When it gets it right, it gets it absolutely spot on, but a little more variation wouldn't go amiss. However, the album's highlights – and there are many – are just so fantastic that you can forgive it an awful lot.

Fade is a sign of perseverance for the group, as the album perfectly details just what is so essential and appealing about the group, and why there will always be a place for these guys in the world of indie rock.

Citizen of Glass is like entering a misty realm of wonder where each unpredictable turn holds a new set of unknowns.

Tourist in This Town finds Crutchfield learning that travel or exorcism aren't solutions. Instead, she finds the solace in her craft. The words may be heavy, but she's found a path forward.

Stunningly good.

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

I can’t recommend this album strongly enough.

It's a record that's quite open to cynicism--Exmilitary is easy to dismiss as excessive and carelessly noisy. It's going to polarise listeners, but it's useless to criticise it for being so angry and unlistenable because that's Death Grips' prerogative.

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.

The result is an album of uncompromising vulnerability and rawness.

Vampire Weekend is indie rock with its edges sanded off, polished to a clean, sparkling sheen.

On In a Bind, she reaches for a more spiritual musical expression—taking a page from the mesmeric rhythms of Ali Farka Touré. She finds herself at ease, picking out an arpeggiated pattern flutter over a meditative choral showpiece. Less impressive, though, is how Tamko derails into the dreamy, meandering synth jams she seemed to be at odds with from the start. ... These mood shifts show Tamko at her more inquisitive, proving how far she can expand her reach while using her own resources. And it'll be intriguing to see where her ever-changing nature takes her next.

This album is a brave, bold-faced exorcism. While the wounds may still be fresh, the healing has finally begun.

One thing the album does not suffer from is a lack of ideas. In fact, it sounds like the band has crammed each song with sounds, licks, rhythm shifts, basically anything they could come up with, hoping to manufacture inspiration from creativity.

Cox sounds comfortable and confident, and has made the best solo album of his prolific career.

Throughout its running time, Pale Green Ghosts sees Grant ably balance a sense of humour with quietly devastating content.

What a pleasure that Familiars is familiar primarily for its quality rather than its qualities.

It’s conservative enough to satiate longtime fans, yet lovingly crafted to such a degree that it confuses you into thinking that its reached its full potential when it could've been so much more.

Honeys may be just another rash, blustering effort, but for the first time there’s a faint hint of accessibility seeping through the cracks.

It's filled with memorable moments, digital pieces that are essential towards captivating very human moments without battering with the greater scope of things. It all makes this all-encompassing memory trip worth remembering.

There's something seductive and illuminating about Stott's new music, something that transcends the terror being emitted.

There’s a meditative cadence to Rotations that gains potency as it progresses, given that we witness an unraveling of thought.

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.

Cut for cut, this is a triumph of melody and intelligence, with hooks that aren't cute and noise that doesn't dampen introspection, cosmic and prosaic at the same time. Parquet Courts have conquered rock 'n' roll's biggest hurdle: to move forward while staying true to themselves

King Of Jeans burns with enough vitriol and frustration that the music escalates the album’s importance. And, at times, they do grant second-party attention.

Through the years, the band has sculpted their sound into full-fledged metal, and as the burly, serpentine tracks Arteries of Blacktop and Full Moon, Black Water attest, they incorporate palm-muted riffs and Sabbathy doom with much aplomb—even if the latter closes the album with delicate, melancholic guitars, saying goodbye to their departed loved ones with gentle compassion.

My Days Of 58 is an unassuming delight and a further feather in the cap of one of most enduring songwriters of his generation.

Aside from a few tracks that feel tossed off, too self-aware in their own weirdness, Hawkline does manage to justify his odd behavior with heaps of whimsical charm.