Aerotropolis' 180 pop move--as comfortable and assured in its own niche as it is--is so abrupt that it almost feels like an innovative rulebreaker hitting the reset button and starting a completely new, much more familiar persona from scratch.

Stratton’s ambitions are far more modest, but the new album quite successfully transports your attention away from the banal.

At the heart of his music is still an inimitable bittersweetness—the light shrug that follows the realization that in time all things will die and pass. His best songs have always felt like ballads, regardless of tempo. There are some of those songs here.

Paper Trail more often succeeds when the positivity sounds more earned than court-ordered.

Pop Negro feels transitional. El Guincho has a clear abundance of talent; he simply didn't harness it this time around.

For all its movement, GLAQJO XAACSSO feels a little frozen.

[Blackshaw's] playing carries some of the echoes of his ornate 12-string flourishes, but here there is a grittier edge, with bent notes and the audible sound of his fingers sliding on the strings, his winding melodies casting out concentric smoke rings that call to mind Ben Chasny's acoustic work in Six Organs of Admittance.

The album needs the percussive abrasion of his voice, and digging into some of the more typical slabs of Death Grips' instrumental tendencies doesn't unearth much more than a pretty solid workout soundtrack.

Heard as individually and spaced many months apart, the best tracks here were diamond-hard realizations of very specific sonic ideas; placed on an album alongside songs that use similar ingredients but are markedly inferior, they rattle around in the can, perfect objects in search of the right container.

There are isolated moments here and there, but even when when they strike an appealing note or two, the Free Nationals never come across as more than a backing band missing its leader.

Ditto’s non-traditional view down a well-trodden path is welcome, but you do wish she’d kick up the dust a bit more.

1990s bring hooks, sneers and, well, intoxicants to spare, with the punched-up sheen of a production budget to boot (helmed by ex-Suede guitarist Bernard Butler).

Heart On does reveal a slightly maturing sense of pop songcraft from Hughes and Homme.

When things do begin to feel a little too familiar, Control manages to pull clever punches that keep interests piqued.

Even if this album plays hard to get, there's plenty to love for those willing to listen.

The real irony of Nobody Knows is that it makes him sound like a more fully realized artist, but a more conservative one, too.

Even when Vestiges & Claws exudes strain, González never gives the impression of truly challenging himself.

Over the course of the record, the resonance of the melodies gradually overrides the initially distracting phrasing, revealing a sometimes exquisite folk-rock album.

Even though Owls serve as a touchstone in 2014, there's still little that quite sounds like Two.

Jhelli Beam manages to be a completely cerebral experience and at times overwhelming in a satisfactory way, but then again, you could say the same about ice cream headaches.

Hands of Glory possesses an almost academic quality, as though Bird and his cohorts were presenting a musical essay about endtimes imagery in country music.

How can I is not as thematically coherent or straight-up enjoyable as IF U WANT IT, but it is considerably more inspiring in its experimentation—a challenge, perhaps, to a house-music scene too happy in stasis.

Every song is midtempo, chugging along with the dreaminess of everyday life. If you want to glean something deeper, you have to lean in.

Despite the overcooked jumble of your typical oft-delayed all-star concept record, it really does fall together as pure music. Just stop paying too much attention to Del's lyrics.

As with Skying, it’s a high compliment to say Luminous is a giant bowl of assorted, premium ear candy, and it’s about as nourishing, which maybe is the point.

The result is a record that, on the surface, sounds beautiful from start to finish. At times, though, these arrangements create a smoke-and-mirrors effect that obscures the weak spots in LeBlanc’s songwriting.

Though they'd likely see a frighteningly short life span in a place like Brooklyn, this music remains endearing for reasons that have little to do with their record collections. Intangibles.

Fast-Moving Clouds benefits immensely from its mid-fi, almost homemade sound, which lends weight to her inventive pop flourishes.