The earnest but tepid Clear Heart Full Eyes, which as a solo album makes an excellent argument for sticking with your apostles.

Even the terrible parts of Born to Die are just so lovable, which bodes well for the actually great parts.

Imperial Teen still sound as fresh and vital as ever.

Whether they're trying to obscure the songs' perceived flaws or make some sort of dazzling artistic statement, the band opts for grandiose production (courtesy of Jacknife Lee) and sprawling arrangements--cue the orchestra and the choir--that blunt the effect of Lightbody's deceptively strong songwriting.

The overall affect is a travelogue falling between chillwave's lo-fi explorations and the sophisticated melancholy of Lykke Li's Wounded Rhymes: tightly economic pop tunes that draw on aural largesse as much as claustrophobic bricolage.

Like cans of Monster Energy Drink, this collection is spracked out and ridiculous and fun and sometimes disposable, just one more shard of debris left in this kid's wake, and his generation's.

Sounds of a certain vintage, which can net a poignant, tragic-romantic classic ("The Weekend Dreams"), but occasionally overreaches.

Vibrates like youth itself.

A visceral display of synth prowess that makes exhilarating use of contrasting textures and subtle dynamics.

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

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.

There is Michael Jackson bad, there is Ed Wood bad, and then there is BAYTL, a union so unholy that it cries out for a show on Bravo.

This slippery debut from Odd Future's Syd the Kyd and Matt Martians embarks on a journey into Twilight Zone pop, with a lovelorn story arc that transitions from giddy crushing to it's-over melancholia.

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.

Ideal for anyone who finds Cypress Hill too sober.

When it comes to trap raps, he's coined and refined a slick, successful musical formula that TM103, easily maintains.

It's hard to think of another post-hardcore lifer whose return to active duty is so high-five worthy.

The selections range from pre-Frank material to the last song she ever recorded, all united by a distinctive rawness, her voice kept naked and slightly flawed, despite the sophisticated production.

The Roots work hard and play hard on undun, but there's not enough pleasure to balance out Thought's business-like, consummately bland reading of the character who's supposed to bring the entire album to life.

This Berlin-via-Manchester producer's debut EP blasts through not only genres, but the divide between the otherworldly and the physical, too.

Tago Mago is the messy one, where ten-minute stretches of nightmare sound effects are followed by 20 minutes of caveman groove with Damo Suzuki's caveman babble to match.

Amid overwrought theatrical gestures, MJB still finds a slinky groove.

The five-disc set breaks down the album to its building blocks, while the two-CD version provides outtakes and an edit of what the original final product might have been: part tribute, part cartoon, part dream.

An anthology that holds its own against MacLean's "official" releases.

Thing is, dubstep's slithering textures actually suit Davis' demented croon, particularly in the cuts produced by Skrillex.

Gone are the prior albums' "tasteful" (i.e., boring) slow-burners; El Camino's 38 minutes are pure thrust.

On Far Side Virtual, he makes a glowing, glossy album out of everyday digital detritus.

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

A wildly inspired blend of tribal rhythms, wah-wah guitar, fatback bass lines, and the heated unnnhs and yeeowws that typify James Brown funk.

Any distinction between "Dry Your Eyes" (which sneers, "Don't pretend to cry") and "The Revelator" (which offers moral support in hard times) is erased by the band's numbing grandiosity.

Dear All Tomorrow's Parties: Book this band immediately and meet your future.

The West Coast threesome's pillowy, nostalgic abstractions veer from the sweeping histrionics of M83 or breezy gestures of various Scandinavians toward a woozy, romantic restlessness

Much has been made of Yelawolf's Southern rock fandom, but Radioactive is more an ode to the Southern hip-hop movement that started to seep across the world a decade ago.

Occasion opts for Kanye-esque stadium-status beats, merry lyrics that include perhaps the only rap reference to a "bar stool in Poughkeepsie," and a joyous closing cut called "Walk on Air."

From ambient juke to haunting, slo-mo house, their debut album kicks and caresses in equal measure.

Where last year's Loud had a hefty helping of unshakable singles, this album's arc, however simple--sex, love, sex, repeat--is cohesive and sweet.

The overall dark, diaphanous sound here almost oversells the title, but it's impossible not to get lost in 
the drift.

The ten songs here are a euphoric whirl of church choirs, lushly layered cymbals, poppy clap tracks, and heady psych rock, evoking peers like Tough Alliance and Tanlines.

He mostly raps on point and with confidence. But the actual words coming out of his mouth sound like they were brainstormed by a bunch of kids idling in an eighth-grade English class.

Glowing Mouth's general disillusionment anchors its sprawl.

It's only when Pterodactyl embrace their underlying pop core and ratchet up the jangle--see the breezy "The Break" or the '60s sunburst "Searchers"--that Spills Out makes an effective splash.

Phantogram drives straight through, with a clear purpose, no rest stops.

Carter Tanton -- of the now-defunct Tulsa and still-thriving Lower Dens -- style-jumps so restlessly that his second solo disc sometimes feels like a multi-artist playlist rather than a one-man show.

Buraka assemble Jamaican dancehall, Brazilian favela beats, South African ghetto-tech, and video-game ear candy like colorful Lego blocks on an earthy yet impeccably crafted working-class fiesta for dance-floor zombies and vampires of all nations.

Dive is a pretty and sturdily crafted collection of techno maybe-memories-- hypnagogic pop for a very discerning Ikea shopper.

This set--six meticulously documented hours recorded before his first proper album--is a progress chart.

Hints of folksy revelry may abound, but the dynamics are strictly library-level, and the lyrical focus is decidedly inward.

French actress Charlotte Gainsbourg's voice is small and unaffected (a stage whisper, indeed), but Beck, her producer-songwriter for 2010's celebrated IRM, tends toward the opposite extreme.

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

Los Campesinos! can't stop adorning their odes to existential grief with snappy handclaps, but the Welsh septet are still showing signs of growth on this third album.

Let Us Pray offers a familiar Scarface tableau, but Pusha and cast (including a demonic Tyler, the Creator on "Trouble on My Mind") paint his fantasies with requisite fervor.

Every musical stroke is a concise yet instinctive caress.

Offering a slightly subtler take on the style-shuffling of 2009′s Heartbeat Radio, Lerche somehow never loses cohesion.

Inni--a double live album (plus live DVD)--is a master class in geologically paced, ethereally pretty buildups.

Both lyrical and hypnotic, Replica serves as a deeply romantic testament to the possibilities 
of life in the Cloud.

Cass McCombs confronts life's miseries with a smirk and a softly rocking beat on this enjoyable sixth album.

Lynch handles most everything else here--vocals, guitar, writing, production--creating soundscapes that are dark, unsettling, and often confusing.

He trades in his 8-bit bloops and Sean Paul remixes to reach for R&B ringtone ubiquity on this solo debut album, warming over Timbo's jittery electro on "On My Mind," but faring better when lashing a live wire across vicious first single "The Vision," and whetting the stabbing synths of "Tron" and "Slaughter House."

The real strength here is the feline sharpness of Lambert's voice.

A sci-fi tint shifts the perspective from Atlas Sound's usual layered introspection: Inner space now has become outer space.

Repackaging it all as a six-disc set (including remixes and alternate versions) is pretentious, extravagant, and romantic--U2, after all.

Welch may never do anything as dangerous and uncouth as "Kiss" ever again. But even the threat of menace works wonders on terrific follow-up Ceremonials.

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.

Though crunching at their heaviest, the band still shines brightest when they edge toward indie-rock approachability.

The quartet's stubborn refusal to evolve yields genuine thrills on their typically irascible 13th album.

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.

Ruins mostly sticks to compelling, pretty surfaces and leaves the demons in the background.

She's not Katy Perry, not yet Carrie Underwood. But look out.

High Flying Birds isn't a total knockout, but it should keep Liam sleeping with at least one Beady Eye open.

Audio, Video, Disco teeters on the edge of self-mockery, not an unfamiliar position for Justice.

The Florida band is now content to catch Pixies-ish waves of gentler mutilation and ride them 
to college-rock bliss.

This horribly named duo's towering pop songs are buried so deep in reverberating juju that it's sometimes hard to follow them.

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.

Where Viva La Vida showcased Coldplay's sense of adventure, this one feels more eager to please; the sonic detail accrues with such speed that it's like Martin and his mates fear you'll bail if they don't grab you straightaway.

His latest is dedicated to "the spirit of the summer night sky," and that's an accurate, if slightly cornball, description of these six impressionistic guitar instrumentals.

It's crate-digging redefined for the chill age.

RJD2's collaboration with Philly singer Aaron Livingston bears the qualities that have divided the instrumental hip-hop producer's fans since the 2006 misfire The Third Hand -- most prominently, jazz-rock ellipses and thin, expressive vocals (Livingston's are only slightly better than RJ's own efforts).

Conditions of My Parole, featuring a supporting cast that includes Keenan's son Devo and ex-Mars Volta drummer Jon Theodore, reveals a more reassuring side of a singer better known for willful alienation.

Her third self-produced, self-released record in less than two years, is checkered with sweet-and-salty Americana, despite Lynne's tendency to wander precariously close to Jordache-commercial territory

For their previous temporary-reunion album, 2003's Strays, these dark alt gods created a superslick din seemingly designed for radio, but definitely not your heart.

Nothing on this full-length debut is so insidious, though several tracks come close.

Real Estate's gift is that they either don't overthink their melodies or they can't, and the simplicity contrasts with their steady, dreamy atmospherics: instant nostalgia for an angst-free generation.

Extra Playful is as easygoing and steady rolling as he's ever sounded, serving up hooks, elegant Euro-beats, and a modicum of glee in poking fun at his own uptight image.

El Khatib's full-length debut is a fine testament to the power of pomade nostalgia, cigarette-pack-in-sleeve tropes, and Gene Vincent licks.

Too much of the time, Evanescence get lost in the cavernous spaces carved out by their unsecret weapon.

Gonzalez sings mostly about memories (occasionally unintelligibly), but refuses to accept that some dramatic gifts don't necessarily have to be exhausting. Still, the album is full of goose-bump moments

In terms of maturity and effort, each of these six reverb-soaked romps is as much of a leap forward from last year's King of the Beach as that record was from Nathan Williams' homemade 2009 debut.

Armor is Bachmann's most vigorous post-Archers of Loaf full-length since 2003's Red Devil Dawn.

It's rare to call anyone's 17th album urgent, but it feels like rocking fast and getting to the point never even 
occurred to Tom Waits before now.

Stones Throw rap fanboy morphs into credible crooner--now scans as natural evolution; his increasingly confident cries and grooves and songwriting aplomb are undeniably pro.

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

His music is also a hodgepodge: square sax-rock, Motown, bongo-heavy folk ballads, and sunshine pop, all tinted by Shin's guitar, which is alternately savage and buttoned-up.

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

The luminous All Things Will Unwind uses strings, brass, marimba, and mellotron, brilliantly showcasing her operatic, slightly scary voice in tricky songs that remain fresh after repeated plays.

His supporting cast has stabilized around multi-instrumentalists Emmett Kelly and Shahzad Ismaily, but song structures dissolve altogether on Wolfroy Goes to Town.

He's purely elegant throughout.

We Were Promised Jetpacks' second album tightens the craggy fuzz of their first, revealing twisty post-punk songs with chewy pop centers.

Working in Tennessee glides along on its Bakersfield groove with the greatest of ease, despite the album's title.