Serene, synthetic drones and sparse, resonate bass give the music body, and enthusiastically applied echo makes these instrumentals as dizzying as a vintage Lee Perry mix. [No. 98, p.58]

Unknown Mortal Orchestra's sophomore effort is marked by a certain familiar mystique that does well to recall the charisma and dazzling psychedelia of its predecessor. [No. 95, p.59]

The songs are mostly concise, ranging from less than two minutes to more than seven, but their motorik propulsion and detailed, gradual builds add more subtle rewards beneath synth-pop immediacy. [No. 101, p.55]

Though the quieter moments are choice tests in eerie tension, the Melvins work best in straight rock 'n'roll, especially on the album's highlight: an utterly badass cover of Wings' "Let Me Roll It." [No.88 p.57]

The band lives up to its rep as a tight live act. [#86, p.53]

Cupid Deluxe paints him as a producer and songwriter with massive potential that's only just begun to be realized. [No. 105, p.52]

The alterations and differences may be slighter and more comparable to alt-music's lexicon, but that's bound to happen after a decade and a half. Still, the redefinition continues, and so does the compelling art. [No. 108, p.51]

Songs Cycled completes Parks' transformation from oddball torchbearer to full-on musical time capsule. [No. 101, p.59]

A howling, blustery, white-knuckle ride that is nothing less than astounding. [No. 119, p.59]

This Machine Kills Artists is definitely lengthier than need be, but if this album has an intended accomplishment, it's further illustrating the expanding range of Osborne's songwriting abilities. [No. 110, p.59]

Hunter applies her vampiest vocals yet, and it's a natural match. [No. 119, p.59]

The zigzagging, liquid bass is the most surprising thing on a record you expect no surprises from. [No. 112, p.61]

There's more to Cheatahs than throwback sonics, though it takes a few listens to really catch the complex melodies and structures in the album's strongest cuts. [No. 106, p.53]

Much of Smoke Fairies is the sound of a band embracing fatter orchestration and fuller arrangements on virtually every cut. [No. 110, p.61]

The quartet has reached puberty on its second album, which sees the band embracing awkward teen angst a la Winona Ryder's character in Beatlejuice. [No. 96, p.61]

A few songs flop... but the overall is a fitting celebration of the Chieftain's 50 years of music. [No. 85, p. 53]

He cranks up the palm-muted and Edge-delayed guitars for an eight-song chaser, that, again, miraculously never fades into stasis. [No. 108, p.61]

Exister may still press a heavy thumb on the melodic rock end of the scale... but enough Caution-era magic is recaptured for us to welcome these new transmissions from Radio Free Gainesville. [No.88 p.56]

A mix of ping-ponging bangers ("Hi," "Born To Suffer"), touching, presumed-true stories ("Joey's Song," "The Oldness") and two skip-now shockers dedicated to monstrous worthlessness ("I Luv Abortion," "Black Drum Machine") [No.86, p.60]

The album's first half explores the same musical territories as Nocturne--the chiming euphony of a hundred things happening at once, the guileless melodic patterns that wander up the scale and back--but it does so in lifted fog. [No. 92, p.59]

The music's effortless grace contradicts the experiences f temporal and cultural unease that Elkington sings about in ways that'll keep the listener guessing and the record spinning. [No. 144, p.55]

Languid and sometimes lagging, [a] sensual 47-minute set. [No. 92, p.52]

Don't expect anything more earth-shattering than pleasantly folky indie-pop with a mild rootsy lilt. If that's your bag, though, don't lose out on this one. [No. 131, p.55]

Save for the slightly teary 90-second trudge of "The Real Wilderness," it's a rollicking pummel throughout. [No. 121, p.58]

Tune in, turn on, and keep it fresh. [No. 149, p.53]

Even when you can't quite tell whether you want to laugh with or at Morrissey's heavy-handed proclamations, they're provocative, and that's worth a lot. [No. 149, p.51]

The band reemerges from the California desert four years later with a self-titled sophomore effort that's every bit as satisfying as its predecessor. [No. 106, p.60]

The music's trickiness never seems gratuitous, though, because the changes in direction correspond to a lyrical stance that articulates the struggle to figure out what's constant in a world of change. [No. 131, p.59]