The usual and worn out horrorcore lyrics resemble now parts in “found poetry,” left to their own devices. They are no longer pastiches made by humans but cosmic shards of meaning. The tracks recorded with Benny the Butcher and Elcamino (“La Mala Ordina”) and with La Chat (“Run For Your Life”) are hints at what’s possible when our-worldly lyrics paired down with otherworldy music.

It's a project with too many authors and not enough personality, too many ideas and not enough meaning.

Original Detroit, Northwestern, and New York garage bands figure equally in the blueprint, resulting in a robust hook-fest that plays like a mixtape of the greatest rock 'n roll songs '65-'78.

This is, undoubtedly, one of the most beautiful records of this year, and its very indistinctness forces you to go back to it over and over.

I’ve not listened to any other album from 2009 quite so much, or quite so closely, a reflection not only of the exacting single-mindedness of O’Rourke’s vision, but also of The Visitor‘s loveliness.

Look, this isn't a Clinic record that's gonna convert anyone not already checked-in, but it is another encouraging move, proving that the band is not content to stagnate in the confines of its sound.

If Fisher and co feel wrung out at times it’s not through lack of commitment or creativity. No one said fighting the good fight would be easy and There Is No Year lands enough punches to win at least a TKO decision.

Any way you look at it, though, it commands and keeps your attention, and that’s something to appreciate in any age.

Get Guilty isn’t an easy album at all. It just sounds like one.

This kind of detail-heavy album can make you feel like you're missing something if you're not paying attention. Each listen can run the risk of feeling incomplete. But by that same token, it also means it can feel new each time.

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.

The Bears for Lunch is a far more solid affair than Let's Go Eat the Factory, balancing Pollard's Who-like aggression and Kinks-like whimsy in punchy, melodically memorable songs.

Their sound is as big and manic as it’s always been, and the melodies as infectious, but the content slinks away from even the prickly personal politics that populated their first singles.

What is interesting about the Pipettes is that they're creating incredibly catchy, well-made pop music.... But their music could be something more.

John McCauley's transformation from singer of a rock band to something a good bit deeper, is on display within the running order of The Black Dirt Sessions, the band's third and finest album to date.

Riceboy Sleeps is more like a film, shot exquisitely in various breathtaking spaces, where the plot never moves forward because nothing ever goes wrong.

There's something really interesting about the way these two conflicting styles fit together here, a groove for headbangers with flowers in their hair.

“13.6” is where the album takes a noticeable turn and Supersilent finally finds its way.

Knuckleball Express is the best Howling Hex album since Nightclub Version of the Eternal.

This is a powerful piece of work, as serious about the trippy silliness as about the pitch and heave of amp overload. Flora Ocean Tiger Bloom, like its title, is several things at once. It rocks like a hurricane, dreams like a lotus eater.

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 is Cornershop doing Cornershop very well.

Unlike your average grime productions, these tracks are rarely propulsive or tailored for the dancefloor, but rather shift and shake convulsively under the weight of stark, metronomic beats, swathes of sub-bass and icy synth swirls. Listen carefully, and there is a certain melodicism nestled in the heart of this album, but its tone is despairing and subdued, glimmers of light in a dark and uncaring world.

One of its strongest allures was its comfort and maturity.

Some of beats are a little perfunctory, but the interplay between the grieved and the griever, the subtlety of the writing and beauty of the arrangements on Fall To Pieces haunt long after the needle lifts.

The problem is that it all sounds so familiar, and they just seem far too comfortable perpetuating stoner rock cliches.

And this is pop music, right? Why is it all so damned unmemorable?

Listening to the work heard here, it may be a bit premature to file Carey's work beside some of the musical touchstones suggested by his record label's press corps (Bill Evans, Talk Talk), but it does suggest a good start and a solid grasp of the spaces that can be created by music.