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

They use mopey melodies and nature imagery to evoke heart's near the breaking point. [Nov 2008, p.100]

This unpredictability -the 25-year-old band's trademark attraction--is what keeps them at the forefront of metal's vanguard, and what makes Koloss, for all its "normalcy" (joke quotes intended), the first real contender for the genre's album of the year.

For every instance that seduces you with K.R.I.T.'s prowess behind the boards, though, the mixtape throws up a song that pushes things back into an unfulfilling zone.

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

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.

Musically, A Blessing and a Curse is the Truckers' least complicated album. [May 2006, p.93]

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.

Time on Earth is an assured, soothing collection of sweet-tempered pop tunes ("Even a Child"), and ballads ("Pour Le Monde").

From the girl in "Till He's Dead or Rises" who has "the fear of Jesus on her side" to the way in which "First Air of Autumn" is an identical twin to Brighter's superior "Perfect Timing," the album sounds like the kind of holding pattern release that causes fan-bleed.

Little Dragon's third full-length deepens the group's down-tempo mix of icy techno and smoldering R&B.

FORGET sets out for new terrain with an expanded collection of collaborators, but isn’t far from what you’d expect from the project at this stage.

The hooks are hidden in dense atmospherics, but after a few late-night sessions, these grand, moody songs will reveal secrets worth waiting up for. [Oct 2008, p.122]

Minus the mock-heroic guitars, frontman Tjinder Singh's globalist critiques lose some of their pop-political punch.

While his latest album is obviously rooted in Nielson’s present, it still brims with the same introspective nostalgia that comes with dusting off those old memories, and old records.

The group [her band] gives Kline’s ideas depth without ever bogging her down. Smith’s keyboard playing replaces the bizarre synth flourishes on 2015 mini-EP Fit Me In with an understated sound that mirrors the warm, delicate quality of Kline’s voice. Kline’s songwriting is more nuanced, too.

The ballads tend to turn murky, but the rockers are terrifically drunken reveries.

The mournful ballads are achingly pretty, but Rae is most compelling when trying to distract herself from her loss.

Every note sounds instinctual, every moment fluid; this is what happens when good friends come together to watch the world burn.

The brighter moments of the second half can be interesting, but never as achingly perfect as that opening stretch.

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]

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]

Dom's '80s identikit synth-psych ditties ("Telephoned," the title track) are the most fun when he's slyly and/or drunkenly tugging your skirt. Not when he sidles up all polished and proper.

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

The music might be prime kicking-back fare, but that doesn't mean Braids can't sneak some gentle urgency into the mix as well.

Akron/Family provide consistent backing, but it's Gira's array of violins, "krautabilly" electric guitar, accordion, and choral vocals that turn the tunes inside out.

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

Lust for Life is a spectacular 72 minutes long. It trades in the same intently, atmospherically narcotic sound Del Rey and primary producer Rick Nowels have favored since the beginning.

After mucking about for more than a decade, spacey Norwegian producer Rune Lindbaek teams up with London disco pranksters the Idjut Boys to create this surprisingly focused debut, and the results are nothing less than total sun-soaked beatitude.

In spite of the giddy playfulness, it never comes off as a lark. You’ll get no closer to ascertaining his actual identity, but as the balance between jokes and earnest emoting narrows, Sold Out presents something of an abstract portrait of the man behind the haze.

In a scant 30-plus minutes, Modern Guilt modestly proves that it's still restlessness, both artistic and personal, that drives the only living boy in Los Angeles.

It's familiar, sure, but Kingdom of Rust has a welcome warmth.

Her sophomore disc hardly sounds like something dashed off between higher-profile gigs: Sardonic chamber-folk gems such as "Tower Song" and "You Cheated Me" (in which she tells a lover to "run your scared little ass down the block") offer lyrical and sonic detail for days.

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

What the album lacks in focus, it makes up for in sheer listenability.

The Melodic Blue has little else in common with The Massacre, but the former’s fascination with the latter may help to map out the sprawl of his debut studio album. ... Throughout the project, Keem’s production is often as bold as his lyrics.

It's a jumble. But Albarn's love of "Waterloo Sunset" poignancy adds emotional weight.

When they get the balance right (yes, that reference is from '83) and filter those desires through their own distinct sensibilities, Divine Fits stands with their best work.

6 Feet, like Me Moan before it, succeeds sometimes in spite of itself.

Fantasies is a welcome return, but it's not without flaws.

This four-CD live box is so raw that you can almost see the twisting, sinewy torso and smell the sweat and peanut butter, as the sonic levels constantly push into the red.

The big shift on his beautifully recorded, intermittently moving fourth album under the Sun Kil Moon moniker is that only his nylon-string guitar plucking now accompanies his wounded croon.

Jealous Machines tends in a darker, more modernist direction. On Lese Majesty, Shabazz Palaces leaned towards the indulgent, with a scattershot track sequence that was heavy on under-developed ideas bordering on interludes. This time, Butler and Maraire tighten their focus even as they serve up twice as much music.

By facing down the exhausting nature of depression and loneliness (seriously, Coyne sounds so depleted that he can barely muster the dejection to sing, and yes, that's a compliment), the Lips have retroactively strengthened their entire artistic credo.

There are a few lulls in which the band seems to be capably but perfunctorily going through the motions. (Raspy cheerleader vocals; cheeky rhythms; chunky, anthemic guitars—we get it!) But they’re outnumbered by the more inspired stuff.

[They] up the theater-major quotient. [Apr 2006, p.91]

The thought and vision tucked into these constructions are inexhaustibly fun to listen to and unpack.

Will ultimately is a record about going places, even if it takes its sweet time. Uninterested in either Point A or Point B, Will is happy to just drift about in the in-between.

Emo kids, hold your heads: An Eminem you can call your own is on line one. [Apr 2003, p.107]

Northern State's skills and we-can-do-this exuberance transcend what otherwise might be shtick. [Aug 2003, p.116]

Nada Surf face everyday life's cacophony with a pleasant, unfaltering, even surgary approach. [Feb 2008, p.96]

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

He doesn't stray far from his main band's template. [Oct 2007, p.108]

The lower-key approach pays off here. [Sep 2007, p.138]

Broke With Expensive Taste is a project dripping in confidence, class, bursts of brilliance, and personality.

[He] still knows how to make palpitating street anthems. [May 2006, p.91]

Recording new material live in a series of concerts with his longtime road band is the best idea Thompson's had since he ditched soul-muting '90s producer Mitchell Froom.

Somehow Williams is at his most charged-up and urgent when he’s at his bleakest, though you’d be hard-pressed to remember song titles here.

Root for Ruin's dreamy ferocity is familiar, but the feeling of camaraderie keeps growing.

While string-gilded klezmer ballad "Steak Knives" and steamrolling six-minute confession "Shameless" plod well-trod territory, the mod-pop swing of "Piranha Club" and the wry, multi-suite cabaret of "Oh, La Brea" place Honus' self-loathing in a refreshing, no less bizarre, light.

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.

That combination of bottled passion and efficiency spreads itself evenly through the 11-track set.

Sonically, Emotional Mugger lands somewhere between all of these records [Manipulator, II, and Ty-Rex], maintaining the cohesion and (relatively) streamlined arrangements of Manipulator but nodding to the scuzzy ’70s hard rock of the latter two and Segall’s trademark haywire, lo-fi garage.

When he injects melodic sunshine, as on the loping 'Action/Reaction,' For the White in Your Eyes nestles nicely between the Beach Boys and Fleet Foxes. But Makrigiannis mostly stays in stark, downcast mode.

Here’s hoping The Tree Of Forgiveness is not either an incidental or deliberate farewell. If it must be, at least it’s both a suitably goofy celebration of his career and a dignified capstone.

Gift of Screws boasts a lot of attractive touches, from the lovely acoustic guitar of 'Bel Air Rain' to the crashing chorus of 'Love Runs Deeper,' but less polish would add some soul to the mix.

Frontman Adam Lazzara's temper tantrums sound more sore- than full-throated, but they still freeze blood for short stretches, while the revolving choruses are as enormous and polished as Boeings.

Like Lifted, Once Again offers a mesmerizing blend of canny sample science and Stevie Wonderful life-band R&B. [Dec 2006, p.96]

Their debut shares Gnarls' yen for psychedelic weirdness and uncharacteristic (for hip-hop) emotional vulnerability, but with beats that are swampy, murky, and--when thumping below moaning guitars and spacey organ melodies--wholly disorienting.

For all her grandiosity, though, McCarthy's meditations on domestic toil ("Housekeeper") and seasonal change ("Hibernation Tales") feel intimately heartfelt, while the wailing "O Mary" blends natural imagery and Christian allusions in stirring fashion.

The up-tempo numbers are great fun, but the Puppets excel on the ballads, which they croon in lovely tight harmony. [May 2008, p.100]

Fiasco approaches his second album as if it's his last chance to get all his conflicted ideas out into the open.

Straddling the line between street and pop, Attention: Deficit doesn't quite capture the pop zeitgeist. But it sheds light on Wale's evolving personality, and his circuitous story raps reward deep listening.

Few bands this side of Wilco float along so easily on little more than diagonally rendered elegiac noises and severe anxiety disorder. [Mar 2006, p.95]

Heartfelt guitar rock capable of punching you in the gut and patting you on the back. [Aug 2003, p.114]

It's synthesized, as expected, but not in a new wave way. Organs breathe a heavy, gloomy sigh through 13 tracks... It's beautiful and I'm sold.

For a 28-year-old, Carrabba remains remarkably fluent in the language of teen heartbreak. [Sep 2003, p.107]

Wallentin has reined in her seductive-foghorn voice, and Wildbirds & Peacedrums are a more subtly compelling band for it.

On W.A.R., the Queens MC is still in a linguistic fervor, rapping about being in the streets "like catalytic converters" on "Clap (one day)" and comparing himself to a preacher with a ".38 snub-nose" on "Let My People Go."

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

Layers of strings and piano (the droney "Old Statues") or ghostly backing voices (the haunting "As I Lay My Head Down") are usually enough to keep Tamer Animals from feeling too domesticated.

While the album is more a series of word puzzles than a memoir, it does occasionally illuminate the man behind the mask.

Listening to Non-Believers is like clasping hands with an old friend: It’s warm, accessible, and sweetly familiar.

An album to savor, then, or forget.

Repulsion is like The Wild Bunch seen from the outskirts of Edinburgh, a European reflection of the stylized American West. [Aug 2005, p.99]

Bad Witch, like its two predecessors, contains glints of exploration tempered by maturity and consistency. ... It’s a strangely tentative gesture from an artist who made his name as a longform auteur.

His decision to ditch the club and retreat to a more conventionally romantic setting allows him to let his voice take center stage, which is where it should have been all along.

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.

A Scottish singer-songwriter with a number of spare and lovely folk albums, Alasdair Roberts goes for the mad prophetic gusto on the strange and visionary Spoils.

Instead of updating psych garage folk, they allow its corpus to fester in skronky breakdowns, churning feedback, and... a wicked spirit-medium session. [Jan 2006, p.91]

A strangely enervated Sonic Youth record, one that exchanges Murray Street's golden-years vigor for a sad sense of duty. [Jul 2004, p.108]

System's repeated willingness to make so much noise in the service of getting nowhere reveals an enduring idealism. [Feb 2003, p.96]

By turning indie-folk into nonstop neurotic cabaret, Oberst may have made the best album of his prodigious, prolific career. [Sep 2002, p.133]

She can sound brand-new and busted-down in the same verse, and she sings like a guitar player. [Oct 2004, p.120]

With subtle sonic shifts (such as chanting on the almost-poppy "Trembling Hands"), the songs are reliably dynamic, turning hushed beats and lightly scratched guitar into overwhelming drama.

Her vision is worth the price of submission. [Jun 2007, p.90]

Reign of Terror is evidence that these kids never stopped Armageddonit even once they got punk cool.