Wave(s) is louder, catchier, and about half the length of The Water(s).

While he played the easygoing, likeable mope that rattled through life on Never Hungover Again, Cody is more daring and complex document, bled through with cynicism and exhaustion.

The pop ingenue’s impassioned, sassy and highly satisfying debut album.

The results are even more immersive than the stuttering microhouse rhythms on which he built his reputation originally.

Rain Machine doesn’t have TVOTR’s Berlin Wall of Sound might, but it’s still an accomplished work.

Her ability to transcend her influences has always been song-to-song, and that’s true here, too. But it also feels like she is inching closer to a breakthrough: an album that fully lives up to her reputation and ambition.

Upbeat sentiment is scarce, yet there's barely a downcast moment -- no insignificant trick -- and somewhere Alex Chilton nods his approval.

Startling turns of phrase are just another of this stunning album's grim charms. [Nov 2006, p.103]

Oberst's countryish genre studies have deepened with a very adult loneliness. [Apr 2007, p.89]

H.N.I.C. Pt. 2 is a real downer, but it's also completely gripping. [Apr 2008, p.102]

Synthetica manufactures dependable, big-hearted joy straight through, whether it's slightly gloomy or coquettish or just flat-out pop fun.

The trio's new album, Never, is a fleet, fizzy experience with a mixtape-like flow (Levi has created or co-created five of those, as well) and makes earlier Shapes music seem undercooked by comparison.

Sparhawk tentatively hits highs in Wayne Coyne territory, imbuing the canyon-filling swirls of background synths and simple, sad, jangly riff with echoes of The Soft Bulletin. “Spanish Translation,” on the other hand, is Low-core and lovely.

Mixing stately story ballads with Cee-Lo-esque uptempo jams, Back to Love presents songwriting substance as style, and although that might not be flashy, it's mighty refreshing.

Animal Collective’s latest sees them painting with confidence, acrylics, dinosaurs, Bob Ross, a twist, and a wipe out.

Beneath the bleakness is a perky mix of deep house, dub, dance-oriented rock, and acid jazz pieced together from bits of live percussion, electric bass, flute, sax, and an overflowing grab bag of indie guitar. [March 2002, p.132]

A set of punchy roots pop whose backbeat thumps as hard as her still-wounded heart. [Jul 2006, p.86]

In making a record about growing up, Lopatin’s come out on the other side in one mutated piece.

Up-tempo and uplifting, this largely self-produced record blurs distinctions between accessibility and avant-gardism.

The follow-up to an album celebrating the African roots of the banjo, Pentatonic Wars is a sprawling folk and jazz set featuring everything from cornet to cello to djembe drums as backing for Taylor’s resilient rasp.

After a few listens, the line becomes representative of a larger realization. In acknowledging certain personal and artistic shortcomings, Presley has uncovered a hidden well of confidence and skill that couldn't be contained in his home recordings.

Rustie’s new album doesn’t signal a reclamation of maximalism as much as it’s a return to form, even if it’s likely that many of its themes were inspired by an acid trip more eye-opening for Whyte than necessarily for the rest of us. But what a trip.

The richness of the music occasions her best vocal performances to date. The arrangements are airy with distance and light, but their architecture is boldly drawn: the basslines thick and taut, the arpeggios whirring and spangled, the guitars unfurling in a glossy neon cursive.

This is the soundtrack for when everything feels like static and you can’t bear to press on.

The secret weapon on their second album is an unironic embrace of the elegant, harmony-rich hooks and wide-eyed lyrics of rock forebears the Righteous Brothers, which gives the Orralls' blistering tunes their own earnest, romantic edge.

Ladyhawke’s long-awaited Wild Things is both a Tegan and Sara-worthy fever dream and a Little Boots-ian collection of expertly rendered synthesized-rock.

By grounding their idealism in simple, anthemic rock and a vague mythology, they’ve created an angsty, mutable codex of sorts, an inclusive machine by which to punch all the hearts.

EVOL, along with the Purple Reign mixtape, doesn’t provide that instant hit that Future’s world-class 2015 was so full of. Instead it crawls into your brain and makes itself at home; you’ll find yourself going back to it over and over without even realizing.

Ready to Die is a weirdly exhilarating gem, thanks to Iggy's fiery eloquence and the Stooges' still-raw power. Apparently rock'n'roll can be an old man's game after all.

A mature but still totally floor-ready return.

A grand, sweeping album of heavenly melodies and rich, full textures.

Reversing their gradual progression toward gentler, grander grooves, the Pornographers' sixth album is both their liveliest since their first and their most immediate.

We Are KING’s quiet moments have more churn than most bands’ fast ones.

With Light and With Love sounds bigger, though, more accessible, conceived with an ear toward top-down, tear-out-of-town FM anthems of summers past.

Featuring Farfisa, sax, strings, anything but loud guitar, Dancing Backwards doesn't even try, and that's its virtue.

A soulful strut, abetted by a backing singer who's a ringer for Sam Cooke, plus subtle psychedelic touches demonstrate why they 
don't call it classic rock for nothing.

Death-metal firebrands still blaze.

In all respects, Strangers is about coming to terms with one’s situation, and what it lacks in blind hope it makes up for with thoughtful consideration. That care is what assures the record’s grace and splendor.

Drum and guitar free, with stark string orchestration, this imaginatively selected and sequenced collection achieves such a haunting consistency of tone that its spell lingers long after the speakers fall silent.

As clever as Fuck Buttons are at cobbling together unlikely juxtapositions, they're master builders when it comes to tension and release.

Nearly forty years in, Williams, 63, is at a place where some are likely contemplating the mortality of her career, too. But on The Ghosts of Highway 20, she’s never sounded more alive.

There’s no shortage of potential DJ weaponry on Homesick, but what makes the album truly impressive are the cuts where Matrixxman gets out of his presumed comfort zone and steps away from the club.

An album packed start to finish with some of Mastodon's best material to date.

Preoccupations works with a richer emotional palette.

For the first time, the ballads are as memorable as the dance cuts.

Each sound lingers, and each stretched-out moment is welcome. [Nov 2007, p.114]

Again working with Flaming Lips producer Dave Fridmann, they graft 4AD atmospherics ("A Darker Forest"), frosty power-pop hooks ("Magnets Caught in a Metal Heart"), and Mogwai pedal-effects crescendos ("Stay True") onto their post-hardcore template, which now churns even more fiercely with an expanded palette.

This is serious music. Albarn has stated that this is his most personal record and he ain't kidding.

These Brits--featuring two members of Mclusky, a great band that died in 2005--spit fiery, trebly guitar­rock venom with such lusty glee that following them to hell actually sounds inviting.

It is the best distillation yet of his tortured hustler mystique.

This one is way, way, way better [than her last album], not least thanks to a quaint little ditty called "Body Party."

The way the album veers between savage energy blasts and more deliberately paced displays of power is extraordinary.

Quickly working 11 tracks into 40 minutes, the album is visceral and unrefined, two qualities not often associated with Hebden.

An aesthetic- and career-defining set, it's the album they were destined to make. [Nov 2006, p.103]

Whether the devastation of the aforementioned accident has imbued Baizley with new life, or his dual successes in the arts are just making him a fuller person, somehow Purple is still heavier than Yellow & Green despite being a leaner machine.

While Ty Segall may not be his opus, but it’s certainly a testament to his fruitful brain and the unparalleled output that spills forth from it--a mind on a marathon, yet to stumble.

Nash's bluntness and detail make for a good spectacle. [Feb 2008, p.96]

Despite its tortuous path to existence, Joyride is a strong, cohesive project.

Regardless of the catalyst, Chelsea Light Moving is an entirely successful test of Moore’s post-breakup mettle.

Instead of sounding like a half-baked aberration or a tedious, overlong experiment, Die Lit broadcasts a refreshing and well-developed aesthetic--one that feels like Carti’s specific achievement. Its appeal feels distinctly corporeal, like it’s inducing some swag-rap equivalent of ASMR through exploring a limited and tightly EQd collection of sounds.

What could have been an assless art-groove experiment turns out to be a synth-pop idyll. [Feb 2003, p.99]

Erasing the gap between the 1930s and today, this striking North Carolina trio brings a modern sizzle to the legacy of classic African American string bands like the Mississippi Sheiks, with fiddles, banjos, and even kazoos sparking an electrifying ruckus.

The songs remain wonderfully the same - simple guitar lines seething like itchy scabs, scathing lyrics scribbled with trembling, coffee stained hands, memories of kissing with nicotine lips.

Wonderful Wonderful is the Killers’ strongest statement since 2005, a more than okay affirmation of their power to keep a global audience.

While mediating the difference between bitterness and hooks was such a hallmark of past releases, it feels good to hear them find catharsis here, even if it’s in small doses.

Peeling back the density and obtuseness of Xen and Mutant, Arca is his most engaging, emotionally draining and confrontational album to date.

In a career fraught with obsessions over the perfection-imperfection dichotomy, it turns out to be a blessing that she put pop and its various pressures on the backburner just to deliver some real summertime sadness.

The White Album not only matches the sounds and feelings of Buzz Bin-era Weezer, but also the craft.

The rhythm sections and synths have been crafted with a newfound appreciation for sound, but with unexpected, childlike curiosity. The lyrics retain a relatable amount of simplicity, yet they also portray an intimate exploration of self-worth and image.

There are fewer miracle strokes like Le Tigre's "What's Yr. Take on Cassavetes," but these "roller skating jams" have so much certainty, its irrelevant. [Nov 2001, p.132]

On the beautifully airy Original Colors, the ambient pair seem weary of making a good impression.

On their sixth, the band's sound finally matches their romantic ambitions.

Her most adventurous album yet. ... On Mañana Será Bonito, the future looks bright for Colombia’s next pop queen.

Lowe's sexagenarian years have real sparkle.

The group embraces its status as a classic-rock band, and make no mistake, this is a classic-rock album--one that evokes the sort of denim-clad '70s-rock vibe that Guns N' Roses and Foo Fighters tapped into.

The layered results are mesmeric, giving their introverted noise a new, laserlike intensity. [Nov 2007, p.114[

The enthralling Real Animal presents a concise overview of the man's art and life, encompassing the punk fury of the Nuns, the country-rock twang of Rank and File, the rootsy guitar assault of True Believers, and the late-era tortured, string-quintet balladry that showcases his unbearably sad voice.

II, like the record that preceded it, is still a seasick and unyielding document of brutalist experimentation. But because the trio is willing to explore different avenues, there’s more corners to get lost in.

As he has for two decades, singer-songwriter Freedy Johnston plays the unreliable narrator in this exquisitely unsettling folk-rock collection.

Wild Flag offers odes to volume and youth ("Romance," "Future Crimes"), suggesting the barely contained frenzy of teenagers. It's all the fury you want, but executed with the capability and confidence of lifers.

Throughout, Randolph's playing is joyously flashy, yet never glib or predictable.

King of the Beach's specialty is Warped Tour–ready choruses, charred with noise and peppered with lyrics from a self-hating surfer teen who sees sunburn as spiritual penance for being a burnout.

Over inventive arrangements that feature more live instrumentation than on any other Streets album, Skinner gives maturity a fresh coat of meaning.

The strong-heeled Jackie is far from conservative, and possibly more daring, with three of the year’s best songs at the very top, middle, and bottom.

Sail on Sailor – 1972 is a fascinating look behind the curtain at the end of the Beach Boys’ most fruitful creative period.

For the most part, they don’t disappoint.

While the album tends to lull around its middle, folklore is far less concerned with its individual tracks than the greater, twisting conversation — the sort of hours-long, sanity-affirming chats that have become vital over these last four months.

Under Color Of Official Right rumbles along with tense basslines and drums that feel like they're trying to stay out of Casey's way, as guitarist Greg Ahee slashes a path forward.

Call it the happy aftermath of a midlife crisis. U2 is relaxing, reasserting some beliefs critics love to shove back in their face--most importantly, that uplifing art is not necessarily dumb. [12/2000, p.233]

Central bulbs in the now-blinding chandelier of Philly indie-punk, Hop Along’s thrilling sophomore effort plays out like sonic arrhythmia.

Depression Cherry’s particular non-specifics feel as full of breath and life as anything they’ve ever done--an album-length sigh as eloquent as a manifesto.

The Other Side of Make-Believe maintains the charm and intrigue that made Interpol indie darlings 20 years ago, but it also finds the band aging gracefully — these brooding New York boys are now men who embrace their emotions.

[Out My Feelings (In My Past)] is not the bright and exalted counterpoint you might expect--it’s still grim, but Boosie turns his focus outward.

Invaders Must Die is a stirringly workmanlike, if retro, blast of founder/producer Liam Howlett's anthemic breakbeat spazz.

The vibrant Revelry is tougher and deeper--the sound of traffic lights reflected through Rolling Rock empties, of clothes permanently reeking of cigarette smoke. [Apr 2002, p.124]

On the lovely Bright and Vivid, a more accomplished sequel to last year's Are You My Mother?, she masters the art of hiding in plain sight, concealing a sweetly sad voice in soft clouds of pretty noise.

Multicultural, cosmopolitan, intellectual dance music: Ibiza meets punk, dub goes tango, trance gets smart. [Oct 2006, p.95]

For such crackling peaks, there are also times where it seems Blake has found himself at the forefront of a heady new genre, trap-schmaltz. ... Despite those shortcomings, Assume Form stands as Blake’s most coherent statement to date. The Spartan singer-songwriter tropes of his debut, the half-baked collabs of Overgrown, and the overlong The Colour in Anything fall away to reveal a more dynamic Blake.