Aside from getting off on the wrong foot and then later making an awkward exit, the bulk of Illusion is a bristling. [No. 97, p.57]

Throughout, minimally invasive production from Vladislav Delay creates a fuller sense of emptiness, resulting in one big, glorious downer. [No. 112, p.61]

Pajo comes as close to capturing his mercurial talent and shifting identiy as we're ever likely to hear. [#68, p.106]

The real pleasure is the instigation to sit through and hear JPSE go through the good, the bad and the near misses of a career that took the band from a light-hearted party outfit with an ingratiating delicate side in Christchurch, New Zealand, to game, but stressed-out grunts trying to flog big, catchy hooks that should have caught on with the Yo La Tengo and My Bloody Valentine crowds (yet never did). [No. 122, p.56]

Tastefully rendered and thoughtfully executed, American Dreamer invites you into its loose embrace while still maintaining a certain emotional distance. [No. 135, p.59]

One of the more important metal releases of 2017. [No. 146, p.59]

Be Small connotes acceptance of the intimacy Temple can't seem to breach. [No. 126, p.57]

While the Universe is a fairly subdued affair, its quiet quality speaks volumes. [No.89, p.61]

The comforting melodies offset Toth's poetic wordplay, shining a light on lyrics that are alternately comforting and disturbing. [No. 110, p.61]

The album is so unassuming and unhurried that it's easy to dismiss. Just hang in there and play it again. [#74, p.97]

If Dunger is trying to shed the [Van Morrison] comparison, Here's My Song won't help matters. [#71, p.94]

The Memphis ambassadors display strength after songwriting strength. [No. 124, p.59]

Like their English ancestors, the Girls deal almost exclusively in exuberance and wonderment, making found squalls and rattles sound like their own. But that might have more to do with the copious amounts of reverb echoing through the album’s best songs.

It's a weirdness that works. [No. 111, p.53]

A masterpiece that flows brilliantly. [#75, p.97]

Equitable with the Fall's bossiest, most brazen moments. [#70, p.94]

Autechre's are notions are studied as they are transportive and on Exai, the duo fairly dares us not to lose ourselves. [No. 96, p.53]

At an hour long, Infiniheart occasionally feels infinite, but moments of perfection make VanGaalen's meanderings seem a necessary part of the whole appealing coincidence. [#69, p.110]

Terrifically jangling. [#73, p.99]

The perfect companion piece for black-lit nights at home. [No. 144, p.61]

Sounding awfully familiar much of the time, Silver Age may not be Mould's best work - and it's certainly not his most original. But it's got a weathered shine. [No.91 p.57]

The Take Off is not all that remarkable the first few times around, but it nonetheless hints at rewarding repeat visits. [No. 108, p.55]

In truth, Springsteen himself might not be able to pull off the grit and glam of Pretty Years, but Cymbals Eat Guitars makes it look easy. [No. 135, p.55]

The country-tarnished/garage/indie/glam-rock edge of this collection of 10 tracks has not one disappointment. [No. 129, p.60]

On record, the Constantines' contemplative songs have always fared best, and Tournament is an album almost full of them. [#69, p.92]

Monday is the greatest in a line of albums from a band that hopefuly has a few more years of screwing up and falling down on its itinerary. [#59, p.87]

{Awayland} is far more confident than 2010's Becoming A Jackal, its vision more ambitious, its poetry more conflicted, its melodies more complex, its execution more polished. [No. 98, p.61]

It's a caustic dose of trashcore and punk that's light on melody, but loaded with riffs. [No. 103, p.59]