Over the course of 10 albums, Joe Henry’s music has grown increasingly rich, complex and difficult.

By no means is this debut original, but the hooks are sharp enough and the no-Frills, overdub-free presentation shreds hard enough that it doesn't really need to be. [No. 108, p.59]

There is nary a wasted moment on No Control. [No. 120, p.61]

As his politics become more complex, his writing has grown subtler, the melodies more sophisticated and the lyrics more richly detailed. [#53, p.72]

The Scene Between is another breathless, time-collapsing rush of dayglo, retro, lo-fi indie spunk, cutting back on the hip-hop inflections, schoolyard chants and cut-and-paste sample collage to focus squarely on melody. [No. 119, p.55]

It's as crucial and cool as set of eternally intertwined new-wave voices as Cindy Wilson and Kate Pierson, and that's saying a lot. [No. 106, p.54]

Spencer lays down as much hog-calling jive as can fir on the tape. [No. 119, p.59]

Forcefield achieves a sound, which--despite the title--is all allure, no repellant. [No. 108, p.61]

E shunts between naked self-examination and arch character studies. [#59, p.91]

Overall, this is as disarming and wide-eyed a pop record as you’re likely to hear all year.

Ivy Tripp is the sound of promise realized. [No. 119, p.61]

Well worth a listen. [No. 108, p.61]

An unnervingly powerful, cathartic final statement. [#61, p.107]

[Runner] is something more akin to Eliot Smith, but airier, and with more synth. [No.92 p.58]

By drawing from their past and crafting intriguing sonic hybrids rather than self-consciously aiming for some dubious new turf, the Rosebuds have, accidentally or not, wound up with their most satisfying album yet.

It's his best album in years. [No. 108, p.59]

Coomes' vividly imagined, bloodcurdling tales of anger and dreaming are so cleanly produced and layered... that you barely remember how lousy Quasi's other records sound in comparison. [#71, p.110]

Nothing about Sunday Run Me Over should stop fans from flocking to this. [No. 92, p.53]

Unlike its predecessor's quirky pop stance, Hot Shots is defiantly, mindbendingly progadelic -- suitable for controlled-substance consumption galore. [#51, p.85]

Andorra is, to use a phrase not heard much anymore, all killer, no filler.

While it's a deeply cathartic break-up record, it's both personal and political. [No. 108, p.57]

What elevates Meridian above the throngs of similar abstract, mod-synth ambient records are the same sensibilities that carried albums like Dreamless Sleep, even if the tools are different this time around. Tracks that, for the most part, sound formless--never careless. [No. 121, p.53]

Higher!'s real value is in its depth: Stone needs four CDs to display his breadth, and this comp is full of funky fun. [No. 101, p.59]

Jackson sounds as vital as ever in front of her live band, and has crafted a definitive album in a storied career. [#92, p.54]

This disc is pure Stewart - urgent, visceral electro-protest for the 21st century. [No. 85, p.59]

Her fourth and most accomplished album to date maps a course to know-not-where in the most emotionally direct, imaginative way possible. [No. 110, p.60]

Eitzel is a far cry from Dido, but he still manages to find a proving ground where his nicotine-stained fingerpicking and tales of emotional erosion can make an uneasy peace with the precision of the Portishead crowd. [#50, p.90]

The album has plenty of massive organ sounds and driving rhythms. [No. 112, p.53]