Snaith crafted Out Love with all the care of a handwritten mixtape. [No. 114, p.52]

The emotional mood of At Best Cuckold never breaks away from the spell of his comfortable lethargy. [No. 114, p.53]

The active present Human Voice takes advantage of each of Dntel's original promises. [No. 114, p.54]

Branan oozes country cred. [No. 113, p.53]

The expansive instruments on this double LP lure you into a more relaxed aquatic experience. [No. 113, p.53]

This third LP corrals sophomore sprawler Lenses Alien without killing its spirit. [No. 113, p.53]

Frame's always been an old soul, and the heartfelt Seven Dials is a welcoming return. [No. 113, p.55]

The Jersey quartet offers its most effective heartland punk cocktail to date, but shakes and stirs the concoction with new influences and musical approaches. [No. 113, p.56]

This is an album with a lot of rich, rewarding darkness in its grooves. [No. 113, p.57]

After The End is disappointing because Merchandise has already proven it can do more. [No. 113, p.59]

The linear song structures, full of droning, atonal, repetitive music, shrieking vocals and skewed tempos, still make this music as challenging today as it was in 1978, although some of the songs now sound remarkably normal. [No. 113, p.61]

This is a valiant and enjoyable varied attempt, by a seriously stacked cast of contributors. [No. 113, p.61]

He's created a burbling paint pot of a record, one teeming with ideas, styles and reference points as diverse as Double Nickels On The Dime, but wholly recognizable as Tweedy-esque. [No. 113, p.60]

High concepts don't always result in high art, but Commonwealth comes close enough. [No. 113, p.61]

Tennis dances easily into the present with an album that pines for more for modern connection than campy reinventions of someone else's love. [No. 113, p.61]

With shimmering synths and deep, delicious grooves, Sinkane delivers a future-funk feast of global proportions. [No. 113, p.59]

A thrumming, tribal first half gives way to a haunting, ethereal second. [No. 113, p.59]

Sadly, "Everything Is Wrong" announces another second-half fade, the back side congealing into the same zombie histrionics that sank Interpol. [No. 113, p.57]

The longer cuts here have some great ones. It's just the kind the Juan MacLean crafts seem to work best with plenty of room to wriggle and stretch. [No. 113, p.57]

A surprisingly accessible island of misfit pop songs. [No. 113, p.55]

At it's best, Barragan sounds like typically inventive musicians sleepily phoning it in. [No. 113, p.54]

His gravelly croon is still sombre, but now it carries a glimmer of light in the darkness. [No. 113, p.53]

Ryan Adams (the album) carries all the classic hallmarks of Ryan Adams (the musician), tightly condensed into an essential collection of polished Americana. [No. 113, p.52]

Crush Songs trades intensity for wistful longing. [No. 113, p.51]

The anthemic, fist-pumping nature of the originals has been reimagined in a brooding acoustic darkness more reminiscent of Bruce Springsteen's then-previous work, Nebraska. [No. 113, p.81]

Their command of sonic mood is commendable, but without something more to grab hold of, Annabel Dream Reader is just a relentless gut-punch. [No. 112, p.61]

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

For those [who have cottoned to Mascis' nasal falsetto and six-string wizardly], this is another lovely acoustic outing from a beloved artists. For the rest, move along, there's nothing to see here. [No. 112, p.59]