Hypercaffium Spazzinate finds the band reenergized and more characteristically succinct. [No. 134, p.55]

The 13-track Parallel Play is a decidedly less ambitious effort, but it’s no less brilliant in its execution.

More restrained and tasteful. [No. 120, p.61]

Death Song isn't a wild step in any new direction but instead a grindstone-polished showcase of what the group does best. [No.142, p.52]

Tunng has taken one analog-age lesson very much to heart by making Good Arrows nice and short; it's 11 songs clock in at 43 minutes, and only one is an outright dud. [Fall 2007, p.108]

The distorted, shimmering sound world proposed by My Bloody Valentine's Loveless and perfected on Fennesz's Endless Summer is used here as a gorgeous facade behind which endless layers of processed guitars recede like ocean waves reaching for the horizon. [No. 133, p.55]

As he continues to spin funny, poignant, depressing and eminently melodic tales of woe, it's clear McCaughey is a staggering genius aging as superbly as a fine bottle of hooch. [#71, p.106]

Oh, what fey-but-fecund pleasures lurk in the grooves of the group's third full-length. [#74, p.91]

Margot seems abundant in earnestness, pulling together hooky, shoegaze rifts ("Disease Tobacco Free") with dulcet guitar tunes ("Frank"), Tim Kasher lyricism ("The Devil" and a lonely piano ballad ("Christ"). [No. 86, p.56]

It doesn't feel resolved by the unexpectedly bone-chilling ending, beckoning another listen. [No. 104, p.59]

The album has more in common with the genre-bending and expectation-shattering records of Shelby Lynne and Sturgill Simpson. [No. 143, p.52]

The whole thing is executed with a sense of starry-eyed bliss. [No. 119, p.61]

Wait For Love is a beautiful consideration of what comes next. [No. 150, p.55]

It's beautiful. [No. 139, p.55]

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]

This is a lovely, bittersweet and nuanced album. [No. 95, p.59]

Honeyblood has plenty of possibilities, and a ton of potential. But it's also pretty darn potent already. [No. 111, p.55]

Slow Summits is full of carefully arranged autumnal tunes: thoughtful, intimate, unaffected and wistfully romantic. It's secret music worth sharing.[No.99, p.56]

Playing to previous strengths, the band's third LP shuffles the decks, throwing six-string spiderwebs into spacey, bass-textured atmospheres. [No. 98, p.55]

He conjures females with concrete blood and soldiers in coffins over the priciest anthemic ballast his new major label can buy. [No. 93, p.55]

Though No Coast possesses its vivifying moments. It's pretty clear not all the organs made it back after the post-Frame And Canvas autopsy. [No. 111, 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]

Yet another Maritime record full of amiable, breezy numbers, every note and octave in place. The soul and panache of yore, however, are sadly MIA. [No. 125, p.59]

Inhabit[s] some weird middle ground between The Teaches of Peaches and Prince's 1999. [#58, p.98]

An exciting blend. [#59, p.103]

“Teaching Little Fingers To Play” is a bit hokey and clichéd. But on “If I Lost You,” the vibe connects massively: Serene loops and swift beats recall vintage Portishead, while Manson’s lyrical meditation on insecurity is stark, vulnerable and remarkably honest. [No. 132, p.53]

Vocally, Gordon is reborn, baptized in fire. [No. 102, p.53]

Gem goes by in 30 short punk-rock minutes, but the songs easily feel like beautiful, spacey epics. [No. 93, p.59]