Sweetly and unmistakably, That Lucky Old Sun limns the sunset of Wilson's career, while still showing how California is at its most beautiful through his eyes.

Sparkle Hard is the kind of quirky and realized record made by an artist with nothing to prove.

As broad as their discography is, though, In Search Of still feels radical. [Apr 2002, p.113]

It feels like a concept album -- in this case, the story of how wine-flow disco circumnavigated intellectual pretensions on all sides en route to a temporary utopia that may finally believe in nothing but the boogie but still has the infinite on its mind every minute. [June 2001, p.145]

Taken together, Cold Dark Place affirms the band’s pursuit of technically ambitious rock with high production value, while continuing to disrupt traditional notions of genre and song structure.

At its best, Home is a sumptuous, thrilling experience on a purely sonic level. There are absolutely zero boring moments here, and the details are often transcendent.

Wilson is clearly energized, and it's delightful to hear one virtuoso finally meet up with another.

No Shape is Hadreas’ longest album yet, and even moreso than its predecessor, it feels like a complete conceptual project. Taken as a whole, it’s a real thicket, imbued with the innocence and horror of fairy tale.

Recorded leisurely over tea at his sister's place on the southern edge of the Sahara Desert, Sidi Toure's second album is an intimate gem of bone-dry acoustic Afro-minimalism.

On the Dead Weather's second album, they harness this icy alpha-dog tension into a distorted call-and-response aggression that's now greater than its parts, a rudely heavy swath of rock'n'roll authority.

The real orchestration is in Beam's voice, a sigh so angelic it masks the religious turmoil within. [Oct 2007, p.106]

We have You Surrounded is a terrific accessible hard-rock album deserving more than cult attention. [Apr 2008, p.94]

The joyous problem: All the repitition, all the sunshine, all the sound can get tiring. But the same goes for anything that releases endorphins this ecstatically. [Oct 2008, p.122]

She's always juxtaposed the cruel and the kind, and here, the baroque arrangements are even more complex and her voice even prettier, with both only underlining the dark currents running through her songs.

An emo album that you don't have to be 17 to actually enjoy. [Sep 2006, p.100]

Get over Herring's Shatner-like earnestness like you did with Destroyer's Kenny G moves on Kaputt and you'll unlock the furrowed brows, baggy eyes and bulging veins beneath the metronomic perfection.

On her Dum Dum debut, assisted by Blondie and Go-Go's producer Richard Gottehrer, she cages contagious odes to husband-Crocodiles singer Brandon Welchez (as well as anxious ruminations on losing him) in metallic distortion.

Like any (sorta) self-titled mid-career album, this one functions best as a thrilling overview of what OPN is capable of, from the sample-driven soundscapes of his earlier releases (“Answering Machine”) to the ominous, cinematic thrall of the Uncut Gems soundtrack (“Shifting”). Oneohtrix Point Never’s music has never sounded like it’s angling to get played on radio stations. With Magic Oneohtrix Point Never, he creates his own instead.

In the way the tunes crash and throb, much of the album could be the "Milkshake" follow-up Kelis never got around to recording. [Jun 2006, p.84]

Sucker is just an exceptionally good pop album.

Asobi Seksu do something My Bloody Valentine can't--leave Shields behind.

Alex G continues to find the sensitivity in rough edges, and offers uneven poetry for our own relentlessly uneven lives. ... An overarching commitment to juxtaposition and bricolage that’s palpable throughout the tracklist. In their brevity and slapdash composition, they feel like essential components of the Alex G m.o. It’s that m.o. that holds House of Sugar together, even as it rejects a single unified concept or “story.”

2's developments in subtlety and humor.

Harry’s House reinforces Styles’ signature sensitivity in an authentic way and shows he’s more than earned his place as one of music’s most innovative artists. More importantly, he reminds us that he’s a pop star playing by his own rules—and he’s here for the long haul.

Their most fascinating record to date, and possibly their best as well.

Harvey is the strange case for whom a return to straight guitar-bass-drums is risky--it might be mistaken for mere rock. But she has no mere in her. [12/2000, p.215]

The record is not a disappointment, it's a progression.

The mini-classic of ultramelodic singer/songwriter pop that he's always hinted at. [Oct 2006, p.99]

[Kiesza] serves up is one of the most elastic albums of the 1990s, both 20 years too late and also totally in time.

"Indie rock" has long since ceased to be either "indie" or "rock," of course, but Surfing Strange signifies on both counts, just when we desperately needed a refresher on the fundamentals.

With a tangle of voices and viewpoints, both songs [“First Letter from St. Sean” and “A Better Sun”] write beyond Boucher’s near-exhaustive projections-of-self to see things from with a larger, more insightful point-of-view.

Abraham's broken-glass belloiw is often matched with folk-siren backup vocals that disorient more than they soothe. Multi-tracks thicken and slur the guitar riffs, heightening both the tension and complexity. [Nov 2008, p.102]

The album presses pause on Holter and her band at an uncomfortable moment of transience--when their relationship to these years-old songs is clearly comfortable but also mildly antagonistic. However, they still manage to bring out the richest valences of Holter’s pristine and eccentric songs, and more than ever before, communicate her incredible skill as a passionate, intuitive, and controlled performer.

He's still way too fond of show-tune orchestration, and then there's the tossed-off corny stuff, but the orneriness of Newman's now-64-year-old wit makes George Carlin seem like Dane Cook. [Sep 2008, p.120]

A blatant 180 degree shift from the confines of his wretched comfort zone, Redemption is full of creative risks that pay off in spades.

Gibbard mostly dispenses with his trademark jitters, leaning into Death Cab's tuneful guitar-band thrum with a confidence that eventually sells Codes and Keys' moments of 
eager-beaver optimism.

This is the album that Justin Timberlake is too famous to make in 2013, its musical scope and track lengths modest, its sexual appetite and commercial ambition immodest, its star willing to offer up whatever cheesy line, vocal acrobatic, pop hook or funk groove or electro flourish that it takes to keep you listening.

As concept and program, Sullivan's best album to date boasts every curtain call and lighting effect designed to flatter its star.

Daddy’s Home manages to reveal the most accessible music of [her] career.

Less an electronica CD than a dub album without any original sources--and it's all the freer for it. [Oct 2001, p.128]

Long stretches of Circuital could even pass for an alternate version of Quadrophenia, albeit one heard as a distant echo with the volume turned down to deathly quiet. James sounds remarkably like Roger Daltrey at 
times, singing with an appealing, yearning catch in his voice.

Despite Rooty's many delights, it feels like Basement Jaxx didn't really know how to top Remedy. [Aug 2001, p.127]

With its intermittent clean vocals, abundant alt-rock solos, and near-constant warmth, Ordinary Corrupt Human Love qualifies as Deafheaven’s most accessible effort thus far, not to mention one of 2018’s most universally-palatable collections of heavy music.

The disc is fleshed out with studio chatter and intriguing early versions of songs that would appear on Abbey Road, the last album they recorded. Across the 57 tracks, we hear the band exploring music that would become timeless. Although “Get Back” is the only song that met the original criterion of being created from scratch to finish, there is much to enjoy.

Yet even this fits with Kid Sister's vibe of retro irrepressibility. Dream Date's every track virtually dares you to resist her.

By the end, when Johnson stakes a place vocally, geographically, and alphabetically "somewhere between [Waylon] Jennings and [George] Jones," you're relieved he still has his wits about him.

There’s something whimsical about the new record that’s hard to pinpoint. The disparity between the lyrics and the sounds is a little disorienting at first, but progresses into something remarkably natural, and invigorating.

Her deranged aura aside, the second full-length from this New York group is a brainy and brawny hybrid.

The resulting album blurs the lines between simple and sophisticated more effectively than Phoenix ever have before.

Being bombarded with mortality is a tall order for what is ostensibly a summer pop album; but rather than let her words fade into the background of washed synths and drum machines, as on previous releases, the breathing room in the production of Norman Fucking Rockwell leans into the intimacy.

Clark has carved out a space as a guitar hero in an era where that sort of thing is supposed to be over. That is impressive, even if the theatrics occasionally wear me out, and begin to feel like preludes for a visually dynamic live show. I’m much more attracted to MASSEDUCTION’s humbler moments, when you can better imagine the songs without the heavy arrangements.

His astounding new Life is even more songful, all the more impressive considering his claustrophobic medium that he gleans so many colorful variations from, à la Fetty Wap.

Every note fits. Every key has a keyhole. And King Push proper would be hard-pressed to beat this small wonder of great cameos (the always-undervalued Jill Scott, sampled Biggie), productions (in a first, Timbaland manning the boards on the eerie “Untouchable”), and block quotes (“I’m the L. Ron Hubbard of the cupboard”) here.

For maybe the first time, the Evens actually make you miss Fugazi a little bit less.

Though Will Yip has already spawned a modern alt-rock empire from the modest Philly suburb of Conshohocken, Time & Space is the album that’s been waiting for him all his life.

This batch of tunes is still suffused with the confessional vibe that made "The Sunset Tree" and "Get Lonely" unlikely emo-folk touchstones. [Mar 2008, p.98]

Man on the Moon II: The Legend of Mr. Rager, the sequel to The End of Day, is a revelation, boldly reshaping Cudi's sound -- with vivid production by Emile, Plain Pat, the Cool Kids' Chuck Inglish, Jim Jonsin, Diplo, and others.

His most concise, transportive record to date. The keys to Consciousness’ triumph: fewer songs, fewer vocals, way, way more gorgeous guitar work.

West's third album is memerizing and alienating, like all the purest forms of pop culture. [Nov 2007, p.114]

John K. Samson's imagistic descriptions of loneliness, desperation and yearning--which avoid the goofiness that plagues, say, Fountains of Wayne--are fleshed out with chiming guitars and warm synths. [Oct 2007, p.112]

On M3LL155X, she does seem to be growing stronger, testing the boundaries between light and unfathomable darkness, the breathtaking and the nauseating.

While 2010 debut Treats was an exotic, overdubbed roar (Big Black-meets-the-Waitresses for people who give a shit about those references), and 2012's Reign of Terror winked through a heavy heart at Mutt Lange's scorched-earth sound field, Bitter Rivals is sly and sleek.

That she succeeds on a record as sophisticated as the self-produced Pretty Little Head is not only a testament to McKay's talent, it's also a tribute to her artistic sense. [Jan 2006, p.90]

YG has gone and done himself one better, creating a record that stands tall alongside the full-lengths he once mined.

Not long ago, Ben Bridwell's reedy vocals and slow-burn guitar were compared to Built to Spill's Doug Martsch; Bridwell himself is now a touch- stone. But when does "consistent" translate to "rut"? For Band of Horses, not yet.

The album succeeds because all that cold, clinical lab work hasn't eliminated the warmth from their music. [Dec 2007, p.111]

The Fool is built on Joy Division's post-punk low end, moody chords, droning vocals, and doomy lyrics, but it's more than a tribute.

Heartache swells from these swooning folk-pop tunes, but the presence of both of the relationship's combatants ensures that they never drown in it.

Singer Christopher Owens remains unchanged: Choked on teen melodrama and blessed with a documentarian's keen eye, he's the rare indie rocker with a tender hooligan's heart.

Two years later, our Canadian antiheroes return with something deeper than digital histrionics and crazily infectious beats.

Suck It blends the deliberateness of that record with the fleet-footedness of their still-stunning 2006 debut Whatever You Say I Am, That's What I'm Not and follow-up My Favourite Worst Nightmare.

Even when you're not sure where they're going, you can't wait to see what happens when they get there. [Aug 2006, p.86]

That pairing of punk force and country grit is nothing new, but Lydia Loveless makes it her own through the strength of a blazing voice, a fully formed persona, and bluntly crafty songwriting.

Even as they feature orchestras, women's choirs, and Beach House singer Victoria Legrand on Veckatimest, the album is still an intimate, ascetic affair.

The first single's called 'Pretty Wings,' but the whole thing flies.

Trigga isn't as cohesive as 2009's Ready, but it's a sublime, soulful convergence of the sonic minimalism and oil-slicked synths of today's hip-hop and R&B, and its sound provides a charismatic contrast to its almost anhedonic pursuit of pleasure.

An eight-song, 34-minute miniature more substantial than just a handful of outtakes, but also in execution not as complete or united as his album-ass albums (starting with 2011’s Section.80).

The Rumble Strips are so contagiously charged up that it's tempting to overlook their pathetic mind-set.

Cape Dory establishes an enviable fantasy: two lovers happily adrift. Where Best Coast is too cool for school, Tennis seem (almost) too good to be true.

Astro Coast can stand up to online scrutiny--it's girls that keep Surfer Blood's reverbed indie rock jumping out of its skin.

As lean and compact as its predecessor was expansive. [Jan 2007, p.88]

Of course, the main attraction remains his bristling, zigzag guitar licks, which still astound nearly 40 years on. [Jun 2007, p.96]

Where Marina’s appeal lies in her writing her emotions large through her music, Christine achieves something more challenging and arguably richer in gleefully obfuscating hers--making her as difficult to read in song as on her minimalist and tonally flat LP cover, but essentially inviting you to come and be puzzling with her.

The result: an album exuding wall-punching energy, ugly noise, and raging nostalgia for stale bong water and sunburn.

This ain't perfect, nor is it exactly sui generis, but it still ought to bump up their summer-festival-lineup-poster font size by a solid five points or so.

Murs for President has a cumulative bang that's impossible to deny.

It's fevered outbursts like 'Lookout' and 'Grey Skies,' where Dex unleashes his slightly sloshed voice and surfabilly guitar, that have real soul-saving potential

On his solo debut, Jonsi Birgisson--Sigur Ros' spectral voice and six-string skyscraper--embraces a lithe, lush pop his main band is too monolithic to accommodate, and it's revelatory.

While this album is inarguably Konono’s slickest offering yet, slick remains a relative term with these lo-fi guys.

Rather than trying to replicate their off-the-cuff studio performances onstage, Gordon and Nace treat the songs as rough outlines for further improvisation, to be colored in as the musicians please.

These are well-loved songs that Ndegeocello loves a little bit more, singing them with a rich, warm tone (she’s never sounded better) and backed by a band who know how to anticipate every bob and weave she might make. It’s one of her best.

The Only Place delivers riveting drama in a rousing pop package, with Brion rescuing Best Coast from the fuzzed-out, lo-fi indie template, cleaning up their sound and enhancing the potential for mainstream appeal exponentially without diminishing their artistic credibility.

Cost of Living outpaces its predecessor in large because of Downtown Boys’ newfound mastery of dynamics in their performances.

Producer Karlberg also has expanded his reach and grip, snatching sounds from all over and re-purposing them to serve Mwamwaya's immaculate, coruscating voice.

Pretend turns out to be an enticing fusion of her wintry, pop-paradise homeland, and the West African musical roots she picked up from her father, the late Maudo Sey, all tempered with raw empathy; her masterful pop-soul captures depressive moments and makes them soar.

Simply enjoy the band's increasingly deep groove, its rich crosscutting of violin and accordion melodies and its mastery of both Gypsycore trash and lilting Euro-reggae. [Aug 2007, p.106]

[A] taut, very good sophomore studio album.

It's their most instantly accessible effort after "Bark," with a dozen catchy tunes packed inside 47 easy, breezy minutes.