Willis Earl Beal is a phenomenal vocalist, with a unique drawl and searing tone. Phenomenal in virtuosity, yet even more astounding with his delivery.

Visions is beautifully conceived and executed, musically, lyrically and thematically.

While there's no doubt that Port of Morrow is well crafted, then, it fails because it is ultimately unmoving, and what Mercer has gained in style and execution is overshadowed by the album's lack of either invention or sincerity.

The song writing is passable, the sound is passable, but passable is usually as boring as it sounds.

It's a cleanly produced album, sure, but it lacks the attitude of the era from where it came, the 1970s.

The Belbury Tales is a solid record and a fantastic listen.

Ekstasis abounds with originality and depth; soars and sinks; expands and implodes; evolves and dissipates; crackles and breaks all within one cohesive sound.

The ethereal keyboard lines and the chemistry between the two guitars are able to trap a listener within the album right from the start, and it rarely lets you stray too far from the music.

There's a clear warmth and passion in this remaster; if you've yet to let this album grow to be a part of your life, get this.

With Valentina, [Gedge] has created another fine love album, full of clever, relatable, fine love songs.

Modestly anthemic and quietly anthemic, ƒIN is worth the time of any music fan that considers themselves in the slightest bit interested in electronic music.

An original and fascinating record from three enviably talented musicians, who probably will not spend much longer being so inexplicably overlooked.

The most noticeable difference from his previous work is that the three are symphonic, they have parts, and those parts are distinct, either marked by a certain loop, bass ostinato, drone, or tempo.

In an age of musical ephemerality and impermanence (especially in the electronica/dance arena) it's good to know that sometimes innovation and inspiration can go hand in hand with experience.

Those expecting a more swaggering form of vintage soul will find themselves awfully disenchanted. But for the most part, it still holds together as a serene meditation that vacillates with a refined grace and beauty.

For Fanfarlo, this is a follow-up that does all that it needs to do. It keeps us critics and fans happy with a healthy balance of familiarity and expansion.

Personality is not quite the dancefloor-igniting record that was expected, though nor is it a mere rehash of previous work – it is the sound of Rose exploring a variety of styles without successfully nailing any of them.

Overall, Arrow is the quintessential Heartless Bastards album to date.

What's also noticeable is how unnecessarily restrained most of the album is.

Throughout, a spewing, pandering vitriol taints a band whose vivacity seems to be wearing thin.

Softening their sound hasn't led to more fans, but to a blander, weaker and unsatisfying sound.

They're already halfway to being the world's best My Bloody Valentine cover band.

I don't think it would be a stretch to say The Men were picking up where The Replacements left off.

And Never Ending Nights may be Willner's most fully realized expression in an already impressive body of work.

Rhyton simply play their music, unfettered by the constraints of tradition, structure or expectation, and it's that quality that makes their album such a thrilling experience.

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

It is, quite frankly, tedious and utterly un-inspiring, lacking any serious ability to convey the emotive forces which I would hope drove the song writing processes. [Review of UK release The Future Is Medieval]

Overall, this album contains some of the most original and hypnotically brilliant rock music ever recorded.

Flash-forward to two years later and we get One Second of Love, which finds Gonzalez maturing into a graceful songstress without entirely abandoning what inspired her in the first place.

On The Slideshow Effect, Memoryhouse strips away the full production, lets the vocals rise to the front, and lets their songs do the talking. The bold choice exposes their weaknesses, but Memoryhouse still has plenty to be proud of.

The album as a whole has that feel; it's perfect late night or Sunday morning music, though this might damage its broader appeal.

Despite minor quibbles what you have here is one hell of a late-night record, with plenty of wistful longing and just enough sunshine to keep you off the suicide hotline.

While it can feel like juvenilia, it's in a very endearing way, a catalogue of the catharsis of a high-school misfit.

The main issue with Mr. M is that, while it's beautiful on the surface, it doesn't really go anywhere.

Schnauss' sheen unifies it as, bare minimum, a pleasant journey through the haze. Just don't expect to see anything too clearly.

It's curious how much of the content in here could bring back what is fast becoming an increasingly extinct way of emoting--the fact that it feels this intimate should be something to be thankful for.

Screws Get Loose, is wonderfully tight and Those Darlins' latest succeeds with catchy, country tinged rock-and-roll with a healthy dose of humor.

There are some truly great moments here where the band crash around making glorious, daft, noisy pop music, but they stand at a stark counterpoint with the cloying experimental tendencies Barnes forces through.

The album sounds familiar far too quickly. [But] when Interstellar hits, however, it hits hard.

While standards are generally high on the record's first half, it feels like three EPs have been welded together to form Melt.

Most of the time it's a joy to listen to.

The album is at its most successful when Lanegan allows these alien textures [electronics, atmospheric guitar] to take a more prominent role in his songs, providing a counterfoil to his gravelly rock vocals. Elsewhere the songs meander too much for the album to coalesce into a convincing statement.

This is by and large a record that moves at its own pace, and a calm one at that.

It gets a bit boring, a bit sleepy, and altogether, it's a bit forgettable.... But, you know? It sounds good doing it. That has to count for something.

Plumb feels unsure of how ambitious it wants to be, but instead of landing in the middle of the road, the lack of focus and uncertainty create an incoherent mess.

Young & Old is a more mature release which demonstrates that Tennis possess both the wisdom and guile to evolve.

Tramp isn't as seizing as Epic, its songs aren't as dense and unalike, its textures don't diverge in the same methods, but it breathes more, it quivers more, it shakes, it overturns itself, it rusts.

There may be some great ideas on here amongst the mis-steps, but without any suspense, it is difficult to tell.

More quickly than you'd expect, Busdriver's quirks become endearing; his cartoonish vocal stretches to reach those high notes become normalised and you begin to appreciate how much heart he puts into his singing.

Dr. Dog's best effort yet.

Sure, a couple tracks hit it just right, but by and large, once the album's over, it's not liable to pop back into my thinking.

An epic, widescreen journey which is busy and bonkers but constantly entertaining.

You're probably not going to find another record quite so beautifully produced this year, or quite so warmly inviting, or just quite so full of lovely stuff.

There are no compromises to be reached, and that's what makes No One Can Ever Know such an authoritative listen.

The biggest, brashest cartoon this side of Eminem's early albums.

Libraries is chock full of restructured reminiscence, yet doesn't lay any cautions in modernizing pop's landmark, time-honored aesthetic.

It's elegant, but hardly likely to inspire any particularly stirring flights of fancy, or any reevaluations of the band's post-Moon Safari discography.

House of Balloons is still his finest hour to date, but Echoes of Silence comes damn close to it.

Shortcomings are well disguised, and even when they are exposed, the originality of Papini's storytelling is enough to keep the ears alert for several listens.

Firing on all cylinders and exhibiting the canny combination of eminently danceable rhythms with big hooks and gorgeous synth melodies.

Considering how the lyrical content and flat as a rug singing in Weekends was written for an elementary school child to understand, they probably should've kept it that way; it occasionally downgrades the songs to a point where they are unable to rise above their cheesiness.

In both songwriting craft and execution of recording, The Coldest Winter For A Hundred Years is exceptional.

It all sounds very immaturely polished.

From the album's onset, you're treated to both the abrasive and the profane.

While I can appreciate their longevity, ironic style and pureness in their sound, I can't admit that this was enjoyable for me.

The often overly-enthusiastic arrangements threaten to smother the qualities that made Rodrigo y Gabriela special in the first place with the quiet brutality of their guitar playing often lost in the extended jam-band style... structures.

Far beyond simply avant garde, this is one for the abstract devotee.

The end result is an album full of tracks that sound so warmly familiar that they instantly seem like old friends.

Her voice single-handedly eliminates all accusations of the sameness that could be shot at the songs, evens the pace of the album, and although it may not make up for the album's flaws entirely, it certainly helps hide them and is reason enough on its own to find enjoyment on this album.

There's a lot in here that brims with life but, somehow, it never quite unfolds.

The album isn't faultless by any means, but Trailer Trash Tracys have made one of the most interesting albums of recent months.

There is nothing abrasive about Strange Weekend, nothing risky, nothing unique; there is instead just a shortage of "Wow!"

The Hold Steady this ain't, but as far as new directions go, Craig Finn could have done much worse.

When this EP gets it right, it is a triumphant nod to Dear's versatile ear, but when it settles for being weird for the sake of it, it's simply messy.

Most of Attack on Memory has an abrasive, shrewd backbone, but it's those moments where Baldi hones his sweet touch where the album finds a satisfying balance of surprise and comfort.

A "more accessible, less-noisy Jesus and Mary Chain".

The vocal hooks and catchy choruses that have brought Nada Surf this far have only gotten better.

As you listen, you can easily picture a campfire in a forest, stars in the sky and Laura Gibson, guitar cradled in her arms, mumbling her way through an upbeat breezy folk song that implies some inner sadness while at the same time being entirely optimistic and happy.

The album's biggest hindrance is a lack of ruthlessness at crucial moments, eschewing cohesion for broad-stroke stabs at too many genres.

In the end it's hard to fathom just who is going to really love this album.

A Classic Education have created a set that demonstrates proficiency while leaning heavily on an established style.

Some come-backs are fraught with danger, both commercial and artistic. This one is entirely justified.

His manipulations have gotten more patient, his sketches have become full tunes, and half-obscured melodies have received a lighting from the lamps.

Mature, reflective, elegant and just that little bit haunting, but ultimately and most importantly of all, brilliant.

It is samey, ugly and spectacularly stupid at the same time.

St. Vincent's most sonically rich effort to date.

While it is more realized than previous effort The Stand Ins, Okkervil River is showing potential for new direction more than they are showing versatility.

It's the album that makes her the comparative standpoint in her own right--suggesting subtly that she may one day be the talismanic songstress for her own generation.

Only three tracks are of sufficient quality to have seen the light of day and it means you can't help but question the motives behind the release of such an inessential collection.

a record that is both this good and a display of a band with so much more to show us does not come along often.

In spite of the album's wilfully hard-to-stomach intensity, [it] will appeal to fans of art music of many different backgrounds.

Magazine manage to retrace where they left off, rediscover their intricacies and do an excellent job at defining themselves for, what one can only hope will be, new generations of listeners.

It's not just the hooks of the songs that make this EP so bewitching, it's also a prophecy for post-dubstep.

The Black Keys have created a record that they believe is how a rock'n'roll record should sound, but without soul or sex or genuine sweet emotion.

When it's good, it's great; it's just a shame so many tracks fall short of his usually very high standards.

It's easy to criticise Talk That Talk but it's actually a fun and enjoyable record.

Ritual Union is catchy and well-produced, but it certainly doesn't demand any more than a handful of listens.

After a promising opening trio of tracks, Sticks + Stones wanes badly, and begins to sound more and more like it's been focus-grouped by industry executives in pursuit of a quick buck until there's barely any semblance of character left.