.

This uneven album takes time to break in, but each successive spin deepens the relationships among the songs and reveals more details.

It’s easy to forgive Gnod such self-indulgence, however, even if it means Infinity Machines just about fails to maintain interest throughout, because this album sounds like very little out there, at least from a rock perspective.

Burning Daylight's best songs emerge from an ominous fog of sounds.

Grinderman is as refreshing, bracing and absurd as the Birthday Party were when they blew onto the scene with their Old Testament zeal.

Bad News Boys works more as a collection of singles than a continuous listening experience. You’re constantly switching gears as you move through it.

False Beats and True Hearts may move slowly, but it moves with grace, and it never lapses into the sameness of yore. The varied arrangements help.

It is way over the top in the way that Roxy Music was, all sheen and sigh and gorgeous inertia. Romantic Music, yes, no irony there.

It’s a nice way to spend three-quarters of an hour, even if you don’t have much to say about it afterwards.

The fellows in Chat Pile still need to figure out how close to the bone of the Real they want their music to cut, and how best to achieve that. But many of these songs lacerate with convincing passion and rock with memorable ferocity.

There are no failures, but the back half of Kidjo’s Remain in Light feels too safe. Kidjo’s Remain in Light doesn’t surpass its predecessor, but at its best, it’s an equally thrilling examination of the still relevant questions that drove Byrne and company almost 40 years ago.

Eight is another slow burner but the flame is more ostentatious than we’re used to from the L.A. trio.

Out Where suffers from heightened expectations and, strangely enough, predictable ingenuity.

Sonically, we’ve got a pastiche of historically catchy musical styles, with a Lou Reed touch here, a Superchunk riff there, a 10cc harmony under it all.

The unpolished, unpredictable nature of Meridian is certainly part of its charm, one way or the other. There are a lot of cinematic drone albums out there, and the organic, human touches here lend this one more personality than most.

Lux is immersive, intriguing, delicate and evasive, like many an ambient record. And, inescapably, it doesn't resonate as much as Eno's groundbreaking works in the genre.

Though it may hardly win over detractors, there's not much of Made in the Dark that can be lambasted as puckish or precious.

Take off your thinking cap, and Replica reveals mostly pleasant, mellow ambient jams.

At its best, Surf City's debut is catchy in both melodies and enthusiasm. And while the latter occasionally prevents this album from achieving resonant emotional depths, "Icy Lakes" suggests that they are very capable of achieving those if they so choose.

The songs start bare and personal, and if they swell with strings or rollick with muted celebration (as in whirling “In Your Ocean”) they never really escape the quiet, contemplative category. Not that this is an entirely bad thing. There are still effortlessly shapely melodies, fitted like skin with perceptive turns of phrase. There are still very lovely arrangements, a little airy this time around, but neither slack nor stuffed nor overly attention hungry. And the musicianship is, as always, excellent.

There are really only a couple of tracks mid-album that strike me as too conventionally pop, and they’re the singles, so you have to assume that Van Etten likes them just fine. Plenty else is shadowy, moody and lit by sudden crystalline flights of melody, and a few of the tracks combine eerie beauty with the pulse of four-on-the-floor.

Its function is not that of a follow-up to Summer but rather as a companion piece that documents a productive period for the band. As such, the record is eminently satisfying, with loose playing and a relaxed air.

What this self-titled debut is, though, is two different albums (EPs, really): one of wavering delicacy, the other of focused riffage.

There's nothing new here, but much to love, and if "Tally" makes you think 10 songs by 10 other bands, that's only because it succeeds where they fell short.

Far from being an emperor’s new clothes situation, it simply feels like the band is settling into a sound built for endurance rather than excitement.

This album certainly sounds more produced, but the band's investment in studio time mostly means sighing washes of prismatic reverb rather than a new architecture of synths and drums. Still, many of the album's best moments are its most... well, not beat-driven, but beat-bedazzled.