Reassemblage is compelling, sure, but perhaps only for those who have the patience or curiosity for an exploration of the sonic predecessors of electronica.

High Plains perfectly capture the rugged and sprawling Midwest, but more impressively, an intangible mood and state of mind. A record like this is a rare achievement.

Although the core songwriting is never quite as captivating and merciful as it was on previous albums, Heartworms nonetheless has an adventurous outer shell, and the Shins seem to revel in the newfound space inside of it.

There's always more to Marling than the uninitiated might hear at first, and Semper Femina is yet another astounding testament to her talent and the multitudes therein.

Providence finds Fake reinvigorated, having worked through writer's block to find inspiration in a virtual analog synth from the mid '90s, the Korg Prophecy. He mined all the gold he could from that Korg to make Providence.

Everybody Works suffers when it loses this eloquence. ... But the stunning closer, "For Light," more than redeems any shortcomings, pairing weary lyrics with mournful acoustic guitar and cementing Duterte's talents both as a songwriter and a producer.

Godless Prophets & the Migrant Flora is the best Darkest Hour since those two albums, and positions the band well to lead the melodeath-inflected metalcore rebirth that, if the revival of its more chaotic precursor is any indication, might be just around the corner.

June is no ingénue or girl-done-wrong; her persona as a creator is both spellbinding and well versed in the ways of the world. This is the singer-songwriter as wise woman, as wickedly sharp village witch.

These are not new themes, but Segarra's songs are a complex thicket of emotions, made traversable by her ability to craft a maxim, a hook and a bridge to a chorus.

What lingers, along with the musical brilliance and uncharacteristic openness of his 50 Song Memoir, is Merritt's humour; his distinctive baritone delivering countless witty sardonic kernels, sometimes assisted by a well-timed dramatic pause, all wrapped up in catchy, unforgettable songs.

This oscillation between seemingly lighter fare and rich, full-bodied tracks ("Hope" and "A Thousand Skies Under Cepheus' Erudite Eyes," for example) is jarring at first, especially in lieu of any buffer or transition, but ultimately establishes itself as a winning characteristic of A Thousand Skies.

True to its name, Uyai is also a glorious, world-conscious party. Beautiful indeed.

With such a wealth of exposure in his musical upbringing, it's no surprise that this mix boasts the instrumental range that it does, not to mention such a precise and intuitively executed pace.

Sensorimotor as a whole isn't as strong as Lusine's previous efforts for Ghostly International.

Windy City isn't a revolutionary album, or even the most adventurous release in Krauss's deep, rich catalogue, but it's a welcome reminder that Krauss remains a song interpreter with few--if any--peers in Nashville.

The Iceberg ultimately delivers a rich yet digestible musical main course worth more than one helping. If you've been sleeping on Odd, it's time to wake up.

[An] explosive and emotional debut.

Moh Lhean is a stellar album that serves as a portrait of the artist as a not-quite-so-young man who's still finding weird new ways to pose age-old questions.

On Last Place, the band returns to the same well again, and while there is enough here to sustain some nostalgia, that well seems drier than ever before.

It would have been really easy for Temples to pump out Sun Structures 2.0, but they took a chance, and the result is some really exciting rock'n'roll.

World Eater matches its brutal releases with hope and luminosity. It's a radical, adventurous exploration--and celebration--of the relationship between darkness

Why Love Now shows Pissed Jeans' songwriting reaching new peaks of awareness and focus, all the while remaining true to their brand of dissonant punk.

Challenging the perception of shared space and visibility, Tamko has released the perfect record for women of colour who, unbeknownst to some, have been secretly shredding harder then white men for years, and are finally ready to be heard.

While these eight tracks rarely involve an epiphany either narratively or musically, their anecdotal nature is a reminder that not every story has an ending, and that the memories that stick with us are often the ones we don't fully understand.

Americana record of the year? It's up there.

Each song on The Bad Testament sounds old, yet somehow unfamiliar, a portrait of the outlaw country bad boy as an old man.

Though it's not quite perfect--some songs wear out their welcome before they finish--this album is written and arranged in a sonically and lyrically engaging way, and will surely excite the faithful, even if it fails to convert fence-sitters.

It's too long, sprawling and musically unappetizing for many to be willing to sit and digest as a whole. Rather than being a record that you listen to countless times, it's more like an autobiographical book that you read once out of curiosity and shelve simply for the sake of collection.