With a squeaky Neil Young falsetto, backed by shambly wah-wah guitar and mop-bucket percussion, Earl chirps blithely inscrutable lyrics through a strand of airy, bedroom-psych pearls.

Abyss weighs unnecessarily heavy at times--the obvious premise and barely-there smack drum of “Simple Death” doesn’t hold up against the other songs’ more nuanced examinations of the macabre subjects--but Wolfe makes a convincing case to follow her into the underworld.

This LP sounds too close to unfocused jamming. [Apr 2007, p.95]

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

On the leaner, extraordinarily concise Magma, you hear Gojira becoming even more fully realized.

With pedal steel by Buddy Cage (Dylan's Blood on the Tracks), ominous percussion by Sonic Youth drummer Steve Shelley, and Buckner's usual subtle craftsmanship, he creates wasted-night rhapsodies that demand you lean in close--however warily.

From the deep bellowing bass of Nat Baldwin to the horizon-racing ride cymbal of Brian McOmber, Mount Wittenberg Orca allows Bjork's singular diction to dovetail with the Dirty Projectors' quirky male-female vocalizing, floating weightlessly like a thousand ecstatic whooshes.

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.

Accelerate will be rightfully championed as the defibrillator that shocked a once-great band back to its senses.

Ferreira is finally fully reveling in the swirling cacophony that is her sound and her life.

Nouns evolves gradually, with 'Teen Creeps,' 'Sleeper Hold,' and 'Cappo' adding Superchunky pop riffs to their relentless punk vigor. [May 2008, p.109]

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

The old comedy adage goes that if it bends, it's funny, but if it breaks, it's not. Tell that to Drive-By Truckers, who break everything in sight yet still strike tragicomic gold every time. The Big To-Do, their eighth full-length, features another cast of walking-dead survivors struggling with their vices in a Faulknerian landscape of rocked-up desperation.

While their newfound alt-rock dalliances tend to blur together in the middle for some urgent-sounding tracks marked by temper-tantrum vocals ("What goes around, comes back around," promises "We're Taking This"), they finish strong, never quite denying their metal instincts

Not everything works, and the second side maybe gets bathed in one too many foggy organ dirges, but I, Gemini is like the chorus subject in weirdo-pop single of the year “Eat Shiitake Mushrooms”: Never invincible, but never predictable.

On his fourth album, Luomo (a.k.a. Sasu Ripatti, the Finnish electronic minimalist who also records as Vladislav Delay) stays true to the course he began with 2000's "Vocalcity."

Her minimal songs--just one guitar and sporadic drums--unfold laboriously, as though forcing themselves from Niblett's clenched mouth and hands.

Adam Freeland--the nu­skool breaks vet who broke through in 2003 with "We Want Your Soul"--dons a suit jacket and hires guns (Brody Dalle, the Pixies’ Joey Santiago, Tommy Lee) for the carefully concocted, pleasantly thumping Cope.

All over their eighth album, the Quins continue to demonstrate what makes them such fine songwriters.

Miracle Fortress' jubilant indie pop effortlessly integrates cuddly mammalian coos, cottony guitar fuzz, and gentle falsetto choruses.

With this new album, they finally sever those last few ties, and forge ahead into the retro future.

Recall[s] the most disturbingly surreal moments of a David Lynch film. [Jul 2006, p.87]

The only time the almost 80-minute Take Care doesn't work is when it indulges something resembling conventional hip-hop.

ScHoolboy Q comes off like the dude who gives in to all the peer pressure, constantly on the verge of betraying his talents and smarts just to fit in and be one of the bros. The weirder he gets, the better.

Wasting Light is much more than a salad-days nostalgia trip -- it's Grohl's most memorable set of songs since 1997's The Colour and the Shape.

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

This smart, jagged, contemplative work makes you wonder if Williams could wring amazing stuff out of Bennington too.

Her deadpan delivery -- a more extreme version of awkward queen Maria Bamford -- and her truly singular material (how she saved the career of forgotten pop diva Taylor Dayne, an impression 
of someone doing an impression) don't need silly faces to be hilarious.

No longer ghosts, with this strong, same-as-it-ever-was album, Veruca Salt are now full-on zombies, the riffing dead. They don’t wanna go.

It's an irresisitible, exhilarating mix that sounds like no band but Wolf Parade.

Geist keeps it coolly retro. [Nov 2008, p.91]

Since 2004's Last Exit, Junior Boys' main man Jeremy Greenspan has couched his plaintive voice in various strains of modern electronic music, flitting between 2-step and synth-pop, with diminishing returns.

He cross-fades scratch solos and oddball sound bites like he's trying to win a DJ battle and top the Down Beat poll at the same time. [Jan 2004, p.100]

Interesting as these personal/lyrical developments may be, overall the latest round of self-therapy just isn't quite as tuneful as previous ones.

The skeletal guitars, stylized strings, and rhythmic clatter are enough of a flashlight under the chin to spook up these campfire tales. [Mar 2006, p.95]

The Haunted Man is her weightiest work so far.

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.

Far from a diminishing return, Timeless is the sound of a master getting back into the groove and finding his muse burning bright as ever.

The duo are too consistently subdued, and without their usual spectacle, Seventh Tree veers perilously close to dull. [Mar 2008, p.102]

[It's] mostly a very good album, but the concept betrays the end listening experience, leaving the unshakable feeling that it could've been a six-track EP, not an over-padded full album.

Demolished Thoughts is a noisenik's idea of California dreaming; it's also the acoustic record Sonic Youth fans always knew this vintage psychedelia superfan had in him.

The album’s escapism is alarmingly potent, to the point where it verges into the downright delusional, but its lack of self-consciousness is--somewhat ironically--the thing that keeps it in check.

Blissed-out and surreal, featuring queasy slides between loud and soft, it's a work of patient design and bloody fantasy. Brutal beauty abounds, but for the first time, Deftones are imitating rather than exploring.

Shorter track lengths and thoughtful sequencing help Body Pill come off not as a series of sketches, but rather a tasting menu of Naples’ musical talents that’s satisfying even after multiple spins.

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.

Sounds like the morning after, confused and calm all at once. [Jan 2005, p.100]

Carried To Dust's songs travel a trail that seems carved out of ancient echoes. [Sep 2008, p.114]

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

Toward the Low Sun is what the Dirty Three do best: enigmatic instrumentals that redefine the notions of power in a power trio, a three-headed beast that trades off thoughts with nuance and grace, like a Cerebus dancing a waltz, then knocking back a beer at the bar.

His well-aged craft shows on his fourth LP in 15 years.

What the album lacks in political incisiveness, it gains in the nuance of its twin perspectives. Having told the story of his country, slowthai is ready to tackle his own.

When the band wraps itself around singer Lizzie Bougatsos' singular shrieks, they ascend to vertiginous heights on 'Holy Communion' and 'Dust Storm,' creating something truly transformative.

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

What's great about Atlas, the quintet's huge, intentional about-face of a third record, is that it most definitely didn't organically occur.

At times it’s hard to tell where exactly he’s going, but that’s okay when it’s all too easy to get lost in the Field’s subtly nimble percolations.

These performances never surrender to the anxiety of influence: All those comparisons are mere reference points for a loose aesthetic that values sustained chordal vamps above all else.

Most of Fortune's tunes revolve around love and politics, which McArdle nails with a combination of wit, cynicism and sorrow. [Nov 2004, p.117]

Although they're purely instrumentalists, Matmos can too, with a charm that sets the laptop duo apart from lesser lights for whom chilly beats and icy synths are ends in themselves.

Consistently spirited and glowering, a discomforting album that never leaves his narrative comfort zone, equal parts impersonal and important.

Deradoorian’s arrangements now feel less exploratory than rudderless, her harmonies more droning than direct.

Whether directly inspired by backpack rap or just embodying the raw energy of that era, the group has none of the preachy divisiveness that made that movement a half-joke.

But for every song with a strong concept, there's another that meanders through so-so rhymes without any memorable phrases or punch lines. [July 2008, p.92]

What it does best is address the simple lament of not having anything to twist to in too long.

What's so brilliant about ['Taiga'] is how Yoshimi finds spiritual connections between unlikely genres. [Oct 2006, p.102]

On American Saturday Night, Paisley extends a hot streak began with 2003's "Mud on the Tires," singing about regular life in the USA wit and charm that make suburbs sound like heaven on earth.

Sun is hardly sloganeering, but its Power to the People ruminations are more potent and topical than you'd expect from a pop record--and certainly one made by Cat Power.

Scattered. [Jul 2007, p.95]

The title track is a garrulously burbling treat, but the piano-led whale song 'Seal Eyeing' reveals the group as comfy at the deep end of their sound pool.

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.

Sisterworld veers between frenzy and foreboding, exploring the City of Angels' demonic side, from Charles Manson to Bret Easton Ellis, while producer Tom Biller adds richly detailed Hollywood orchestration.

It's yet another trip to the part of town where you really shouldn't be, in a district the Truckers call home.

The duo leaven Perfect World’s miserablism with just enough smeared hooks and doom-metal licks to make converts of the underground faithful and the casual headbanger; as tortured triumphs go, this debut is a doozy.

Both chilly and warm, soulful and soft, Post Tropical is an intricate ice sculpture of an album, and a fantasy come true for anyone who's ever misted up over Maxwell's version of "This Woman's Work."

Crimson... still has its share of macabre wordplay... but the real attraction here is the music, which sounds just as dramatic as the imagery. [Jun 2005, p.105]

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

Quasi sound feistier than they have in years. [Nov 2003, p.114]

Though they've traded some of the unhinged thrash of 2002's Black City for keyboardy atmosphere, the band's Goteborg gloom can't hide the hooks. [Jun 2004, p.108]

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.

Kelela obviously doesn’t shy away from wearing her label’s signifiers, but on Hallucinogen she transcends them, the same way she outlasted lazy classification into PBR&B in 2013, swimming to the hazy surface of a new kind of future sex/love sounds.

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.

Heartbreaking Bravery is both entryway and endpoint, a listening experience that's harrowing and gripping and, no matter how you come at it, moving. In other words, it remains true to its title.

The real act of provocation here comes in the streamlining of what had been cacophonous material into a solid bag of actual tunes.

A sultry brew of Gypsy, Mexican, and pop ingredients that's adorably silly and unexpectedly moving. [Mar 2008, p.100]

He also lightens his fifth album with sweet, sincere interludes.

Pretty much every guitar band going is currently toiling in the same ’90s nostalgia mines that Kempner dives into here, but few are able to do so with both technical prowess and its emotive content intact.

The mall-ready hooks and occasional stabs at acoustic pop on Deja Entendu have been replaced by the sort of Radiohead-indebted bombast that begs to be played at lease-breaking volumes. [Dec 2006, p.99]

This is some serious whimsy. [Feb 2008, p.92]

This is music to play in dark, velvety, womblike bars; this is music to play while buying cigarettes; this is music for well-dressed poor people. [May 2003, p.109]

When Phosphorescent's Matthew Houck and his band pay homage to Nelson, it feels like a greenhorn hitching on to the pothead patron saint's biodiesel wagon as a credibility grab.

Given time, Isbell could be roots rock's Flannery O'Connor. [Aug 2007, p.102]

Deerhoof's... most ambitious record, but it's also their most familiar. [Feb 2007, p.85]

When the clamor stays spare, the threesome's clank and bleep stumbles into beauty, and their feedback morphs toward free jazz. [Nov 2006, p.105]

Despite subjecting himself to psychoanalysis and attempting to purge himself of ego, Ashin has created something emphatically empathetic out of his inner turmoil. He's going through it like everyone else, but the very personal Anxiety is remarkably messy, dramatic, poignant, and at times, beautiful.

[Has a] swirling spy-movie ambience. [Jun 2004, p.108]

The Wolf works best as a concept album about never surrendering the night when you got your first real six-string at the five-and-dime and were tryin' to break free. [Oct 2003, p.108]

BAIO’s always had strange and smarts to offer in his world-class quartet; The Names finally gives us a first-person view.

Josephine Olausson's Ono-esque delivery remains an acquired taste, but that's surely by design: If she sang any sweeter, Love Is All's songs might evaporate like cotton candy.

New Magnetic Wonder couldn't be brighter if it had been performed on the sun. [Feb 2007, p.82]