Friendly Fires are still learning how to control their talents, but boy can they move.

Not only is Bury Me in My Rings a pleasant segue into warmer seasons, it also serves as a reminder that there are more Rilo Kiley members besides Jenny Lewis worth keeping tabs on.

The band is best when playing to a slow build and climax, which C'mon does beautifully, both as a whole and on individual songs.

False Beats and True Hearts is a slo-mo crawl through ghostly harmonies, assured and glacial pacing, and the smoking hot psych guitar of Ghost's Michio Kurihara.

For the most part, you never really know how much you love something until it's gone. But every now and then, it comes back and you're allowed to love it like you should have the first time around. 13 & God came back. You know what to do.

The songs are somber and meditative, clearly crafted by a master, but the boundaries Prefuse 73 normally annihilates remain mostly in place here.

Upon first listen, Austra's debut album Feel It Break comes off like a cross between The Knife and a gothier version of Florence and The Machine.

Swirling Euro-melodies reminiscent of Depeche Mode, thudding and shuddering synths, and his coolly quavering baritone mark "Burning Sage" and "Confetti" like a pox.

It's familiar but refreshing, evidence that a dinosaur genre like "post-rock" can still sound vital.

The preambular Wit's End (hopefully he hasn't reached his) primes McCombs for the '10s with piano lamentations marking another well-paced (albeit drowsier) long-player.

New York's experimental sonic collective continues to make challenging and rewarding music on Eye Contact.

Philadelphia's kitchen-sink rock quartet Man Man is still howling at the moon on its fourth LP, but the stomping Waits-meets-Zappa blues compositions are given space to breathe under Mike Mogis' (Bright Eyes) refining production.

While the experiment sometimes fails (see: car-chase chugger "Honda Civic"), closer "River of Jordan" nearly drowns it all out.

Mind Bokeh has all the cuts and scratches you'd expect from an album by a producer, but it's jerky without being propulsive, mixing a swathe of styles with harsh funk, sudden stops and melancholy undertones.

What's key is they remain as disaffected as brother band Crystal Stilts, and cling to longing, woozy Slumberland vibes without fear of brighter tones, trendy surf and obvious, intelligible lyrics (little more than an amusing addition).

Apocalypse is Bill Callahan's newest cryptic journey into the heart and art of this American life.

Wild Beasts' Hayden Thorpe emotes like the forsaken son of Elbow's Guy Garvey and Antony. Thankfully, over the course of Smother, the English quartet proves they have the muscle to back up their lead singer's melodramatic warble.

Just in time for spring, bass mastermind Daedelus unleashes Bespoke, yet another cornucopia of utterly unique vibes and big beat journeys that are somehow also Ibiza-appropriate.

The result is mixed and at times strained, but a spark still lies within.

No matter who appreciates or appropriates this music, who likes it or where you discover it, it is a testament to its power more than its populism.

Tiffany Preston impishly tries on accents for her FX-thinned vocals, Jamaican brogue here or a lot of Karin Dreijer Andersson wailing there, but it's the omni-directional whirl and clashing textures that consume the most.

With Tomboy, Lennox valiantly accepts the responsibilities he once invoked on Prayer, now seeming to possess answers to some of the questions as well.

The Troy, New York-based Rowe's songs have an edge to them, albeit in an all-too-similar vein.

Instead, the religiosity that infuses the music recalls the forced eagerness of modern day evangelicals and the predictable plainness of suburban mega-churches. Only dedicated fans need ascend.

The peaks aren't as emotionally devastating as his studio work, but there's a hushed desperation here that gradually leaches into your pores.

Straddling the line between wooshy Sega Genesis menu music and cinematic Pink Floyd maelstrom, Deep Politics is creepy and grand, and at its core is a sonic feast.

Decades beyond the point at which most of his peers peaked, Paul Simon is still discovering new ways of writing and conveying amazing work and discovering beautifully unexpected and often spiritual language, as well as new rhythms, melodies and instrumental textures.

Pretty cheesy lyrics are by no means strangers to this genre, but that doesn't make them any more welcome. Still, few modern-day axemen can noodle like Heumann, which, let's face it, is why anyone should listen to Arbouretum in the first place.