I'm not sure if I'll ever be sold on his approach, but scattered moments do shine.

These are beautiful, rather unsettling pieces that feel almost right, almost wholly natural, and yet just off.

The songs here simply stand together as individuals, each quite memorable while comprising a solid album.

On the inauspiciously titled Take Care, Take Care, Take Care, the band's sixth album, it's focused inward and enriched its traditional dynamic ebb and flow with some artful embroidery.

If the album’s second half falls off a bit due to the programming of consecutive slow burners, the orchestral layering we expect from the quartet is still there.

Under Stellar Stream does one thing exceptionally beautifully, with great consistency and intelligence (but not intellectualism), rolling out an unending thread of song.

The results are pretty weird. Which is a good thing.

Malcolm Middleton’s electric and bass guitars have never sounded so big, and they’re better that way.

It lacks the thrill of seeing Nace stalk the stage, balancing Gordon’s cool command with understated menace, let alone the body English each needs to exercise to procure the sounds that they get out of their guitars. It also lacks the contrasting spectacle of the experimental films that the duo often projects upon the rear wall of the hall. What you get instead is a slightly murky recording that filters their outsize rain of blows and ends up conveying solid representation rather than out-of-body transcendence.

The good news is that this is the band’s strongest music since Seasons in the Abyss. The bad news is that, compared to their vaulted ’80s output, the album lacks intensity.

White, who is deeply respected by his peers, makes some clever moves on All Hits: Memories which clear the way. The first move is to turn toward free jazz, where solo percussion is a bit more familiar than in indie rock. Without doubt he has the chops, too, shifting between groovy phrases and episodes that expand and branch rhizomatically.

Mountain Battles gets less right than Pod or Last Splash did, but hits the target more often than Pacer or Title TK. Either way, it's probably a bit better than you expect.

Much of what lends the album distinction is the tension created between the band's bold, confident projections and the more delicate core at their center. At times, that tension can be disorienting.

Natural History is at its best when it's at its most focused.

Outside Love, two years later, is another solid effort with a handful of quite good songs--and only a few embarrassing ones.

Later in the CD, Middleton makes room for his own voice, and there's something very powerful in the way his rough, organic morose-ness combines with the bright glow of electronic instruments.

At times, there can be an over-reliance on an organic-sounding push-pull rhythm here; on the surface, a few of Riposte's songs do have a tendency to blur together after a few listens. But when everything comes together--as on the aforementioned "Outt!," which builds and builds, effectively ending the album on an exhausted, triumphant note--it's a mesmerizing project.

A visceral and intriguing record, and one that doesn’t always gel, but it at least stands by it’s own convictions.

There are two distinct types of songs on The Power of Rocks: the herky-jerky, dada-ist contraptions described in the first two paragraphs and a sort of luminous dream pop that might remind you of the Green Child.

His Eleventh Hour streams seem to glorify a pre-evolved hip hop.

Ripely Pine is overloaded with sound, lurching with sudden dynamic shifts, swiveling from one melodic idea to another, trembling with strings, gleaming with brass, fractured into colored shards of bright feeling.

These tracks are surely less orthodox than starting from the masters (properly name-checked in the liner notes), but even the experiments that don’t quite pay off are worthy listens. And anyone will find more than enough here to make this worth their while.

Varmints is an expansive, surprising listen for which sonic left turns can be taken for granted.

Porcelain Raft's airy concoctions work best when you're not thinking about them.

The technical virtuosity on display on Embrace is something to appreciate, but the delicate balance between their austere and manic moments, the way they bridge hazy folk and psych so frequently, needs a little more refinement.

Inconclusive. Kala plays as mixed media pastiche, a barely restrained amalgam of ideas that are hardly exhausted by beats or flow and double and triple as political references.

Perhaps the most obvious way that this album reflects the COVID lockdown, however, is in its weirder, more idiosyncratic second half, which is, incidentally, the best part of the record.

The stylistic ground covered on Pumps is a logical progression for Growing and leaves them with a number of interesting places to go from here.

What’s key here is that Winged Wheel is travelling together, as a unit. The eclecticism in mood proves that they’re enjoying the voyage.

Most of Tom Vek’s influences are at least fifteen years old and easily triangulated. But he’s unencumbered by nostalgia. We Have Sound is so difficult to isolate from Vek’s ass-backwards charisma, I wonder if the man might be a visionary.

The layered caramel of [Brett's] voice stays thick from track to track, but finally, it's Rennie's poetry that gives Last Days Of Wonder its legs.

There is Love in You, his first solo full-length in half a decade, is rooted in beat music, but perambulates all of those former infatuations in an expected but enjoyable way.

While it is undeniably a good record, reaching into the stratosphere of excellence at points, Ejstes' overall modus operandi seems more akin to outright homage at times than any sort of exploration of the means and methods of vintage '70s rock and its application in a modern context.

What's perhaps most interesting about the album is that it steers clear of most indie rock tropes.

Though this is an enjoyable listen and a vast improvement on their debut, the promise of where they could end up is its biggest appeal. Stay tuned.

If Craig can manage to maintain his unique delicacy of sound, while pushing his melodic capabilities, he could achieve something special. Yet, if he allows pop elements to take over, instead of remaining as hints and references, he risks becoming simply another producer penning groovy, soulless hits for electro-pop scenesters. In order to remain distinctive, Craig will need to keep the balance he’s struck here firmly in mind.

In the studio, it’s a totally different beast--a little soggy with orchestral coloring and the 24-track fuckery often seems rote. Taking St. Vincent at face value, Marry Me can be an enervating listen because Clark is playing against her strengths.

The emphasis on songcraft here puts Menuck's vocal range in the spotlight. While he has some standout moments, notably a casual lamentation within "Kollapz Tradixional (Thee Olde Dirty Flag)" and a jagged shout on "Kollaps Tradicional (Bury 3 Dynamos)," his range isn't always up to the demands of the music.

Dee Dee’s strong, confident voice and songwriting compensates for the lack of originality.

If you set aside some uninspired, cryptic-as-poetic moody fantasy lyrics (and a few forgettable songs truly as slight as whispers), Becoming a Jackal reveals a hidden stash of imminently memorable melodies.

It’s awful and overwhelmingly loud — but there’s also a soaring quality to the melody that establishes itself amid the clangor and noise. That’s the curious, nearly undecidable quality in The Crying Out of Things. It’s full of ugly volume and rage. But there is a terrible beauty in many of the tracks, an affect that expands underneath the ugliness.

The Shepherd’s Dog is a step forward for Iron and Wine in many ways. The only moments where it falters are where the tonal characteristics gesture toward the past. When it shines, however, The Shepherd’s Dog’s clever songwriting and creative instrumentation makes for the most complete record Beam has ever recorded.

For the uninvested outsider (neither lover nor hater), it's distinctively spooky background music with a few satisfyingly jarring surprises, nothing to get terribly worked up about. For Patton's large army of obsessive pupils, it's an essential document of the Master at his most conceptually obsessive.

Though a solid and promising outing, Wavves isn’t a revelatory record. It fits nicely into the "scene," however vague that semblance is these days.

It's striking how well the gypsy sound fits with older material, but even so, the best song on Alegrias was written specifically for the album.

If you can get past the unintentionally risible title, this new collection of songs from the Austin-based dark hardcore band is quite good. The music is convincingly pissed.

The record’s oversized persona feels strange because these sounds don’t owe that much to the twang or crate-digging excavations that built Romweber’s reputation.

The weird and promising thing is that it works without ever feeling natural. The actual coexistence of the earnest and the smoove stops being so striking after a while, but the best songs on Rules don’t let you forget there is one.

For most artists, this album would be a significant achievement--but we've come to expect more from Massive Attack.

These Audion recordings thrive on nervous energy, sounding like the twitchy mumblings of a speed freak at their most hyperactive.

A lighter listen, enjoyable, but without the depth and drama that marks Tyler’s better work.

If Rook is as ambitious as they feel they can be without adding excess, then that's a good tradeoff, but their sound right now fits them like a pair of shoes that are a size too small.

It’s good where it has to be good and it hits the notes it’s supposed to, but other than that it’s tough to find Furr inspiring in any way, especially with such a specifically backwards-looking strategy employed.

The result is a solid debut that immediately screams Abba, disco and “guilty pleasure” for the pre-ironic high school kids who don’t realize they can play football and still get crazy on the dance floor to their parents’ wedding soundtrack.

On Glass, the Sea and Cake make music that’s as beguiling as ever, while displaying an odd sense of humor and implying that their best collection of sounds may still lie ahead.

Wilderness has a few disposable songs: the second half in particular drags on a little bit as different tracks become pretty much indistinguishable. However, the downtime and background amidst moments of appeal channels the spirit of ’70s AM radio pretty accurately.

Architecture in Helsinki delivers complex, dynamic composition and arrangement in a package that, while not universally digestible, is entertaining for all.

These songs have a dream-like, airy quality, despite the genuine rock fire power that Why Bonnie brings to the game.

The best moments on Appia Kwa Bridge stand up to anything he's ever done, and while it purposely breaks no new ground, there's something to be said for sticking to what you do best.

It's not Segall's best, but Slaughterhouse sits near the top of the heap of loud, ignorant party garage.

The only real downside to Louden Up Now is the surprising amount of filler surrounding the meaner cuts.

Still Life seems mostly solid, presenting evidence of talent, taste and potential, but not quite pushing things over the top.

Basically, if you hate one track, sorry boutcha. If you love any of them, though, you are going to love them all, unconditionally.

There are listeners that will be drawn to and make much of the brightest moments on The Enduring Spirit: the breezy string work at the beginning and in the middle section of “Will of Whispers”; the guitar tone and most theatrical moments in “Servants of Possibility,” which may put some in the mind of Steve Howe, c. 1971; the long slide through melodic atmospherics in the second half of “The Enduring Spirit of Calamity.” This reviewer prefers the tougher stuff.

Coming Out of the Fog is quite a good album, but it contains no real surprises.

While aesthetically they are rather progressive (in indie rock or pop terms), conceptually and symbolically there is a lot lacking, and that this conflict drives a lot of what is interesting in their music.

Repo is likeable for all the right reasons. That the band hasn’t challenged themselves or their audience to find new ones is the album’s chief drawback.

Most of Light Up Gold's songs are either filled with clever insights or self-aware honesty.

Excavation is a dark, ominous and sinister album, but Bobby Krlic is too smart to focus solely on scaring the shit out of his listeners, instead using electronics and beats to explore the haunted past and uncertain present in ways that build on his previous output without rehashing tired “hauntology” clichés.

It’s all a challenge, and it doesn’t always work in Morby’s vision. ... Morby might be digging through a city’s musical landscape, but he’s reaching for something that persists, and the people to persist with him.

JJ continue to build on the promise of their early albums with an eclectic sound which appeals to devotees of many different musics including jazz, rock and beyond.

Personally, the album works for me because it's kind of a gloss on intersecting listening practices that also has a distinct identity; the concentration of techno, the emotional lift of pop, the cratering impact of dubstep, and CHLLNGR himself are all there. It follows that the highs are toned down a bit for all those to fit comfortably. But then, the album feels so complete in itself, you don't really notice.

Perennial is an easy-flowing new collection of songs, including a number of dynamic instrumentals, which showcase the chemistry among the players.

Although non-fans will likely continue to dismiss the band as over-the-top pop marauders, Hissing Fauna proves that there’s plenty of depth to their delirium.

These songs blister and spiral and swirl in early 21st century guitar-centric, indie-fashion. ... In an album where Black Belt Eagle Scout celebrates their home, ["Spaces" is] the song where they finally let the listeners into the house.

Blood Rushing is an odd cornucopia of sounds, styles and rhythms bound together by Foster's singular voice and unwavering control, and such a surprise on first listen that I found it something of a grower.

It’s a better album than Is This It, but then again, so were a dozen other rock records that year.

Pain isn’t a record you need to dwell on in order to understand.

Entirely derivative but somehow not obvious, the record is surprisingly--and pleasantly--strange.

As much as anything, the record seems to be about holding the dark at bay, with stabbing riffs that jut at odd angles into the void, with frantic, interlocked rhythms that echo over silent spaces, with dance-syncopated sing-songs darting and fading into impenetrable gloom.

More so than any record I can recall, Metal Dance cuts the widest possible swath through the zeitgeist that was British post-punk. Antichrist, meet then your children's archivist.

It’s been ages since he’s sounded this self-assured, or this much at home.

The record is better when the music does the talking, as it usually does for Divide and Dissolve.

It's a pleasing set on its own terms, but it's just as interesting as a contrast to contemporary electronics, to hear what traits and effects have faded as its evolved so rapidly.

Repetitive, psyche-battering noise obscures things--most of the songs sound like there was a jackhammer nearby during recording--yet, after a couple of times through, it’s easy enough to discern pop hooks.

Anxiety Always shows Miller and Kuperus trying a lot of new ideas and singing with much more range and emotion.

It isn't the transcendental work of which they're capable, but nonetheless taps into a thriving, sometimes exhilarating strain of striated rock music.

The Silence is readily accessible (certainly more so than Batoh’s eyeball-movement-tracking Brain Pulse Music), but hard to pin down. It sounds folky, much of the time, and then it lets the bottom drop out.

Not all of the songs here find their mark, but it’s a fun ride nonetheless.

When it works, like on “NYC” or “Roland” it’s a dizzying and beautiful thing that leaves you starving for more. And even when it doesn’t work, it doesn’t fail – it’s just that at times the band seems unable to live up to their own standards and expectations.

The Broken String, fails to arouse--the sound is homey, the playing facile and the lyrics keen but not overly precious.

[Animator is] the sound of a group taking a familiar sound, segmenting it, and discovering that the results can be infinitely compelling.

This is still a fun and fast record, showcasing a band with as many ideas as bratty rave-ups. Next time out, they might take a look at the pros with ridiculous hats that co-inhabit their hometown, though, and tell a story.

Its tracks are elliptical and abstract even as they stretch towards forming actual grooves. But in that respect it’s close to being the most rewarding for those who can stomach this strange, out-of-sync universe.

There are still songs here with all the hallmarks of a classic Sandwell cut (“Self-Initiate” thumps mercilessly with its UFO synth pulses and “Restless” could slip right in the middle of a live set), but they are the exception rather than the rule.

At its best, though, We Are Nobody nails an uneasy mood that feels like a natural evolution of the Chap's acerbic wit: waiting for a punchline that never arrives.

It’s fine for a lark, but you can leave the tikis in the attic where they belong.

Perhaps whatever he's wishing for or doesn't have is something too personal or boring to tell.