It is not as raw as the first LP, not as musically belligerent or emotionally wrenching. Instead, it's got an elegance and symmetry to it, a sense of space and precision that was, if not entirely missing from Hammer of the Gods, at least not fully realized.

King of the Beach has a few decent approximations of beloved styles. Perversely, they don't seem like breakthroughs--they make his old songs seem less special.

The Suburbs is a really good record, but it's clear that indie rock is not in Kansas anymore.

The mix's most pleasing moments and its most successful don't usually overlap: some of the beats are fresh, some of the basslines impeccable, but it's the extramusical sensations, those slithering intimations of robotic insects rooting through the garbage for your financial information, that make this worth engaging with on his terms, not your own.

If whining and wishing that your cat could talk is your bag, well, here's Best Coast. Now let's get burritos.

For what it is, it hits the mark impeccably--time after time after time.

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.

As usual, band members pile multiple textures onto one another in baroque, overpopulated juxtapositions.

Pink Graffiti is a strong album, and one that grows on you the more you listen to it. Your opinion of Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys probably won't affect your judgment of it all that much.

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

Kozelek plays beautifully, but without orchestration, his songs (which tend to run upwards of six minutes) start to seem directionless.

Big Boi isn't an MC; he's a songwriter. That distinction is what separates him from other rappers, and it's what makes Sir Lucious--an album whose elan is instantaneously felt and whose spirit only becomes more invigorated with each listening--such a pleasure.

He's turned a hard patch into something transcendental. However brief, however ephemeral, there's a sense of spiritual overcoming that encompasses not just his own history, but the experiences that listeners bring to these sad songs, as well.

This is Blitzen Trapper’s fifth album, and there’s a sturdy professionalism evident on each of the songs. But it’s such a faithful recreation of a particular style that its appeal will in all likelihood be correspondingly limited.

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.

Marked by inconsistent, not fully formed songwriting, Here We Go Magic's new tracks also make for an indecisive, if not bipolar, collection.

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.

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.

Unfortunately, the greatest asset to Splazsh also feels like its greatest Achilles heel. The territory this album spans is substantial, but almost impossible to get into without focused, repeated listening.

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

Jurado may not be as concrete or direct as he has been in the past, but his ability to conjure emotion is still very, very strong.

On the whole, this is the best album yet from Ty Segall, as joy-ride thrilling as the debut, as clearly delivered as Lemons, but with stronger, more varied writing.

To wit, what irritates most about Compass is the way it assaults the listener with wave after wave of sonic winks, of moments intended to be witty or clever that instead fall flat. Busy and fussily filtered at every turn, I guess it’s ‘crazy’ sounding or something, but there’s nothing communicated in the slightest.

I like this relatively blunt, unadorned Tracey Thorn – not that she was ever forced or florid in her expression, but Love and its Opposite offers her most complete disarmament yet.

For those unfamiliar with this exemplary quintet and its composer, there's no better place to begin.

It's compelling from the start, particularly insofar as they not only avoid genre clichés but also cheap drama. Instead, they play emotionally ambiguous stuff--shifting modes and dynamics, or rather simply smashing them together until the edges are indistinct.

Overall, High Violet feels more like a protecting-the-franchise record than a new phase in the National's sound. And yet, even so, a handful of its songs rank with the band's very best.

While this is the most accessible Phosphorescent album, Houck's flair for musical surrealism is still very much on hand.