At 18 tracks, Honest doesn’t feel bloated. Future takes his time on slow, sensitive jams.... But for every tender ballad, there’s a classic Future banger in which he yelps the hook over and over, lest you forget it, on top of harsh beats.

If Kill For Love doesn't make you a Chromatics believer, nothing will.

Make no mistake--that Jersey (GA's home state) vibe still lurks in the corners. It's just that his writing style is more distinctive here. It's also the sound of a band pushing itself while capitalizing on its strengths.

It's easily one of the most beautiful, subdued folk records of the year.

Gorgeous fuzz guitar leads and glam rock glitter dominate, offset by soft layered harmonies and dreamy textures.

While his tortured, guttural delivery comes off as the lunatic ramblings of an abusive boyfriend, the actual lyrical meat of The Last Romance rings with the uncomfortable, ugly truth of facing your hungover self in the mirror the morning after a one-night stand.

What makes this work so beautifully is that the sound is completely unique and modern and yet couldn't be confused for anyone else.

Comeback of the year.

It should all work extremely well to break Lekman beyond his current fan base of bored Sufjan Stevens fans waiting for Pitchfork to tell them what to like next.

Because The Night, a Bruce Springsteen co-write whose lyrics she penned for Fred Smith before they were married, still holds special power, especially this remastered version.

The deeply personal and overtly political are indivisible on Give My Love To London, an album that is harrowing in its bluntness and beautiful in its subtleties.

A Treasure is a snapshot of an era when Young's then-label, Geffen, went to war with him for not representing himself in a commercially viable way.

Bondy's third record isn't drastically different from its two predecessors, 2007's American Hearts and 2009's grossly overlooked When The Devil's Loose.

The hour-long LP often plays out like an experimental 80s fever dream, but it’s still anchored by The Weeknd’s broody sonic DNA.

It’s satisfying enough to nod off to, even if it confirms suspicions that the band peaked at Pentastar.

Sometimes the vocals are uncomfortable (that goes away after a couple of listens), and sometimes, like on Caribou or Rabbit, they're crystal clear and beautiful. The instrumentation is just as amorphous.

Always good for a spirited rock song, he infuses Patty Don't You Put Me Down with narrative wit and charge that recalls contemporary Bob Dylan. We're all lucky that Thompson is on fire these days.

Indulging in a baroque concept that includes chanson, 60s French café swing and lush pop, he has no qualms about pushing the drama levels vocally. He warbles yearning lyrics on songs like La Banlieue, Un Dernier Verre (Pour La Route), alongside swaying accordion waltzes such as The Penalty. Best served with croissants and café au lait.

You can hear allusions Dylan has made to some of these lyrics in his own work over the last few decades, which makes the collection all the more revelatory. And he sings as gorgeously and clearly as he possibly can, as if it’s more important to him than ever that we feel his love.

Live From The Underground is a generous, humble statement record that should ensure K.R.I.T. won't end up another label-scooped lost boy.

He delivers a tour de force on each track, solidifying his rep as one of the most dynamic performers in pop.

A new urgency and immediacy provide welcome counterpoint to the reserved Canadian introspection that still characterizes their songs.

Tell Me How You Really Feel is her most inward-looking album but also one that pulls back to engage with bigger political and cultural conversations more directly than we’re used to from her.

Once you get past the placid bit at the beginning, it's straight into the relentlessly pummelling assault we've come to love and expect from the mighty Japanese trio, and Pink's wallop-per-second rate puts it in a class with Heavy Rocks at the top of the Boris heap.

Yes, the angsty lyrics are occasionally comprehensible and the songs, which sometimes push past the three-minute mark, have slightly more breathing room, but the chilly, irritated scrape is just as potent.

Lyrically, Daniel is more vulnerable than on previous efforts--transference being a part of psychoanalysis--but not enough that he takes many new creative turns.

The production is unpolished, warm and organic. It had to be. When you hear the pained fury in his rendition of Black Sabbath's Changes, it's clear it would be an affront to modernize Bradley's unvarnished howls.