Whereas Too Young to Be in Love was the excited doodles of a crush's name in a notebook, Hairdresser Blues is the discarding of the love letters that came after.

1966 is one more piece to a puzzle that will never be complete--which is of course how Dalton herself would have had it.

For all its violence, Back radiates warmth. Much of the beauty is due to the expanded instrumentation.

More unfortunate are the moments when Schnauss and Peters aim for surprising or affecting and veer straight into kitsch.

All together, it sounds like a poorly organized collection of demos and ideas.

On Man With Potential Pete Swanson's ability to encompass many sounds and moods knows few bounds, if any.

People deserve a two-disc Sparrow comp to bury all other Sparrow comps, but this isn't it (Smithsonian's First Flight, from 2005, is much better, though it falls off before Sparrow hit his prime).

With The Something Rain, Tindersticks provide a wholly convincing reminder that they are, by definition, an incendiary device.

The most disappointing aspect of Go Fly a Kite is that it sounds so satisfied, almost smug, in its complacency.

None of the songs are simple, and they mostly all build to surprising and surprisingly weird heights.

It'd be much easier to love, as opposed to merely like, They!Live's glistening, long-form tech-house soundscapes if there were more bombs and curveballs hidden amongst its lovingly pruned forest glades.

While something like 2007's Cendre benefited greatly from an occasional splash of his cotton-wool electronics, there are very few moments like that here, and frankly, it needs more.

It's to Lambchop's credit that their music avoids comfortable resolutions. Instead, it hangs there, no moral, no judgment.

This album is more of a mood piece, its melodic rewards teased out over time and drenched in the type of steady rain that his home state is known for.

I Am Gemini is Cursive's weakest record by a disheartening margin.

As messy and thoughtful a take on house as we're likely to hear this year.

Sleigh Bells pull off this more sophisticated and nuanced approach without calling attention to their improved craft or maturity.

On Interstellar, she transports us further and takes us higher than she ever could have as the drummer of an indie pop revivalist band.

The Russian Wilds strives for timelessness, but sounds temporally adrift.

Compulsively listenable.

The songs on Hadreas' full-length debut are eviscerating and naked, with heartbreaking sentiments and bruised characterizations delivered in a voice that ranges from an ethereal croon to a slightly cracked warble.

Somehow, Dando's nonchalance here--his stoned cadences, fleeting hooks, loose-limbed guitar playing, and generally rumpled demeanor--comes across as a weird but sincere gregariousness.

Animal Joy proves they are still a naturalistically minded band, but in dropping the more arcane conceptual gambits of their self-described "trilogy" ... and speaking in layman's terms both emotionally and sonically, they're taking their best shot at meeting new listeners halfway.

Hastily assembled, thoughtlessly sequenced minutes of vivid beats and incredible rapping.

Never before has his music possessed this much majesty, this much command, this much power.

They've developed a larger musical vocabulary, but the results can be cumbersome.

Here, when everything's as clear as it is on Les Voyages de l'Âme, he feels almost too exposed, and the big climaxes he's reaching for don't arrive. There's no denying the beauty, but it feels weirdly muted-- or perhaps just unsurprising.

It's the most cohesive-- and, possibly, the out-and-out strongest-- Islands record yet.