Room's similarity to its predecessor ultimately bespeaks a purity of vision, not a dearth of new ideas. [Dec 2003, p.121]

Assembled as carefully as he once cut up a cappellas, it's a dance-music textbook.

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.

It's the rare rap album that actually rewards its mixtape following.

The entire point of Melody’s Echo Chamber is for listeners to find their bliss while Prochet quests for hers. While Emotional Eternal sustains this winsome, pastel streak, it’s mellower, more assured, more grounded, far less a product of happy studio accidents than what came before.

Wandscher (an original member of Whiskeytown) drives the ship with riffage ranging from gently atmospheric to snarling quasi-metallic. Still, it's Sykes' voice that impresses.

In her tuneful insistence that every unhappy couple is unhappy in its own way, Lewis remains one of our foremost chroniclers of heartache and its discontents.

Byrne and Clark rarely interact vocally, sometimes suggesting two solo outings spliced together; and the grooves have an anonymous vibe.

It isn't just a celebration of the warm-up DJ; it's a self-portrait of an artist who wouldn't be who he is today without once having had all those empty rooms to fill.

The songs are foundationally solid enough in their swaying rhythms and sublime melodies that they don’t need twists to keep them interesting, but the care Emmy puts into the album’s crevices makes it one of the fullest-sounding and fullest-feeling singer/songwriter LPs of early 2016.

If Dirty Projectors are no longer indie A-listers with the expectation of having each album provide shapeshifting genius, the upside is Lamp Lit Prose sounds like something Longstreth wanted to make rather than had to.

One of his strongest outings ever.

As you work your way through the new material, it becomes apparent rather quickly that Shabazz Palaces have elevated their jazz-damaged phrasing into a unique musical language. Butler, of course, responds to the music with idiosyncratic lyrics to match. ... Gangster Star leans towards a funkier, more upbeat mood.

Ten crisp roots-rock tunes in a mere 40 minutes, The King Is Dead finds the Decemberists in serious course-correction mode -- which is a relief, if also kind of sad.

Invite the Light is perfect for those times when you need gentle inspiration for cracking open the blinds and facing the world, but the album’s lithium-like vibes are more stabilizing than invigorating.

As usual, the North Carolina trio's latest is musically contemplative (mostly acoustic guitar or piano, bass, drums, maybe strings) and lyrically bountiful (camera-ready metaphors, idiosyncratic settings, characters with warts).

Earlimart's sixth full-length doesn't break new ground -- those Elliott Smith comparisons will keep on coming -- or approach the sublime sexiness of fellow Los Angelenos Rilo Kiley. But it's an undeniably solid set of droney hooks.

While it offers clear highlights—“Run On,” “Holy Winter,” and “Time Goes By” feel like hallmark songs—its loud-quiet-loud pattern is predictable. This is well-trod territory for MONO, never reaching the emotional heights and cerebral intensity of Hymn to the Immortal Wind, the surprising instrumentation or disco-like drums of Pilgrimage of the Soul, or the more nuanced thematic play of the Dante-inspired Requiem for Hell.

She keeps an eye on trends without succumbing to them. Add Quantum Baby to the winning streak.

When [Albarn] stays away from the light and the mic, Humanz shines.

O'Rourke mostly contributes electro-folk noodling for a laptop-friendly coffeehouse, but Tweedy's tunes are glum gold. [Jan 2003, p.98]

Hardcore is mostly content to refine the band's epic, frequently breathtaking constructions.

The bedrock combination of redlined guitars and Mark Arm's adenoidal wail has only been rendered more caustic by two decades of watching lesser lights cash out. [June 2008, p.114]

Here, [Califone] take a straighter path on their seventh album... but with the same basic ingredients. [Nov 2006, p.97]

Grooming their jam-band shagginess and spotlighting their songwriting chops, Philadelphia indie poppers Dr. Dog produce a clean, big-sounding album that uncannily evokes Summerteeth-era Wilco and Soft Bulletin–era Flaming Lips.

The Far Field can’t match its predecessor, but it isn’t without its highlights.

This is the most important artistic statement from NIN leader Trent Reznor since the late '90s.

The effect is like gauze with teeth--chill-out music that never stops looking over its shoulder. [Oct 2006, p.104]

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

The results are brilliant, but the album too often focuses on the latter two-thirds of the album title at the expense of the first.

Delivered in a frail squawk recalling Seattle singer-songwriter Perfume Genius, his coming-of-age songs carve intuitive, 
idiosyncratic paths (spidery guitar, buzzing electronics) to mountaintop indie-rock catharsis.

Idealism shows off plenty of blaring synth riffs. [Jun 2007, p.92]

Maybe not what they originally had in mind when they used to call it “Electronic body music,” but a stunning reinterpretation nonetheless.

Don't Stop boasts gleaming dance-pop production from first-album collaborators Richard X and Timo Kaukolampi, plus Bloc Party/Kate Nash producer Paul Epworth and Franz Ferdinand's Alex Kapranos.

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

In dealing with the inevitable change that loss engenders, Ed Schrader’s Music Beat and Dan Deacon have crafted a memorable and eclectic record.

Both sides would be well served by a bit of mingling. [Mar 2007, p.91]

Kiss delivers plenty of unexpected layers, employed judiciously in service of Beam's usual ruminative ideas about good and evil, love and death.

Lacking the bluster and/or baritone to pull off the stumbly, ESL lyrics, Migala's drowsy fables wander aimlessly. [Sep 2001, p.164]

Unfortunately, timelessness does not always equate with flawlessness.... it is all a little too pristine and sanitized for someone's protection...

Some marriages end with shrieks, others with sighs. On Loud Planes Fly Low, Rosebuds co-conspirators Ivan Howard and Kelly Crisp set their breakup sighs to a Greek chorus of lo-fi keyboards, singing things they can't bring themselves to say.

This ain't perfect, nor is it exactly sui generis, but it still ought to bump up their summer-festival-lineup-poster font size by a solid five points or so.

While this album is inarguably Konono’s slickest offering yet, slick remains a relative term with these lo-fi guys.

Sometimes Kieran Hebden's electronic music is dawn-over-the-Buddhist-shrine gorgeous. [Jun 2005, p.108]

Pedals reveals a group of reenergized vets who've hardly mellowed with

At its best moments, the EP is experimental and detail-oriented. At its worst, it sounds like an empty pastiche of ideas drawn from a time-tested deck of Reznor-patented Oblique Strategies. ... If consistent, headline-grabbing smaller releases are the way to keep music fans listening and interested in Nine Inch Nails, then keep them coming.

At its best, Suckers' baroque pop struts confidently in glam platforms, blithely eager to please.

Let's have a toast for the ladies who stick it to the douchebags.

King Buzzo, et al.'s 19th studio album is downright sugary, a sludge-pop romp that mostly plays like a distortion-charred version of the Bay City Rollers or Sweet.

While his unapologetically Dylan-esque vocals grate on weaker tunes, gems like the softly rollicking 'Time is a Lion' allow Henry to step out with a quiet roar. [Oct 2007, p.104]

The ballads are still as pretty as her fan base of shy piano students and unicorns. [May 2005, p.110]

No myths to sell, just the idea of a working rock band reclaiming what's left of a center-right boomer rock coalition. Hynoptic Eye gets my vote.

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.

The radio-friendly album Liz Phair should have made. [Oct 2003, p.113]

It's hard to find a heart beneath the haze.... [Aug 2001, p.129]

If 2004's killer Shake the Sheets was Leo's Give 'Em Enough Rope... Living With The Living is his London Calling, an hour-long Rolodexing of sounds and visions. [Mar 2007, p.94]

[It] succeeds best when it shakes off the doldrums. [Jun 2007, p.92]

On his 11th album, this musician's musician once again finds a coterie of like minds--Fugazi's Guy Picciotto, members of Godspeed You! Black Emperor--to help turn chronic disquiet into disturbingly palpable dread-folk.

Despite passing echoes of Spoon and Violent Femmes, Delta Spirit's rough barroom pop is its own creature, with jangly pianos, rattling drums, and scruffy acoustic guitars making a thrilling ruckus.

Key elements--shy vocals, shimmery guitar--remain from the Kadanes' previous band, slow-core pioneers Bedhead, though Matt now actually enunciates the band's diary entries.

Hills and Valleys, their third studio album since reuniting in the late '90s, holds zero surprises--mixing Tex-Mex bounce, outlaw twang, and folkie sincerity--but it feels utterly right, like your favorite greasy meal at the local diner.

It all looks backward unabashedly--fitting for a band formed 30-plus years ago--but no less resonant.

These soulful laments and menacing gospel rumbles don’t really demand attention but reward it handsomely.

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

What makes Re-Engineering worthwhile is that the odd blooms Warwick coaxes from that soil are so pleasing to behold on their own terms. It's critical theory as easy listening that you can actually cut a rug to, if you're so inclined.

More than a decade on, this band is peeking out from behind the veil of obfuscation in an effort to stay relevant; they haven't totally abandoned the whimsy and fantasy, but they've toned it down--almost to save themselves.

This is music for flash mobs, a valentine to crowdsourcing, and a public engagement proposal to the universe.

At times, the very sonic repetition and minimalism that makes much of Why Choose so effective also hampers its output; the second half of the album especially feels monotonous and weighed down by its musical rigor. Yet Why Choose redeems itself with the brisk, mostly instrumental closing track.

Void beats enjoys advantages over lesser Stereolab releases like 2001’s Sound-Dust by offering a rockish danceability they never explored. But the Faustian bargain also ensures there’s no easy pop song like 1996’s “Cybele’s Reverie” or 2008’s “Self-Portrait With ‘Electric Brain’” to break up the largely instrumental bleep-sweep.

The strength of and the Anonymous Nobody... remains how it holds together as a complete, cohesive listen.

Little Dark Age is pleasant enough, but it’s hard to look past a glaring dearth of ideas.

Even the full-length's sleepier moments offer a break from its breakneck speed and succeed in balancing out an otherwise dizzying record.

Sidewinding bass lines and slashing guitar help pull together ballads of marital woe ('The Drifting Housewife'), epic rock­outs ('I Am the Supercargo'), and rousing takes on regret ('Your Acting's Like the End of the World').

CHVRCHES aim for nothing less than maximum forward impact at all times. Beneath the ice-floe synths and Mayberry’s cool, collected belting is an anxious impulse to please.

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.

Even at his most contemplative and nuanced, Deacon remains a DIY trickster at heart.

Combining new wave, ska, dub, grime, Baltimore club, and hip-hop in an ear-warping wash of 21st-century psychedelia, Santogold takes listeners on a trip to a hidden black America, where White acts as tour guide through the alleyways of her mind and undoubtedly excellent iPod.

The Argentinean TV actress emits powerful hallucinogenic vibes, creating a slippery soundtracj for the subconscious. [Nov 2008, p.98]

It’s hard to imagine a better record to stone and dethrone the three reigning M’s of ’90s indie: Malkmus, Mascis, and Martsch.

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.

Singing en español, clear-voiced Andrea Echeverri ponders subjects like immigration ('Bandera') and pregnancy ('28'), projecting unflappable confidence.

Riveting porch noir. [Feb 2007, p.86]

Live instruments have replaced the samples that fueled their debut, resulting in a more fluid, if still absurdly amateurish, sound. [Oct 2007, p.104]

The trio’s official debut further expands their musical palette to include triumphant synth rock (“Chalo”) and woozy G-funk (“Julia”).

Summer Sun sometimes sounds like a band treading water at low tide, but obsessively exploring the contours of a moment is what Yo La have been about from day one. [Jul 2003, p.109]

Gough sounds like a guy celebrating his birthday in an airport cocktail bar. [Jan 2003, p.99]

You’ve got to give it to perennial over-achievers: sometimes they even know how to make extra-credit assignments sound like A+ work.

Though firmly planted on the dancefloor, Record is for sunshine and joy the way 2008 masterpiece Out of the Woods was for moody rain and 2010 chamber-pop charmer Love and Its Opposite for snug wood paneling. But for all its color and vim, it’s also a brave, grave survey--emotionally if not always factually autobiographical--of Thorn’s relationship to London, her family, and her own heart.

From the moment that crystalline keyboard riff and sparse drum machine open the first track, “And That, Too,” it’s clear the band has raised the stakes to match the talent they’ve been hanging out with.

McGee may not know where he's going on his murky head trip, but he's a compelling enough guide that you want to follow him.

At his most relaxed, however, Fite still sounds like his head could explode. [July 2008, p.96]

Their fourth full-length has certain recurring quirks: skittery hi-hats, guitar lines to whistle along to, junk poetry sneered as if into a wind chamber. Blame a new emphasis on songwriting, never their strength, over sound-making.

Despite all this defiantly cosmopolitan music, Wheelhouse finds Paisley in bittersweet reverie.

She's made a fine, loud career out of channeling childlike abandon, and the rumbling acoustic guitars and schoolyard choruses (featuring the Yeah Yeah Yeahs guys, Deerhunter's Bradford Cox, and the Bird and the Bee's Greg Kurstin, among others) are both joyful and foreboding.

Fortunately, his muse digs punk and trash--these 16 basement screams are the B-sides of rock history.

A little swing moves these songs along in otherwise unobscured directions. [Nov 2005, p.101]

Calling Headlights "nice" sounds like a backhanded compkliment, but Some racing wears the tag proudly: it's charming, but never boring [Mar 2008, p.102]

At times, it seems like mid-level fame yields too many tour-based gripes for Slug. [Nov 2005, p.103]