This record feels pretty special. [No. 115, p.55]

While things get a touch unfocused in the final stretch, the Hot Chip chaps are always god for a grandly uplifting closing statement. [No. 115, p.53]

Things never bog down in the spectral murk, even when the tempos slow to a bump in the night. [No. 115, p.53]

Her vocals throughout the album sound relaxed and carefree, with wordless bridges that convey a giddy exuberance beyond the power of any lyric to convey. [No. 115, p.55]

It's still, ultimately, a novelty rather than something that's likely to become part of your life. [No. 115, p.55]

Let's Cry is at its best when it steps outside of this project's prescribed comfort zones. [No. 115, p.61]

LP3 is instrumentally nuanced. [No. 115, p.61]

Home Everywhere is noisy and poppy. [No. 115, p.59]

The music is a 10; the curating, something rather less. [No. 115, p.51]

Despite an approach that can occasionally feel too reverent, these unreleased lyrics get a fittingly old, weird treatment that makes complete sense. [No. 115, p.51]

This shimmery psych-rock collective is back with more wah-wah Woodstock jammolas filtered through cathartic chanting, African rhythms and jittery percussion. [No. 114, p.57]

Twenty years later then, Glory remains, for better or worse, a totemic symbol of a n overinflated, overexcited era that now seems long, long gone and scarcely conceivable. [No. 114, p.51]

Alix's absence of missteps or variations could be taken as relentless or monotonous--or a couple of pop perfectionists who found what they've been looking for. [No. 114, p.57]

Below The Pink Pony is a fat-free delight, this season's surprise. [No. 114, p.55]

A cohesive and satisfying whole. [No. 114, p.59]

Prophet has something absolutely genuine to say, and he continues to be a prime exponent of walking like you talk it. [No. 114, p.61]

Most squarely accessible record to date, and easily the most pop album to come from an alumnus of Sacred Bones. [No. 114, p.61]

There are moments where small breakthroughs are made, but as Sway proceeds, it takes a turn toward the dour and depressing. [No. 114, p.61]

Another gem, and, not unexpectedly, one of his darkest collections. [No. 114, p.59]

Another profoundly pastoral and ethereal folk record. [No. 114, p.53]

The treatments are smartly contemporary, balancing Amidon's clawhammer banjo with Frisell's echoing electric guitar, backed by jazz-inflected bass and drums. [No. 114, p.53]

This is a fresh, auspicious strike into new territory. [No. 114, p.61]

Hideously tedious sounds of the "definitive" Primus lineup drowning in a soupy melange of chocolate and cutesy pretense gone way, way wrong. [No. 114, p.61]

Bestial Burden works because of its methodical execution--a calculated piece of catharsis that towers over all other bedroom power electronics tape-peddlers. [No. 114, p.59]

It's yet another solid Lanegan album, although it lacks the harrowing edge of 2004's Bubblegum or the lascivious humor of his collaboration with Isobel Campbell. [No. 114, p.59]

It's a truism that embedded in most double albums is an even better single one, but that doesn't apply here. [No. 114, p.58]

Black Moon Spell is King Tuff's glammiest work yet, echoing the swagger of the New York Dolls and the sexy, stoned vocal styling of Marc Bolan. But it still rocks. [No. 114, p.57]

A gorgeous, seductive album. [No. 114, p.56]