What's really impressive, though, is how all the nods to glam rock, shoegazer, new wave and 80s indie rock blend together to produce a sound that's maddeningly familiar but completely unique.

It's really only when you find the time to sit down and listen to it all that it starts making sense. Yes, this may require some patience, but you will be rewarded.

The range is fantastic but never jarring.

Like fine wine, Bill Hader or Gillian Anderson, Greys are only getting better with age.

The spare melodies and bleeps-and-loops approach result in chillingly direct songs.

More than a decade out from the band’s shift into electronic music and their reinvention as what at times seems to be a soundtrack band, it’s hard to tell if Mogwai have aged well or just sort of boringly mellowed.

On slick, feckless romance ballads like I Belong In Your Arms, that rooted-in-the-past sound can seem like empty nostalgia, but it blooms with freshness when used as a springboard for experimentation.

The laid-back riffs and grooves are balanced by big hooks and melodies that make the most of Jackson’s airy (and refreshingly unprocessed-sounding) voice.

Add it all up and you get a typical Ryan Adams release.

Azari & III's sound is less about chasing contemporary club trends than it is about summing up the last 30 years of underground dance music, so the album still sounds fresh.

Nihilism doesn't even begin to describe the mood created by the skittering electronic drums, uneasy atmospheric noises and MC Ride's manic scream-rapping.

Mayberry may be better known as the husky voice of HSY, but it's with Anamai that she's truly getting at her roots.

On the first three tracks, she tackles enduring pop-music themes like love, loneliness and friendship with the kind of unsentimental yet empathetic songwriting fans of the Pet Shop Boys might admire. Midway, her worldly confidence morphs into outright cockiness and the beats grow aggressive.

It's the kind of warm summer record you put on without much thought, and that's a large part of its charm.

The inventiveness in James's vocals draws attention to the lack of that quality in Roddick's production, which grows clichéd after a while.

As far as comeback albums go, Seasons Of Your Day doesn’t disappoint, but few songs truly stand out.

The album's biggest flaw is that Jonsi's opted to sing in English. Sure, we can now understand his lyrics, but hearing about people riding bikes, making out and just gallivanting about derails the experience.

On his third album, experimental electro sounds that initially seem grating and disparate weave together to form bona fide pop melodies.

Under 30 minutes long, Badlands is a short burst of concentrated energy that gradually slides into less compelling instrumental murk.

An hour of sprawling ambient electronic music made on a modular synthesizer, evoking the futurism of 70s sci-fi soundtracks while deftly avoiding cheesy retro trappings.

On A Mission's song arrangement is spot on and completely avoids the awkward transitions that can dog "genre-defying" projects. A must-have.

An endlessly listenable album.

There’s a sense of playfulness on I Don’t Wanna Die (In The Hospital) and NYC – Gone, Gone that’s missing from Cassadaga, and enough catchiness to keep radio stations happy (even if said track happens to be an ominous ode to a dying boy), but it’s on the achingly simplest of songs where Oberst’s familiar splenetic growl returns at last.

Spiritualized always had that out-of-body, walk-toward-the-light quality; Pierce just seems to be doing it better now than on the last two albums.

This is much more about capturing their inimitable onstage chemistry with sizzling fuzz guitar solos, unexpected fusions of styles and the kind of relaxed confidence that only comes with this kind of history.

The Future Crayon, like Tender Buttons, is a little predictable at first but grows more complex after several listenings.

Garage punk hero Jay Reatard has grown up, and, surprisingly, this has turned out to be a very good thing indeed.

Hanson artfully pits his airy vocals and kaleidoscopic harmonies (there's a pronounced Kinks vibe) against thick, sludgy guitar riffs and crashing drums.

His push toward “real” songwriting is aided significantly by Canadian expat and multi-instrumentalist Jason “Gonzales” Beck, who spins a Parisian pop spell on the track Luxury and grounds Tiga’s high-camp inclinations on Shoes.

It's an unnerving listen that demands a certain amount of masochism, but you've definitely never heard another band like Nissenenmondai.

Lang gently pulls you into the quieter moments of domesticity on songs like 'Coming Home' and 'Sunday,' but her curled-lip drawl on Jealous Dog shows she can still surprise.

Admittedly, the whiny Martsch-inspired delivery of singer dude Christian Hjelm will be a turnoff for some, but the Figurines' compositional skill shows real promise, and their endearing enthusiasm should win them many fans over here.

A pretty decent melancholy pop album that deserves to be heard outside of dormitories and campus bars.

It helps that lead singer Tim Cohen is gifted with an expressive baritone that easily lends itself to any style the band tries on, but their subtly complex guitar rhythms and melodic hooks do just as much heavy lifting.

This time around they sound slightly more connected to genuine dance music, while at the same time stripping away some of the atmospherics to allow more of their subtle pop sensibilities to surface.

Tindersticks’ return to form on their eighth album isn’t evident when you first press play. But look past the uninteresting six-minute jazz drone that opens the album and you’ll see that the prolific English group still has the enough soul to succeed.

It took me a few listens to accept the trance synth riffs that dominate, not to mention Alice Glass's increasingly melodic screeching, but the apocalyptic undertones are surprisingly effective with some sugar on top.

There is plenty of [crescendos], but Gonzalez also proves adept at pacing, surrounding M83's bigger, more anthemic moments with ambient instrumental interludes and balladic "comedown" tracks.

There are lots of references thrown into their oddball funk, but it's starting to sound completely logical and natural.

Wasner’s vocals seem more confident and assertive now, as if she’s come of age. Still, there are moments on Shriek just yearning for a clever guitar melody or screeching solo.

Whether it’s your thing or not, Music Go Music’s blissed-out pop is, at the very least, well crafted.

There's very little here that ups the ante (or matches the highlights) of the original Illinois disc.

He’s managed to inject this compact collection of eight tunes with more than a whiff of 90s alt-radio nostalgia, but the songs are hummable enough to rebuff anyone inclined toward cynical eye-rolling.

Spencer Krug is blessed with an extremely creative mind, and in this album he unleashes it full-throttle. While it's less accessible than his work with Wolf Parade, this disc may still manage to overshadow his more famous band's efforts.

If "Tournament Of Hearts" lacked consistency and focus, Heights feels like a fully realized artistic statement. Welcome back, Constantines.

As with similar high-concept projects, most of it doesn't work, and the most successful pairings are often the ones you'd least expect.

Paired with Quezada and Thulin’s frantic soundscapes, Obey is a reminder that the steeliest demeanors can belie a raging cauldron of emotion. By the time the album’s short 38 minutes are over, what seemed at first like ambivalence feels more like transcendence.

Pop hooks aside, Images Du Futur is not a feel-good record. But if you can deal with some dark, creepy, bummer vibes, it reveals new layers with each listen.

Real is a beefy record that plods and dances precariously close to the jam band divider.

She adds magic to the mundane, cracking it open to reveal multifaceted nuances: longing, pleasure, resentment, jealousy and also self-love.

Sonic Youth fans should find plenty to love, but we’re more intrigued by the instances where Moore leaves his established comfort zone.

Throughout, the material is simultaneously current and nostalgic, recalling the optimism and discovery of the 60s and 70s, especially on Progress, sung by Jim James of My Morning Jacket.

With everybody involved sharp and on point, Sour Soul is a contemporary classic.

Whether anyone outside of the NPR listening audience actually gives a shit about what clever socio-political points Cooder is trying to make metaphorically is difficult to say.

It’s nice to see Aiko atypically solo (Common provides the only rap feature), but more variety would be welcome.

On La Radiolina, an unmistakable molotov cocktail of fierce resistance anthems, Manu Chao continues to do what he does best.

Thematically it's overboard and at 16 tracks over 60 minutes repetitious and ham-fisted. But musically, Year Zero offers moments of industrial brilliance.

A raw masterstroke, A.L.L.A. is a depiction of underground millionaire culture that should have "think of the children" conservatives shitting their pants.

It's a downtempo album, especially its sleepier last third, but unlike its title suggests, it's not even a little depressing.

More than 130 minutes long, Time Flies opens with the untouchables (Supersonic, Roll With It, Live Forever, etc.), veers into the questionable (The Hindu Times, All Around The World) and the avoidable (The Importance Of Being Idle), and ends with late-period tunes that demand reconsideration (The Shock Of The Lightning).

An infusion of their earlier hazy laid-backness would've add more variety, but Tiger Talk is still an enthusiastic, confident follow-up from a band well on its way.

The closer, We Are Circling (featuring Buffy Sainte-Marie), acts as a coda, binding the whole concept together, underlining the sacredness of family, community, music-making and the passage of time.

While clearly her most varied album to date, it still sounds decidedly Mirah: DIY folk singer/songwriter of the 90s with that heartbreaking voice and a knack for killer guitar melodies.

A contemplative but intense listen.

The more nuanced approach is less immediate but stands up better to repeated listens.

Although Young's compositions on Chrome Dreams II aren't quite up to the quality planned for the first volume, the 10 songs at least have some of the shape and gravity if not the epic dimension of his classics written decades ago.

[It] treads a fine line between charming and cringe-worthy.

Alphabets picks up where Animal Planet left off and the devastating Labels began in 1995, but it suffers from the law of diminishing returns.

Not that a few half-baked progressions spell disaster for Hawk, a record that methodically moves from dreamy, lush, introspective numbers to tension and ultimately catharsis in the way Mogwai is close to perfecting.

Bernard Sumner's rhymes are still a bit cutesy and obvious, but, as ever, the same old quibbles take a backseat when the pop is this solid.

As is Fidlar’s style, nearly all of the 14 songs are deceptively rollickin’, sounding more like a call to arms for bored suburban teenagers than the confessions of a 28-year-old man going through relapses.

For all its glossy, soul-searching schmaltz, the band’s full-length debut is a polished record full of consistently catchy hooks.

These 10 tunes feel dashed off.

Wait To Pleasure shows new facets, but that shoegaze tag isn’t likely to disappear soon.

While the album could’ve benefited from the trim of a song or two, it successfully avoids the dreaded career stagnation.

This is the album I've been waiting nearly 10 years for them to make. Better late than never.

Things gets off to a pleasant, somewhat meek start, but bongo-touched Clearer soon stands out for its forceful, head-turning melodies.

Suri's clearly committed to losing his joke rapper image, and while this attempt is not consistently successful, the high points balance out the stumbles.

What’s most impressive about Attack & Release is how they’ve raised their vocal and compositional game in accord with the sonic enhancements, bringing an unexpected poignancy to their earthy funkiness. Every track is a stunner.

Their talent and impossible-to-fake passion merit the sudden attention.

A dreary dump of sad sack pop blather that makes poor use of the substantial talent on hand.

As Stuart Murdoch sings with literary precision about illness, isolation and striving for human connections, their digressions into club music and klezmer feel as restorative as they do celebratory.

The wistful elegance of the music makes Luciferian Towers a peculiarly gorgeous portrayal of our threatening political reality. Xenophobia is on the rise and we seem to be on the brink of nuclear war, but at least we’ve got this album to provide the soundtrack.

Where O was direct, raw and sober--cold and real in its confessional heartbreak--MFFF is aimlessly wistful and therefore more difficult to connect with.

As a feel-good summer dance mix, Sidetracked is fun and doesn’t rely on obvious monster hits to keep the momentum.

The slick production values and mighty arena-filling guitar and drum sounds will jolt fans of the New York City band's charming lo-fi debut.

It has a range of emotions, all showcasing Smith as one of the most unheralded songwriters out there today.

On his latest release, his driving, hook-laden punk rock is as precise as always.

Altogether, it offers a glimpse of what Parquet Courts could turn into. The future looks promising.

Her great success is making these protest songs personal, and she does it in a most profoundly moving way.

It’s middle-of-the-road, but only by Wilco standards. A worthwhile listen.

The shelf life of this stuff can be fleeting (ask the Darkness), but for now it sounds pretty good.

The production isn’t minimal, but Ørsted and Vindahl cram in a lot of oddball flourishes without distracting from her refreshingly unvarnished voice.

The abysmal Justice concert recording is relegated to the audio disc (also hiding evidence of whether or not Gaspard Auge’s MIDI controller is actually plugged in), while the DVD in this package contains the much more engaging behind-the-scenes tour documentary covering 20 days of bleary-eyed debauchery.

Each song unfolds unhurriedly--the type of music that makes you dance into a state of cathartic calm rather than frenzy.

Though this outing focuses more on the smooth, laid-back side of their sound, Circuital is still the work of a band that refuses to stand still.

Infinite Light offers mellow, contemplative folk-pop that never gets overwrought or fussy. The arrangements are stripped-down and intelligent, the melodies moving, the lyrics gently optimistic.

This is a top 40 pop record after all, and thus errs toward deafeningly loud vocals that occasionally obliterate some of the year’s smartest pop songwriting.