Some of the naggier aspects of her music remain, especially her strained, prickly inflection, still somewhat forced and certainly an acquired taste. But all told, there's no denying that Valentine is a singular statement that is profoundly genuine at every turn.

Shade, Harris’ most varied release yet, feels like the broadest and most crisp view of this vista yet, with clear, starlit openings (Unclean Mind), vast ambient gaps (Ode to the Blue), and hazy nebulas (Disordered Minds) coming together to form a stargazer’s dream.

They used to make little records like this in the anything goes early 80’s. It’s nice to see Konigsberg bringing it back.

From Old Skin to Harmonia’s Dream, I Don’t Live Here Anymore has plenty of new War on Drugs classics that will sit comfortably next to Red Eyes and Strangest Thing on a setlist.

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

TWIABP demands a lot of your attention through these challenging, often dreary meditations, but they do reveal themselves gradually through close observation. On the flip side, there is no shortage of positivity either. It's a tricky equilibrium that the band embraces as they emotionally erupt over a fiery concoction of shredding guitars.

González adds in playful elements like metronomic percussion (Lasso In) and danceable cumbia rhythms with mixed results (Swing.) And though both are charming in their own right, they don't quite measure up to the haunting simplicity of his best work.

Heavy Lifter tried to take some new directions and added more heft to their songs, but not in the organic approach that True Love embraces. Like joy and true love itself, Hovvdy sounds best here when they use a broader palette without getting too far outside the lines—bringing more to bear and letting in quite a bit more light.

Let Me Do One More teeters betweens knowing jokiness and kindhearted vulnerability. And though she's shown these qualities before, Tudzin carries the weight of these emotions with a masterful command—embracing change and figuring things out as she fumbles along the way.

The ambition they pursue overall shows in what Young himself affirms to be the band's best work, and their belief in that shows through and through.

These light and dark contrasts make for a thoroughly compelling listen that, certainly, makes up for Andrew's shortcomings as a lyricist.

Introvert is a beautiful collection of poems filled with stories and experiences, on which Simz doesn't skimp on resources and thinks big.

It’s the sound of a band transforming into something subtle but beautiful—the same way trees do when their foliage fades from green to orange.

Overall, her empowering message points at the daily toxic attitudes that female celebrities deal with. Screen Violence also projects confidence in a musical sense with its grand synth-pop and new wave, resisting and challenging the misogyny that unfortunately reaches far beyond our screens.

With no track here surpassing the 3 1/2 minute mark, the band firmly anchors the key components of their sound with a tight, steady grip.

Compared to this summer's pop offerings—think of the similarly themed efforts by Billie Eilish and Lorde, both of which deal with the trappings of fame with serenity and blissful detachment, respectively—If I Can't Get Love, I Want Power is provocative, and even ugly, in its most vulnerable moments. Self-indulgent, sure, but its emotional chaos feels earned.

The band’s blinkered aspiration to create a classic again produces an album that is enjoyable but hollow. In that way, at least, Pressure Machine is a Killers album just like any other.

Loving In Stereo has flashes of talent beyond its most showy jewels. There's a seventies aura that stains each verse, beat, and falsetto, as they channel a post-pandemic, Studio 54 vibe on tracks like What D'You Know About Me?, Bonnie Hill, and Fire. On the latter, bass lines take over and flare with fiery excitement. Loving in Stereo is the first album that Jungle releases through their own independent label Caiola Records. It feels like they're moving forward.

Most of the album sounds immaculately produced, of course, the result of him basing his operations in Nashville with a group of seasoned musicians. But Dylan remains mostly anonymous throughout, letting others shine while he adds some occasionally poignant touches.

He pushes his songs forward with just the right amount of old and new—all without losing his adventurous drive. He takes us into the darkest hallways of his mind with, ironically, a rejuvenated zest.

This is a truly mesmerizing follow-up for a band with few peers and even fewer fears.

Home Video is a more noticeably more mellow affair. Musically, it can be a little thin. Her strength as a lyricist is unwavering, even on her sparest, most nondescript ballads (Thumbs). But, as perkier indie-rock tunes like First Time and Brando prove, her careful arpeggios can also shine when she lets a little looser.

It Won't Always Be Like This is a competent first effort with superbly crafted and unpretentious songs—even if they still haven't quite found the sound that they’re looking for.

Lovesick Utopia is fairly lightweight and doesn’t grab the attention in the way that most of the other tracks do, and while Keep Moving is accompanied by a great video (co-produced by Wilson herself), it comes off as an imitation of a Jessie Ware track. These are minor complaints though, as the long period leading up to this record—not to mention the time afforded for additional audio work due to the coronavirus pandemic—means Wilson has had the space to hone her sound and deliver upon the potential her earlier releases promised.

While much has been made of Jubilee being an album about joy—and in some ways, it is—the majority of the third Japanese Breakfast album captures a full breadth of emotions. ... It’s on the back half of this album where things don’t click as strongly.

Though The Golden Casket shows Modest Mouse at their most accessible and tuneful, a creative shift that started with 2004's Good News For People Who Love Bad News, they return to some of the experimental aspects that defined so much of their early work.

Weighed down by its own concept and bloated with references, there’s just no room left for emotional reckoning. In the end, we’re better off seeing Daddy's Home as purely an homage to the rich ‘70s funk and psychedelic music scene from somebody who only experienced it secondhand. It’s simply unable to withstand the added complexity of the personal narrative that we were promised.

Sensational isn’t as good as its title suggests, but there’s plenty to enjoy, even if you’ll be tempted to look for the joins to see how it’s all been done. But still, don’t think about things too much, and you’ll be “lovin’ it, lovin’ it, lovin’ it.”

Considering the vast number of ideas they put forth here, they're still finding new ways to engage with their signature formula after all these years—easily one of their most robust since 2008's Version 2.0.

Roswell continues to grow as a versatile performer, channeling her pop impulses with gusto—whether she embraces Abba-esque harmonies with a country lilt (Safe from Heartbreak), brings bright, celestial touches to synthy mid-tempo ballads (How Can I Make it OK), or howls her way through speedy punk rock (Feeling Myself.) And though everything doesn't fall into place, she does inject her unique personality into whatever style she chooses.

Given how much effort twenty one pilots give into their presentation, it's genuinely surprising how uninteresting Scaled and Icy sounds on the surface. ... The music itself sounds so limiting and faceless.

It’s the ultimate sample platter for a band who defiantly refuses to meet your expectations, and for everything it lacks in consistency, it more than makes up for in offering a heart-bled moment that will burn bright for someone.

Sweep It Into Space obviously can’t rival that career high, but it is a leading candidate for their best post-reformation effort.

The whole thing mostly works, though, thanks to the generous application of a Blue Album power-pop filter. I Need Some of That channels The Cars (like much of Weezer’s finest work) and is the clear standout here, but there’s plenty more to raise a smile.

As madcap of a concept as ULTRAPOP appears to be, its musical thrust feels purposeful in its creation and curation.

The original was Etten taking tentative first steps to collaborate, while this album sees her pass on the songs completely. It’s a fitting legacy for an album that’s about moving on stronger, but not without forgetting about the heartache it took to get there.

After 35 minutes filled with one kinetic power-chord to the next with the littlest variation, Typhoons spreads itself too thin.

The trio seems more determined and passionate in how they concoct their witches' brew of ideas, knowingly aware of how the plot unfolds while convincing us that anything kept a secret doesn't matter. As oblique as their music has become, it uniquely makes sense to them.

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.

Dry Cleaning have far more talent than they do irreverence. How satisfying, then, that where Miller was one and done, they’ve only just gotten started.

Timeless and treasurable.

At his best, Walsch’s lyricism threads the line between clichés and anecdotal details with ease. There are exceptions to this, as Hesitation captures the curdling of a long-distance relationship superbly. It might be his best set of lyrics. It’s a disappointment that it’s situated between a handful of bored, washed-out emo tunes that hold I Won’t Care How You Remember Me down.

Middle Kids haven't quite found a way to articulate their sudsy emotions with deft intention and control. But if you're looking for pristine pop that, admittedly, sounds really, really good, you can't go wrong with this pleasant diversion.

Portrayal of Guilt’s songs become so chaotic and overwhelming in their bipolar brutality that almost every song needs an ambient comedown to cool off, though even these are just as lurching and ominous as each riff is impeccably tight and terrifying.

While many of these ideas aren't particularly sexy, especially for artists who've recently turned forty, the band wisely keeps their grand, romantic gestures in check while making them thoughtful and relatable.

Goat Girl achieves a new clarity to their dense lyrical content when their murky antics turn more accessible.

His performances are impassioned, though sometimes slightly tedious, adding strings and keys over scruffy folk-rock. Ounsworth even alludes to his past brush of fame on CYHSY, 2005, though what we really get are broad, everyday depictions of the mundane.

It feels carefully tailored to a fault, making it practically impossible to find its flaws—especially if you find the interchangeable poetic sing-speak of Hard Drive endearing. Nevertheless, this is solipsism of the highest caliber: gentle, hypnotic, fastidious, but above all else, hard to resist.

For the first time is usually nonsensical, frequently transcendent, and compulsively listenable. Everything that sprung to mind is on the wax here, but BC, NR don’t forget to make it catchy and groovy. In nailing that balance, they’ve given us the year’s first capital-G Great record.

There's a hard-won maturity here that makes every single line of hers deeply felt, even if it also emphasizes the more cloying elements of her songwriting.

While the album isn’t quite the overhaul that quote makes it out to be, there are enough twists to catch longtime fans off guard. Even with eight albums to their name, The Hold Steady continue to prove that consistency doesn’t mean going stale.

He's faithful to his musical vision, even as he expands its scope, though there's a fair degree of sameness throughout that makes it a somewhat monochrome listen. Still, it never feels like a chore to weave through Ross' honest, personal songwriting.

While Years is pleasant enough, with Somewhere, there’s more of a palpable milieu to these songs that pushes it from good to great.

What's being attempted here is sensational, an unmissable combination of common emotions and abstract anxieties that shouldn’t work. And yet, when Lindeman shares with us, these songs explode with the air of something incredible.

The Body's latest exercise in amplified bleakness, a blend of muck and misery whose existence almost requires a term stronger than “doom” to succinctly and conveniently explain it. To call The Body’s music “doom” is tantamount to calling the rapture an unexplained and coincidental spike in lengthy vacations.

The Future Bites is the worst sounding album he’s ever put out.

Weezer’s maddeningly inane lyrics sometimes work, but they aren’t doing much to move the needle here. At least the album sounds nice, as that’s more than you could say for plenty of previous albums from Cuomo and the gang. We might as well enjoy it.

The hazy production in Sunbeams does, to an extent, water down some of Parks' poetic musings and reduce them to pleasant background music. Even if there are hardly any low points here, the forceful sentiments of past songs like Angel's Song and Romantic Garbage are sorely absent—both of which are just mellow as this project but more musically rewarding.

Cooler Returns plays out best if you go with its flow. Musical flourishes, references, and inspirations abound, but if you let yourself get lost in it, there is a lot to enjoy and not too much to worry about.

Shame could've settled when, instead, they've outsmarted their post-punk contemporaries with their apolitical, yet powerfully-charged message about sticking it to the doldrums.

While Meek isn’t fully out of the shadow that Lenker and Big Thief have created, Two Saviors makes a fine argument that he should be taken seriously as his own artist.

Overall, it's nice to spend a little time sharing Kurt Vile's ongoing journey.

Going from an awful opening half to a solid backend was hard enough, but the real villain of Magic Touch is Name’s bitter perspective. On an album about breaking up and getting back together, he isn’t a narrator that you want to spend time around.

We Will Always Love You is an impressive mediation on everything that matters, and of letting go of what doesn’t.

Even though we get a catchy moment of goofy, snarling country midway through, the album is a result of the emotional clarity that a year in quarantine provided. Swift has written about curdling relationships splendidly in the past, but there's a new dimension to her writing that wasn’t there before. Onward.

Even with the shifting styles under Nasty’s verses, this is the sort of explosive debut that is downright unforgettable.

Chugging, jangling versions of "Honey I Miss You" and "Life in Vain" are tuneful and serviceable, stripping out Johnston's idiosyncratic touch while faithfully aligning to his simple, primal songwriting style. On the other hand, their version of Good Morning You sticks to the original's scrappy melodicism, and at a minute and a half, doesn't overstate its welcome.

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.

Although Marika Hackman’s covers album lacks for originality in the title department, she more than makes up for it over the course of the ten tracks.

If only Plastic Hearts followed Midnight Sky’s lead, we’d have an album of disco-rock that felt true to Cyrus’ strengths.

Stapleton’s writing is solid, but his vocals, arrangements, and instrumentation imbue most of these songs with something remarkable.

Throughout these 11 songs, there’s a conflict between whether the characters are ready to move on or are fighting to go back to how it was.

Even at their blandest, and truthfully their dumbest, AC/DC make a compelling case why they're so good at this rock n' roll business. As it turns out, the secret is to stick to the formula until their dying day.

For most of this album, Costello switches between percussive anxiety and odd ditties with ease.

While it starts strong, the weaker second half makes Serpentine Prison a mixed bag. It doesn’t feel like a definitive statement album, more like an opportunity for Berninger to stretch his legs. There’s a good amount of work to enjoy here, but it’ll mainly make you want to listen to The National instead.

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.

It’s a sharpening of the ideas introduced on Addiction to Blood, performed with clipping.’s classic graveness which only supports how scary this album can be.

Though not quite the standout the band promises early on, it does end things on a mournful yet triumphant note. It caps off one of Pallbearer's most approachable statements to date, where they bring new life to their usual approach as they stick to their core sound.

While this is one of Springsteen’s most genuinely energetic and exciting releases in ages, it isn’t constantly uptempo.

Even if the album's sonic template doesn't stray too far from his 2011 breakthrough debut LP Within You Without You, Greene chooses to keep the mood so light that it's practically inert.

The mood and the energy here is as catchy as it's ever been, even if the duo's clever, tightly-wound experiments sometimes come across as intriguing rather than complete.

This is a release of artfully constructed, seamlessly great indie-rock that could get easily passed by. Samia has the presence of someone effortlessly classy and commanding, which makes this project all the more appealing.

It’s promising, but if it catches you in a bad mood, it might cause a headache.

The storytelling on display is just as sharp and compelling—even if, from a musical sense, Edwards could've expanded on her radio-friendly arrangements a little bit more.

On the surface, Haiku Hands is a party record, but dig deeper and it becomes a powerful testament to female friendship and the power you feel when you’re supported.

They play to a more jangle-pop register on the bouncy Public Bodies before bringing back the fuzzy guitars and haunting tones on What We Do It For. The only throughline here is that the songs themselves are interesting indie-rock.

Is Ohms the return to form that meets expectations? Well, yes, even if the tunes haven't changed so much as the vastly-superior production has (with producer Terry Date back into the fold). But it also reinforces the fact that Deftones have stuck to a back-to-basics formula through all these years; the only difference now being that everyone else is taking notice.

A muted and detailed project that doesn’t feel like a grand statement or treatise—just a collection of lovely little songs.

By the end of closer Thirsty Tulips, it should be no wonder that Mattimore is signed to Ghostly International, a traditionally electronic music label. She makes ambient music better than the music that most ambient musicians are putting out these days.

Clearly, songs is the more developed album of the pairing here and one that those already under Lenker’s spell will treasure and contrast to her earlier work.

Keep It Flowers is an edgy, brash, and well put together statement that mostly goes down easy.

These guys are still writing and playing at the top of their game, making another album that’s just as brutal as Stage Four, if not a little more palatable for everyday listening.

A beautiful and steady album about defying the roles others put you in and pondering what went wrong. It’s a heartbreaking project as well, peppered with upbeat but cutting songs. It may not be Loveless’s best album -- Real is impossible to beat -- but it ideally captures the indescribable greatness of her songwriting.

Despite Live Forever not being perfect, Bartees Strange swings for the fences on every song here. It’s exciting just to watch it unfold in front of your eyes.

This latest offering from Fleet Foxes embodies their entire catalog of folksy sounds, seasons it with some jazzy elements, and pares down some bloat (only one track over five minutes). Perhaps the only surface flaw of this album is that certain songs build too quickly and fade too fast.

he annoying melodrama that made his rap material so exhausting is what gives his new music some real power. For the first time ever, the instrumentation suits Baker’s natural whine.

The Ascension bobs along in a meandering sea of drum machine and synth pads, waiting for something to latch on to. It never takes long; Stevens has the ideas and they hit relentlessly, moving on and doubling over before you’ve had half a chance to process them.

For the most part on Carefree Theatre, you’re stuck with hazy textures (In My Mind) and stilted grooves (Carefree Theatre) that are simply boring.