Two fistfuls of songs that are at once as tight and as expansive as the band has ever been. The trio isn’t unrecognizable in their compositions, but it’s the way they use space that appears to have shifted. The result is formidable for fans and an easy entry point for those just joining the journey.

The music never changes, but with each new listen The Kid seems to deepen and expand as new details emerge, marking in reality a kind of growth on our part as listeners.

If False Readings On proves anything, it’s that Matthew Cooper has again shown just how good he is at making music that’s too engrossing to be just ambient, too pretty to be just noise, too eventful to be just drone (as worthy as those all are as forms) and too individual to be the work of anyone else.

Engineer Bosco Mann's work here exemplifies the principal that it's better to capture the sound right than to try to fix it in the mix. Then you can spend the mix getting the balance right, making some sounds stand out and others blend just right. Such is the case here; this record simply sounds right.

From the vocal harmonies to the steel guitars, tympani, and winds, Fleet Foxes continue to give rich and varied textures to their consistently tight harmonic structures and memorable melodies.

This is a more varied album than The Moon and Antarctica (which did seem to have only one speed), and with the return of original member Dan Gallucci, Brock appears to have revived the heavy lead guitar playing of their early work.

It arguably represents some of the sharpest, strongest songwriting of Hersh’s post-Throwing Muses solo career and perhaps some of her best work, period.

Such clear chemistry and inspired interplay will hopefully lead to future releases in the same vein. Anyone with a penchant for classic-sounding ambient electronica with a kosmische bent will find plenty to nod along to here.

It’s difficult to imagine the record being more fully-realized and immersive than it is, and it stands as a towering achievement in Toral’s formidable body of work.

The back and forth between playful, pogo-friendly post-punk (“March Day,” “Great Dog”) and more sober and sonically adventurous indie/noise-rock (“Human, for a Minute,” “6/1”) carries Drunk Tank Pink forward with a sense of abandon, while also taking a reflective look back at the carnage such abandon has wrought.

It conveys the confusion and frustration of living in a 21st-century reality that conspires against the reassuring normalities of everyday life. Hen Ogledd meets this challenge with humor, defiance, and playfulness, resulting in music that’s colorful, chaotic, and occasionally deeply moving.

Ignorance is a serious album about serious things, wrapped up in lush music that doesn’t mask the urgency Lindeman feels. Earlier Weather Station records had a tendency to slip into the background. This one forces you to pay attention.

The latest, the crustily erotic Distortion, is nearly its ["69 Love Songs"] equal. But way shorter.

Though they are spare and though there are a lot of these songs (17), the album doesn’t sag. A restless energy courses through them. Spike-y, unsentimental observations keep them engaging.

Halo distinguishes itself in its startling moments of suspension and sparseness.

Much like BC,NR’s magnificent Ants From Up There, the album feels like several potential closers have been strung together during the album’s final stretch, which could have been trimmed a little to maximize the impact of what’s left. Nevertheless, this is an extremely colorful, fun and addictive record that showcases the enviable talents of a young band with a bright future.

Like Bellowing Sun,Nighttime Birds and Morning Stars uses contemporary human tools and voices that refuse to be confined to words to enact sonic ceremonies that celebrate the natural world.

Despite the length—and maybe because of it—this one drew me in and kept me there. It’s warm and casual and unstudied, which is not to say that it’s not technically proficient. It’s a campfire where everyone sings and plays preternaturally well, and it’s easy to linger there right through to sunrise.

The remarkable thing about Kelley Stoltz up to now has been how seamlessly he absorbs his influences, finds their essences and out of that irreducable core makes songs that are entirely fresh and new.

The Runners Four manages to capture the unbridled intensity and utter joy these four carry across in a live setting.

Once The Blue of Distance recedes into silence, there’s a distinct sense of time having been gently bent to Saxl’s will. The album feels simultaneously long and short, fast and slow — it’s all of these things at once, forming elegant waves that wash over you.

By making a boldly experimental leap in a career already full of them, Dyer and Sanchez have created a surprisingly accessible record that shows off some of their best work to date. Whatever they call themselves, their powerful alchemy shouldn’t be ignored.

One thing that’s allowed Napalm Death to keep punching through mirrors is that as its sound has sharpened, the band’s ability to capture high-resolution chaos has sharpened, too.

The album is beautifully sequenced overall. Sometimes the transitions purposefully jar and provoke—elsewhere they’re seamless, prolonging, elongating a motif.

If the proceedings get a bit "same-y" at times, it's with good reason. Johnson understands the concept of expansion through repetition and uses it to great effect. As the album tumbles to a close with the eight-minute "Goners," the band's operational scheme seems stunning in its clarity.

The world is crawling with Fahey-loving acoustic guitar players these days--in large part thanks Tompkins Square--but ones as good as William Tyler are rare.

Across The Field’s lyrics are dead serious, yes, but their tones are ethereal and arrangements spacious, sounding as if they’ve blown in on the keening breeze, to the point where “Carolina Lady” almost melts into air. ... Due to pairing of Louise and Morgan’s voices, Across the Field is never less than lovely.

There are moments here that feel like being carried aloft by a parade, and moments that feel like the jail doors shutting. There are pools of calm and surges of impossible triumph.