Wit's End stands to lose a lot by being judged on a song-by-song basis: there are standout moments, courtesy of ingenious arrangements and lovely melodies, but the album's shadowy guiding principle remains in my mind long after listening.

Golden Era, the smartest, funniest, most urgent hip hop joint of '11 by far.

The result is a lot of chaff and wheat that still need to be separated.

Bands like Eternal Tapestry ask listeners to slow down, to be less antsy and goal-oriented, and to simply let time and musical texture wash over them. That's fine, but wouldn't you rather have an instrumental psych track grab you by the balls? Let's have more galactic, more derelict, more excitement next time.

The privilege of reinvention is something we've always granted rock bands, so why not extend the courtesy to Black Sun, an electronic album that's awkward but earnest.

Stylistically, this collaboration veers from intimate in scope to blown-out and dancefloor-ready. And yet, it holds together neatly, shifting from style to style without really losing cohesion.

Slowed down, the only thing revealed is how seamless his stitching his, how clever his adjunctions are and how much musicianship it takes to create a good sample-based record.

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 darkness of gender dysmorphia may indeed be vast, but given the right illuminating gift, Baby Dee proves there's still light nonetheless--even for hir own chamber music.

The way this band turns well-used Americana sounds into something frightening is impressive. It's like hearing a loved one's voice when you know that you're alone, scarier in its way than any unfamiliar sound.

The result is a pastiche of deja vu moments that distract from a significant level of musicianship that this growing Philadelphia sextet possesses.

There's a freedom in her voice and a joy that is apparent.

Its mix of absurdist humor, lonely stoner confusion and detached sadness could not be more miserably, cathartically timely (albeit in its own, unboxable way). Smart money says this one only gets better.

The songs can't go anywhere due to the length of the loops and the conceit of assembling them, so Huifang hisses over the "music" in this hiccuping, Fonzi-fied affectation that is one of the most blatant and unoriginal guises to come down yet in our lazy, near-sighted approximation of what we construe as challenging or worthwhile music in 2011.

The reason this album is such a remarkable feat is because they've willingly entered some of the most tired territory in rock over the last decade and still manage to make it sound as fresh and exciting and invigorating as the first time you or anyone else you know heard music like this.

Together, and backed by the rhythm section of Cornelius' band, one would hope for left-field pop fireworks, but their debut album Salt on Sea Glass is more of a mediocre light show.

Pop's newest princess? Let's just call it a modest success and save our enthusiasm for when she's better figured out what she wants to be. On a Mission isn't convincing as an answer.

Maybe they've been listening to The Byrds and Love, but detecting those influences in a band that doesn't have any vocal melodies makes it hard to say for sure.

This is punk rock that's both intellectually challenging and young at heart.

The Family Sign is mature in its way, soured by age and wisdom, but it's no fun.

It wouldn't be a Low record without plenty of unease, but the soothing, uplifting music works at cross purposes to the lyrics.

The Feelies really are here again, operating in a fashion as insular and purposeful as they did in days of old without denying who they are now. It's good to have them around.

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

The only times Deep Politics doesn't work is when it goes for that sun-scorched, ex-cokehead AOR sheen. Perhaps when you cast your nets this wide, a little brim is inevitable.

Sometimes I Wish I Were An Eagle is like a Technicolor epic--brass accents, swelling strings and an odd, lingering hollowness at its core. Apocalypse, on the other hand, is more like an 80-minute Ranown picture--sinuous, slippery, less accessible, more satisfying.

In the end, it's the restraint, control, and unlikely expansiveness that make The Best of Gloucester County a strong and surreal step forward for Smith and his band.

This is arguably his finest work, at least since The Gasoline Age, his '99 ode to petrol-guzzling beaters and strip-mall deadbeats.

Now that we've all gotten past the question of whether or not their latest album is the true reincarnation of Daydream Nation, it's nice to be able to just bask in the variegated textures and layers of sound.