Garden of Delete does manage to disturb despite its more frivolous moments.

Ultimately, Our Blood must be graded on what it is (rather than what it could have been), and it is quite good.

Listening to this album is in effect like listening to Paul McCartney's Wings-technically spot-on, catchy, but in the long run, utterly meaningless.

this is a rock album, R.E.M are back being literate and smart, Stipe is barking out lyrics like it’s 1987… in fact, beef up some songs off "Document" and you could mix the two albums up.

Quiet or not, and despite the jazz-trained musicianship on display, Pearce’s production never buries the vocals—Stokes’ or anyone else’s for that matter. In The Beths’ case, their most valuable instruments are the ones they were born with—and that shines through every step of the way.

But outside of their reminiscences about troubled adolescence, which sometimes provide a gratingly innocent tone, How Could it Be Any Different? is otherwise brimful with lighthearted, yet meaningful songs that could actually make a difference.

By drawing on atypical influences and wearing her disillusioned heart on her sleeve, Sky Ferreira has made the pop album of the year.

While it provokes some unpredictable moments, it's heartbreaking to listen to such tuneful moments of inspiration buried beneath towering stacks of old debris, and not the vintage kind.

In all fairness, The Darkness aren’t just peddling 2003 versions of Unskinny Bop and Cherry Pie. They pride themselves on mixing in a bit of T&A humour with the right levels of lyrical wit, all to a foot stompin’, fist pumpin’ rock vibe, a la AC/DC.

These ten songs are immaculately composed, proving that besides holding a pop motif that isn’t really revelatory, there’s enough variation to satisfy a few repeated listens.

Sounding grandiose and understated simultaneously is not an easy feat, but it's one that Cat's Eyes manages to do almost relentlessly.

It's not a love-hate relationship I have with his stuff, it's more like a so what attitude. So what if he gets Laurie Anderson to recite drab poetry on his record, so what if he can play tens of thousands of notes in one breath.

Though not as conceptually absorbing as Bestial Burden, Contact is a no less challenging effort that seeks to find some kind of understanding from its listeners.

It never quite overstays its welcome during its brisk 30 minutes, though once it approaches its more redundant second half, it’s hard to make out whether they’re paying homage to their heroes or if they’re gearing up for a nostalgic tribute tour.

It unveils itself as quick as a flash, but when taken in individual portions, Witness has an unforeseen succinctness that provides some stability to his otherwise nervous excitement.

Shauf and his troupe handle their debut project with an exceptional level of attention and care that points to its potential longevity.

The band still has the muscle to match its mileage.

The more you listen to this record, the more it impresses you, even if their name is downright awful.

While Aghori Mhori Mei doesn't reach the same highs as some of their defining albums, it does show the original trio of Corgan, Iha, and Chamberlain forging a newfound musical identity in lockstep.

Curiously, Omni could welcome some balance into their arrangements; they’ve already figured out a way to structure their lopsided ideas, which is a crucial element that most aspiring experimental bands with a pop slant struggle with in the first place. And that’s something that cannot be taught.

With Bunker Funk, if you were expecting Silver Apples, you’re getting Can instead. And, it’s a good thing.

Craft's vocals feel like they were sent through a french fryer, cooked to a crisp. The result is, like the music that backs him, a voice that is merely functional, an approximation that falls well short of its influences. Craft's first album had swagger— hopefully, he gets it back.

Centered around their view of how we all connect, there's a familiarity in how the trio naturally links themes of nature and spirituality around the human condition—but it's the first time in quite some time where it feels like they're genuinely reaching beyond their loyal fanbase.

Hard to call this a debut in the hands of such accomplished musicians, but the sublime far outweighs the average here and gives hope for further chapters

I find myself increasingly drawn to both instrumental works and music that rewards patience and active listening. Sidings is a bleak delight.

This time around, his musings are openly candid and scarcely metaphorical, a necessary breather from all the stuffy, bookish references spread across his last two efforts.

Their willingness to embrace worldly influences--and infuse their own urbanity--into their arrangements is crucial with regards to enabling the spirited reveries to accommodate the twins’ extrasensory wordplay, bringing a stability to the arbitrary grooves.

Graham Van Pelt has provided us with us with the blissful whimsy needed to enjoy the dandelion tufts of summer with carefree trust.

Either way you bend it, his confessional accounts on how men view the female gender is all too relatable under any context.

Oxymoron is definitely not the game changer many thought it might be, but it's yet another very good addition to the combined Black Hippy legacy.

It's the type of song the Foo Fighters wrote knowing their nineties fans would relish. Still, this is as far removed from the Alternative Nation as you can get.

A lean 5 songs that complement each other over the course of a transcendent 40 minute journey. But he still works with a varying palette of moods, from expansive stoner rock (Exalted) to agitated post-punk (Cusp), all while retaining a sonic richness that feels more like an artfully conceived sonic installation than a traditional album.

Iit’s hard to deny that the blistering riffs of A Stare Bound in Stone, Daggers of Black Haze and it’s ass-kicking title track demonstrate a pitch-perfect excellence in death metal you only get from seasoned pros in the genre.

With a tidy nine tracks, At Mount Zoomer seems like it would be trimmed of any unnecessary filler, but somewhere in the second half things begin to wilt with only shades of interesting ideas.

While Satanic Panic in the Attic is unlikely to make significant waves outside of Elephant 6 and indie-pop circles, those lucky enough to hear it (and persist with it) will find very little to complain about.

What's astonishing about Breakup Song is how it maintains an intuitive notion of coherence, even with its handling of contradictions. All the while making it look easy.

The Haunted Man is so effortlessly emotive that it seems to demand that we demand even more from it. Or at least, it would, if it weren't so easy to get lost in the many layers of these melodies and start thinking about the ghosts that Bat For Lashes is trying to chase away.

If In The Morse Code Of Brake Lights isn’t remembered as the peak of The New Pornographers' work, its heart is squarely where it needs to be—and is still head and shoulders above most of the choices we are presented with these days. Electoral or otherwise.

Away may only appeal to those who are truly committed to Shelf’s unyieldingly wry judgment, but the score that accompanies it is beautifully intoxicating.

Ultimately, Allison is a pleasure to listen to even in the space where she floats right through your head.

Twelve Reasons to Die doesn't quite carry the hefty weight of earlier works, but when those rank among the pinnacle of the genre, it’s not to be expected.

While Trees might've been taken as a softening of Moore's abrasive tone, Demolished Thoughts could be viewed as somewhat of a progression, a MORE acoustic venture laden with violin strings and all the passion Moore's voice can conjure.

If not as instantly infectious as Wide Awake!, Sympathy For Life imparts the group’s unwillingness to stand still.

Beach Slang are well-aware that there are people out there who feel just as they do, and they reveal their allegiance through the power of a good ol’ rock song.

Beams builds on the dense, sexy sound of Black City. Great dance music makes you feel like a beautiful Adonis, like an existential god as you jerk your body around to the rhythm.

Kitty is clearly just having fun enjoying her time in the spotlight here, and for that it’s an enjoyable and endearing effort.

For existing fans of the group, it should come as a rewarding and affirming release; for those of us new to the group, it should act as a little reminder that there are plenty of ways to tell a story through music.

Recorded at Steve Albini’s Electrical Audio studio, High Anxiety will encourage your neck to snap, Weil’s over-the-top vocal delivery combined with the band’s refreshing lack of constraint apparently “too heavy metal” as spoken aloud during the altered soundbyte that follows Riding the Universe.

There may be some subtle shifts here and there, but overall, The Prettiest Curse revels in the simple pleasures of big hooks, chunky chord changes, and sing-a-long melodies.

The Mountain Goats’ tamer approach, however, isn’t bullet-proof; some tracks simply get lost in the shuffle. The slow, sparse structure of The Last Place I Saw You Alive undercuts its poignant and introspective lyrics. Meanwhile, Pez Dorado, despite its decorative percussion, sounds too similar to the preceding Tidal Wave. Getting Into Knives does pick up by its final third, however, relying on more accessible rock tropes.

Every weird twist and turn on The Chronicles of Marnia sounds like the work of a musician so effortlessly absorbed in her craft, so attuned to the expressive qualities of her music, that the internal logic of her songs is completely cohesive and idiosyncratic--and more importantly, really damn fun.

A bold, brave, and beautiful record.

Like Califone as a band, Singers is never boring but rarely excellent. It’s just entirely decent.

It's good, but it's not essential.

Heaven is Humming is not only a surprisingly potent post-hardcore tonic for this era, but portends great things for GOON moving forward.

It’s not shocking that the band delves into unreleased material by Yo La Tengo’s James McNew or an ultra-obscure single by mid-70’s underground band Mirrors. Elsewhere though, the band’s early country roots come to bear on George Jone’s Where Grass Won’t Grow, and the gentle drift of Stevie Wonder’s Golden Lady appeal to fans of the band’s minor key mid-period. Worthwhile and weird.

Sometimes, as on “Pure Sticker Shock,” the emphasis on open space can drag. Let’s just say that there’s a lack of punchy anthems, but as tracks like “Votive” and “Ballad of the Last Payphone” demonstrate, the supergroup’s brand of tuneful melancholy remains intact.

Saint Dymphna is truly Gang Gang Dance and no-one else and for that they should be applauded; creating and defining your own sound is a challenge these days that many bands prefer to shirk.

While well-intentioned, the EP overall gave me some pause, as it proved that U2 sometimes can’t help themselves to write placid pop rock songs that don’t disrupt their quest for supreme relevance.

As simple and unchallenging as Atlas is, it’s undoubtedly the group’s most emotionally resonant album, both sonically and lyrically, even if Real Estate chooses to unleash them in a diminutive sigh rather than a fearsome roar.

Willner continues to move into more exploratory territory, though in taking his music to a denser, more obtuse place, the divine simplicity that’s defined his entire body of work suffers.

It’s a bit of stretch to call Parquet Courts the next trailblazers of off-center indie rock, but they sure got the rock n’ roll part down pat.

Different Creatures is likely to prove too nostalgic to win over critics of 00s ‘indie landfill’, and Circa Waves still lack the spark that is going to reignite British guitar rock, but that won’t matter for most fans of their debut. This is another exciting, polished album that's destined for outdoor stages.

There are far too many tracks on this LP where I can tell Randall and Spunt are present–the No Age I know and love are deep down in there, somewhere–but aren’t engaged.

The richest, most dynamic album to the legend's name in decades.

The diminished presence of Michael (he does contribute here, but is more of a background figure) leads to a slight loss of variety, but it's hardly a deal-breaker. If you like The Lemon Twigs you will find plenty to enjoy here.

Their lewd punk anthems are messy and sloppy, and even a little bit sticky, but A Giant Dog wouldn’t want it any other way.

9 1/2 Psychedelic Meditations on British Wrestling of the 1970s and Early '80s is, other than a long title, a quintessentially Luke Haines record, it's just not one of his best

Sun is undoubtedly Marshall's boldest and most diverse effort to date, and it is all the better for it.

Look past the pastel surface-level familiarity of Escape From Evil and you’ll find that no matter what tool-kit a band is equipped with, superb songwriting and refined attention to detail and aesthetics always prevail.

One of the best rock albums of the past twenty-five years.

They admirably say as little as possible, yet somehow get the message across. It’s an amazing gift in this day and age, when every wanna-be reality star climaxes at the sound of their own voice, to be concise and minimalist, and I have to say I love them for it.

At its worst, Go-Go Boots comes off sounding like Lynyrd Skynyrd. At its best, it stands as a testament to the unparalleled songwriting of Cooley and Hood and as a reminder of just how special this band can be.

While the concept of exploring new horizons seems like a perpetually Megafaun thing to do, it's a case of too much too soon and of a band reaching for places they have no business going toward.

Beautifully ethereal yet firmly rooted in careful dynamics, these distinct, late highlights should serve as a wake-up call suggesting that by blindly embracing pop structures, Foals are weighing appeal against integrity. The difference? Integrity lasts much longer.

The finale isn’t particularly grand, but Holding Hands With Jamie does much to harness the passion of "left of the dial" indie rock while paying attention to now, eschewing accessibility and melody for the sake of finding something aurally distinct.

Neither hot nor shit; it's one of those albums you might buy on impulse and be neither disappointed nor overwhelmed by.

Many numbers, such as the unbearably meandering No Christmas While I’m Talking, present themselves as merely background music - pleasant enough, sure, but doing little to draw the listener’s attention.

He propels the masses into an apocalyptic party with simple and inviting gestures, even if behind the songs lays an exhaustive perfectionist who’s fully dedicated to his craft. That exhaustion does catch up with Maus as the quality of the songwriting loses its luster, especially during its second half, but his sharply quizzical thoughts do cohere into an involving whole.

From the moment it starts to its very last note, Final Summer comes rich with gargantuan hooks that make you feel alive. His more hopeful outlook might have inspired this creative renaissance, but Baldi unintentionally emphasizes the simple pleasures of a rock song with an earnestness that shadows his complex songcraft.

As with most any debut, Marry Me is imperfect and not without clear misfires, but with Clark’s unwavering confidence, the whole record seems clearly aware of this, and these failures still serve a purpose.

Boy King lends further weight to the view that Wild Beasts are one of the best bands operating in Britain today, and it’s not shy in doing so.

They may be pared down to 5 members now, but they still generate a big band noise. Whether this is down to overdubbing or clever use of atmospherics is anyone's guess, but the results are convincing.

Suicide Songs juggles anguish and optimism in equal measure, somehow mournful and triumphant in search for some kind of personal salvation.

Because they write interesting but still enjoyable songs, as they do consistently on Change Becomes Us, they make their music worth coming back to again and again.

While listening to Disaster Trick, there is a sense that Giannopoulos intentionally distances himself, lingering in his thoughts. Given the traces of emotion he lays out throughout, they curiously let us in in mysterious ways. Credit also goes to the less measured and more textural production, which, unintentionally, allows the songs to become more alluring and inviting.

From beginning to end, Houck's voice crackles with soul, and his down-home arrangements are soothing and familiar without seeming cliché. That being said, there is nothing particularly innovative about the album.

Outstanding comparisons aside, California X are certainly capable of standing on their own.

World's Most Stressed Out Gardener went through several iterations:—a flute record, an electronic record, “a pile of garbage,” the album’s Bandcamp page says. Yet from these fractured origins came an intriguing album that comes together in unexpected ways. VanGaalen, like everyone else, is making the most of today’s mess.

The highlights are somewhat front-loaded; Autre Ne Veut’s schtick begins to wear by the end.

It’s the most countrified record he’s released and, as such, lacks some of the more distinctive and heart-breaking qualities shared by his best work.

It is never fun, but is always compelling.

Even with its perceived flaws, it offers some real moments of beauty to get swept away in if you're looking for an escape from the world around you.

Placing aside what amounts to unfortunate filler (the friends portions aren't as evocative), Family & Friends portrays the inevitability of growing up and keeping up with outside expectations with a deft touch.

Humor Risk rhythmically shakes off the lingering sad sick and triggers back the talky, rambunctious oddments of wisdom we've come to know from him.

Less a statement on White Lung’s potential than its ability to rush through an album, through its attempts at relentlessness, Deep Fantasy underwhelms.

By removing much of their signature distant-sounding vocal filters, grand historical speeches, spacey drones, and tightly knit arrangements, Titus Andronicus has successfully eliminated any sonic barriers that once stood in between the band and their listeners.

The overall effect is of an album written and recorded on prozac that never achieves the emotional highs or the lows needed to make this kind of country soul great.