It’s a testament to the extraordinary breadth of Oh No, as Lanza metamorphosizes from an intriguing curiosity to a formidable contender in contemporary electronic music.

Paradise lands closer to technical brilliance than emotional resonance, but you can feel the band reaching.

Her lazily smoky voice has its bitterly harsh moments, but her coolly analytical self-awareness stings the most.

The Center Won’t Hold is a real-time examination of the fraying that takes its toll on peoples’ insides and outer shells during times both good and bad. Agitations about screen-borne life and unpleasant urges bounce off grander existential horrors; there’s no digging out of them, this record bellows, but thrashing around and attempting to find others to share the burdens will at least stave off malaise.

Yes, there are a lot of elements put together here. The thing is, this is not about juxtaposition. It’s about synthesis and transformation.

In trying to transcend dance music, he’s actually made its purest form: an album that’s a listening experience.

Thier major label debut is drenched in the same warm sonic haze and bizarro imagery as Flaming Lips, but any weirdness comes in the service of the songs. [Nov 2008, p.98]

The Ecstatic is easily his finest full-length since "Black on Both Sides," his 1999 solo debut.

The results are simultaneously raw and symphonic, always ascending higher while on the verge of total collapse.

The Whole Love feels more of a piece with 1999's Summerteeth, the caustic pop opus on which Tweedy sped away from alt-country (or y'allternative, No Depression, whatever) in a car far sleeker (and blacker) than the one Hank Williams supposedly died in.

He sounds as if he's just seen his own specter in the mirror, but no worries--records don't get much more alive than this.

Sparrow transcends its own tastefulness, and odds are excellent you’ll find it gorgeous.

The result is Help Us Stranger, the group’s richest batch of songs to date.

The world that Worlds conjures is fantastical and defiantly cheery.

Plenty of bands try to re-create Bob Dylan's mid-'60s apex, but Celebration, Florida sounds like it's conjuring Dylan's mid-'70s Rolling Thunder Revue period.

It's indie rock as hearty and art-free as oatmeal, before the line separating it from the mainstream dissolved, before it became so...eclectic.

Superchunk clearly trust their music to hold up under all the heaviness of life's big questions, and trust us to hold up, too.

All signs pointed to Shiny and Oh So Bright (full title: Shiny and Oh So Bright, Vol. 1 / LP: No Past. No Future. No Sun.) as an authoritative step back on track.

[A] striking return to form. [Aug 2006, p.82]

A distinctively dark, insinuating aesthetic of measured instrumentation and abstract lyrics. Rather than sinking all its resources in squalls of feedback and distortion, the band diversifies its portfolio by adding canny production tricks and keyboard noodling to its impressive resumé of guitar innovations.

His remix of Azzido Da Bass's "Dooms Night" was the big hit, but really, it could have been any of these unpretentious but hardly brain-dead tracks. [1/2001, p.119]

Like Gigi herself, it is a work of perpetual self-invention, an extended state of becoming. Have pity on the inquisitory birds, because it's impossible to look away.

The 21 songs here are no more or less inscrutable than the hundreds of tunes Pollard has penned since he last played with this band, but they gel in ways that so many of those didn't, reveling in their limitations rather than trying to overcome them. It's the difference between the White Stripes and the Raconteurs.

A primer on British folk-revival icon Shirley Collins is the disc's most sparkling moment. [May 2008, p.103]

“Direct Address” fails to make sticking mantras of “Honesty is like a kiss on the lips” or “I don’t believe in first sight” or “I fall in love with everyone I see,” but there’s plenty of promise here that she’ll move past them, and it’s sometimes fulfilled.

A record that’s more reflective and human than you’d ever expect from a band of literal cartoons.

With likeminded ensembles like Brooklyn’s colorful psych jammers NYMPH and Switzerland’s Eastern-flavored, Voodoo-inspired collective Goat transmitting dreamscapes from the beyond while exuding familial, Zen master vibes, Yoshimi’s OOIOO has joined that spiritual fray with this Gamelan-inspired trance inducer.

Joined by the similarly un-categorizable Swedish reedman Mats Gustafsson, Live at the South Bank is an onslaught of sound.

Nicer than Pulp, less sappy than Coldplay, Elbow excel at meticulous orchestral pop that doesn't take itself too seriously.

Another nuanced collection of mid-tempo '70s-pop-referencing tunes that document the lives of folks who manage only fleeting moments of happiness between protracted stretches of frustration.

AZD quickly and wonderfully makes clear that neither retirement nor creative exhaustion is in the cards quite yet for Actress.

This quick, free joint project is comparatively frizzy, and doesn't leave a bruising stain of forced mind expansion--just a pleasant memory of good times had by reclaiming “jewels” from the corporate overlords of mainstream rap.

The strongest [tracks]... get to Smith's best impulse: a willingness to find the innocence in life. [May 2007, p.94]

Pleasingly, A Love Surreal eschews the idea of calling in favors, instead laying bare Bilal's own songwriting and production prowess.

What elevates Ripe 4 Luv beyond four absolute bangers and four darn-good in-betweens is how it uncovers the creepiness of power pop relationship dynamics.

Pulling a Bon Iver-gone-to-Walden Pond move might be grossly overdone by now, but Lord Huron has skillfully overturned the tired mulch in favor of tuneful new growth.

Rye Coalition send up a prayer for that emo addict who's done with Rainer Maria but keeps AC/DC in the closet. [Apr 2002, p.122]

They elaborate on the love/disappointment/death themes of Peggy Lee's "Is That All There Is?" while merging the sensibilities of the Velvet Underground and Vitamin C. [June 2001, p.153]

The best thing about Unbreakable is that it proves Janet can still surprise us.

The moody brass of 'Maundy Thursdays,' the loveless female narrator who opens 'June Evenings,' and the restless whispering in 'Never Content' are all touches that keep the billowing instrumental opulence tethered, affectingly, to humans on the ground.

Like his peers and predecessors, he utilized vocals to elevate his shuddering half-time low-end above mere physical and intellectual impact--and into the listener’s emotional realm. One listen into Stott’s roomy fourth LP, Too Many Voices, and it’s clear that’s exactly what he’s going for.

But it's with his jarring mix of the banal and the brutal ("I will always be nicer to the cat / Than I will be to you") that Stewart shows his outrageous brilliance.

This isn’t quite your weird uncle’s Wolf Eyes, capable of clearing a den and ending the party in 30 seconds flat--but it’s a Wolf Eyes that’s still capable of scaring off half the guests. The other half will find a lot to love here.

On Hell Hath No Fury, Clipse transform cliches into poetry. [Nov 2006, p.105]

Bandana isn’t a sequel so much as another helping of what worked so well the first time: a selection of Madlib’s finest beats, cave-aged and peppered with the same Gibbsian blend of lighthearted flexing and street philosophy. It’s a more refined take on a proven formula, with sterling track after sterling track cementing Gibbs and Madlib as a remarkably effective duo.

Let's just put it this way: Throw All of a Sudden on while playing GameCube, and you'll have the most dramatic LEGO Star Wars experience imaginable. [Mar 2007, p.94]

Whenever it seems that Islands are losing you, Arm’s Way coughs up a moment so beautiful it might make your heart swell and burst into a bloody, disgusting mess.

The Stand Ins, is packed with the same compound sentences, sprawling narratives, and precarious, barn-dance guitars that made its companion piece, 2007's "The Stage Names," so weirdly gripping.

Seasoned yet no less hyper--there's still plenty of shouting in unison -- the band lays down a more stable foundation for the lyrical zingers of singer-lyricist Gareth Campesinos.

Pitting his manly baritone against squishy feminine keys in the sexually ambiguous '80s tradition, O'Regan gives his transformation a thrilling edge, not least because there's real danger involved.

Lay It Down (with tasty guest spots from John Legend, Anthony Hamilton, and Corinne Bailey Rae) makes it clear that Green's devotion to the primacy of his music's groove has only deepened with age.

Some of the most affecting writing of Mac’s career.

Over 34 irresistible minutes, Summer of Hate has as many barbed, house-party hooks as nihilistic blasts.

Far snuggles between her previous efforts, linking the heady sweep of 2003's "Soviet Kitsch" to the roundabout pop treats of "Begin to Hope."

Food is indeed "the real thing," a satisfying album grounded by familiar funk, rooted in classic soul sounds and focused on the everyday rituals of life: eating.

Its disorienting aspects actually make it a compelling full-length experience, locking you into a maze of drum and echo.

Camper Van Beethoven and Cracker frontman David Lowery splits the difference between the former's loose eclectic twang and the latter's tight psych-country on his solo debut.

The reinvigorated results feel warm-blooded, definite, vulnerable, exposed.

Luke Temple possesses both an eerily high-pitched cry and a facility for his adopted grooves that makes the results far more distinctive than derivative.

Snoop unleashed. [Feb 2003, p.100]

That's the National's insidious brilliance: No other band makes dark and stormy seem like ideal weather.

Overall, though, the absence of pretense does more good than harm here. By emphasizing his singing rather than the usual wailing walls of distortion, Segall expertly treads the fine line separating rockist classicism from lo-fi innovation.

Bish Bosch is Walker's most accessible (extremely relatively speaking) work since Climate.

Though less dynamic in delivery, and less diverse in production, than prior releases, Vince Staples contains all the ingredients that make him such a unique talent.

Songs are still suite-sized, but this is the toughest and catchiest Isis record since their 1999 debut full-length, "Celestial."

Think of this impressive, 25-song double-CD compilation as Singles Going Screaming -- a testament to a Canadian punk institution.

Sam Amidon works similarly quirky alchemy here [as Moby did a decade ago], reinventing public-domain songs (plus one modern-day ringer) as rustic mood music for watching distant super-novas explode.

Using lo-fi digital techniques to play up rough edges and raw emotion, Blake's rare talent is to make music so naked seem unshakable.

Frank Turner gives sincerity a good name on the rousing England Keep My Bones, an exclamation point in an increasingly brilliant career that ranges from early punk spew to more recent folkie testimony.

Dead Ringers embraces zero-gravity keyboards, clean vocals, and the spaced-out guitar sprawl of the best Popol Vuh records. It’s the farthest he’s gone from traditional metal signifiers, but it’s proof that inky bleakness is no heavier than blinding light.

It is uniformly confident and generally looser than past releases, but it is no singular thing.

While he’s tugging at strings that have been otherwise picked up by the stable of Berlin’s PAN (M.E.S.H., Helm, and Visionist) or his Tri Angle labelmates past and present (Arca and Lotic), his extreme repetition of these familiar sounds pushes them euphoric.

Here, [Hot Chip] beefs up the rhythms and tones down the indie-geek shtick. [Jul 2006, p.84]

There's something exhilarating in listening to her think out loud--the sureness of her songwriting battling the part of her brain that knows the song will never be enough.

Amygdala is the most fearless and most accomplished thing he's ever made: a smorgasbord of sonic possibility, a new idea around every corner, each vibrantly alive in a wide sound field.

The album has a studied looseness that's never contrived, and it shows a poise and clarity of vision which her earlier efforts barely suggested

The biggest, boldest, and best moments on their second album nod flamboyantly to influences never before evident -- Erasure ("Ambling Alp") and Haircut 100 (the tropical "O.N.E."), among others -- but somehow they're seamlessly integrated with trippier old jams.

The loose arrangements nod to the American roots icons Sexsmith idealizes; there's tons of feel. [Aug 2001, p.139]

He's struggling to reconcile the unease of his past with the confusion of his present, but Doris proves that Earl's future is secure.

Gang of Losers leaves behind the preciousness of 2003's delicate No Cities Left. [Oct 2006, p.105]

The songs are catchy and nuanced, and the rage that defined them a mere seven years ago comes across here as measured, simmering frustration.

The new developments in sound and style of Marling's fifth album--and the way her leading-lady status continues to evolve--leave it as her most captivating yet. Just watch the movie and don't worry too much about the run time.

Lightest Ono album ever? Probably. Heaviest avant-pop from a 76-year-old mainstream pariah/underground innovator? Hell, yeah!

Echoes is a profound listen that, despite its veneer of cynicism, oozes pain and crisis.

The seven minute thriller 'Joe's Waltz' demonstrates their flair for balancing craftmanship and raw emotion. [Apr 2008, p.96]

Fortunately, Settle doesn't settle; each new track finds them testing their own formulas.

It's initially unnerving to witness indie's most celebrated airy faeries butch it up, but the result ultimately satisfies their what-the-hell-do-we-do-next dilemma better than any record since Ágætis byrjun.

Rock'n'roll pioneer Buddy Holly was no stodgy purist, an idea the best of this all-star tribute adopts gracefully.

Everything here, though, feels strangely organic and effortlessly joyful.

The unexpected triumph lies not in the spectacle of the singer raw-dogging her emotions, but in her total command of the anarchy that results.

Magic Whip finds enough majesty and intrigue in the band’s more meditative days to remain worthy company to any of the band’s classic LPs.

This sort of alternate-universe intimacy with songs we've already come to love makes Versions a wild success, proving that something wemusic once coveted for its desolate nature can be just as warm and familiar when flipped into something else entirely.

Plunge feel vibrant and more alive. There are crucial moments on the album where Dreijer slows things down a bit to let everything sink in. Even on the quieter moments, however, the mood of the album is deeply human.

While eloquently arranged, Flowers’ uniform anguish makes for an uncomfortable listen, even more so than its sonically daring predecessor, 2020’s Petals For Armor. ... Hopefully, the creation of this album — easily her purest songwriter project so far – also provided some peace.

Whatever it is, this music is full of adult pleasures.

On Destroyer's eight album, Bejar lives up to his stratospheric self-regard. [Apr 2008, p.94]

Tegan and Sara's music may no longer be the stuff of teens, but its strength remains in how much it feels like two people talking.

She reinvents herself as a salacious digital temptress, crooning through soulful slow rollers. [Mar 2002, p.129]