To most listeners, though, Through the Devil Softly will simply function as a collection of breathily perfect lullabies.

Even the raw stuff has the humanizing detail that keeps Ghost interesting years after we've grown accustomed to his imagesplaying Joycean flow.

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.

The MC trio rhyme with distinct cadences tuned like instruments, while engineer Earl Blaize compiles keyboards, drums, and software blips into an Afro-surrealist space opera.

"Demons" and "Ten-Speed" show that Higgins' amber vocals and crisp guitar skills remain, but too much here floats by on a vague cloud of coffeehouse clichés.

Slim aims for the gut but usually ends up hitting the hips; either way, his relentlessly cloying lyrics ensure that Be Set Free is more suitable for soundtracks and square dances than headphones.

Shoniwa is both impulsive and precise: Every string-swept disco flourish or arena-rock guitar break heightens an unflappable poise that bypasses rote R&B melisma for soul-shaking celebration.

Nixing the sappy bits that dampened his debut, he rewrites the hooks from your parents' favorite Bon Jovi/Belinda Carlisle hits into earnest proclamations of teenage eccentricity, then waves his jazz hands in naysayers' faces.

The sound is old-fashioned, but the fury is fresh.

This is not the story of lost faith that these thematic bookends seem to augur, but rather just a bunch of really good songs that have relatively little to do with each other.

Lightest Ono album ever? Probably. Heaviest avant-pop from a 76-year-old mainstream pariah/underground innovator? Hell, yeah!

Both thrilling and baffling, the nine tracks prove that Vernon's appeal lies in his otherworldly sound, not in his broken heart.

It's a given that Gutter, like the ex-Pulp sideman's five previous shimmering, sepia-toned solo albums, has moments of heartbreaking beauty. Too bad those moments are outnumbered by a reliance on secondhand lyrical conceits (songbirds, shipwrecks) and drifting arrangements.

Call it Nick Diamonds Gets His Groove Back. Former Unicorn Nick Thorburn went a bit dark and dreary on 2008's "Arm's Way," but with Vapours, the transplanted New Yorker relearns his playfulness.

Happiness hasn’t blunted his keen social insight, though, as he empathizes with latchkey teens (“Tight Rope”), reflects on friends trapped in the street life (“Slippin’ Away”), and rues slavery’s consequences (“The Travelers”).

Masters of the Burial lacks the character to be more than the sum of its lovely parts: fiddles, regret, and a pretty voice.

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

Reprising the underground all-star lineup from Chesnutt’s 2007 opus "North Star Deserter" (Fugazi’s Guy Picciotto, members of Godspeed You! Black Emperor and Silver Mt. Zion) yields similar results.

Moments of transcendence occasionally emerge from the murk, but not often enough.

For the first time in years, Pearl Jam are seizing the moment rather than wallowing in it.

Regardless of which indie celeb is on the mic or which recreational drug best suits the beat, each track hints at hedonism without hangovers.

They turn to the next logical ladder rung of pretension: symphony. And they may have finally found the perfect category to fuse with their ever-swooping brand of rock.

His third solo album is promoted as "new classical," but "J. City" sounds more like a grievous stab at alt-rock.

The beats by producers Black Milk, 9th Wonder, and Havoc are strictly no-frills, but just hot enough to keep these cranky yet lovable old MCs' joints from stiffening up.

Milky Ways is a clear upgrade, with better songwriting lending structure to his adventurous genre-hopping.

This dense, complex document is an impressive display of vitality by the Athens, Georgia–based Elephant 6 collective, as Will Cullen Hart of the late Olivia Tremor Control weds that band’s bizarre breakdowns with Apples in Stereo’s earnest tunefulness.

Mainly they noodle through indeterminate world-music jams that’d feel equally ignorable at mud festivals and at ethnic restaurants.

Here, a founding multi-instrumentalist member, a longtime bassist, and several supportive additions forgo the initial trio’s psychedelic pop for angular guitar riffs and agile Latin rhythms that evoke an adventurous, timeless sense of fun.

Phish's first studio album since 2004 suggests that what brought these jam-scene kings back together after a five-year breakup wasn't unbridled passion, but faith in their well-oiled machine.

With Heartbeat Radio, Lerche aligns all his identities: Gentlemanly melodies glide across elegant guitars and High Llama Sean O’Hagan’s swelling string arrangements.

Flashing all the (slight) overreach of a much-anticipated debut album, After Robots still exuberantly delivers.

Guitars and synths, both shimmering and scouring (depending on the volume level), can’t quite override the sweet harmonies at the heart of 'Die Slow,' nor can the toms stop them on 'Death+' or 'We Are Water.'

The band’s first studio album in eight years takes the Farfisa-surf luminescence of 2003’s must-own, career-spanning Anthology deeper into psychedelia, for good and ill.

This reunion packs no shortage of vintage wank--knotty, largely instrumental songs that surge together and drift apart with a proggy, loose-limbed precision.

While the songs may lack the original’s wild-eyed narrative, they still contain some of his most rewind-worthy bars in years.

There’s hardly an original thought here, but with arrangements so expertly composed, who’s complaining?

Even without the manic singer actually up in your face, the band’s gleefully knuckle-dragging first full-length is a thrilling throwdown.

Turgid even for the genre, Artwork will make you hate yourself for singing along with tricky standouts like 'Empty With You.'

The pace and tenor occasionally resemble the Bataan Death March, but Bondy’s gorgeous melodies, vivid imagery, and haunting voice keep you pressing on.

Cliche or not, Drive-By Truckers’ leftovers really are better than most bands’ main course.

This throwbackin’ threesome--an expanded version of frontman Guy Blakeslee’s subdued solo outing under the name Entrance--kills it when they stick to the classic power-trio formula.

This is oval-shaped music, circling around the tracks; it’s accomplished, but not particularly infectious.

Forward, it’s enticing--but in reverse, it’s sublime.

Felix Stallings Jr. bounces back by sampling, quoting, and paraphrasing other people’s rubbery tunes, and showcasing them in similarly elastic settings.

Devotees from Matisyahu's jam-scene days might balk, but fans of the Black Eyed Peas/Jack Johnson collabo "Gone Going" will rejoice.

There’s plenty of groan-inducing lyrical inanity, and one can only assume the reggae-rock abomination 'Beat on Repeat' was a misguided effort to branch out. Sometimes the middle of the road is the proper path.

Peñate sometimes goes astray--'So Near' finds him breezily slinging dopey cliches (“Love is not a game”). Fortunately, his natural exuberance carries the day.

Watch Me Fall is even more melodic. Reatard classes up the joint a bit, smearing organ, hard-strummed acoustic guitar, and strings on the unrequited-love epic 'I’m Watching You.'

Though Benson’s fourth solo album is less distinctive and more finessed than the work of his money gig, it still puts his secondhand fame in perspective.

Mumbly, scratchy-voiced Pete Quirk is more self-assured than on 2007’s Invitation Songs, championing optimism and determination in the face of trouble, powered by sharp folk and country-blues guitars, plus no-frills percussion.

Hospice is packed with lofty choruses and extended instrumental passages (the alternately elegiac and tedious 'Atrophy'). But with emotional drama in abundance (mostly from vocalist Peter Silberman’s fiery, tormented shouts), sonic indulgences like the astral guitar blasts on “Thirteen” offer genuine catharsis.

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

While his guitar remains ulceric, songs such as 'The Ballad of Charley Harper' stew rather than combust.

Knopf’s unpredictable melodies and funky orchestral arrangements (played by 35 indie- rock acquaintances!) keep tracks like 'I Say Fever' and 'Always Right' lively, resulting in an album that leans more toward epic than emo.

The album’s blend of sonic gauze, earnest keening, electronic blooping, analog clatter, ethnic flavor, and nostalgic ’60s pop emits a rainbow glow that’s as comforting as it is comfortable.

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.

His fourth album is a buzzing, overblown concept piece about psychic warfare, in which sheer force of will conquers icky stuff like depression and homophobia.

Hot Mess is flush with other stupid-smart highlights, including 'Pete Wentz Is the Only Reason We’re Famous.'

Maybe it's fitting that in the same year Wilco found a sense of humor, the glass of chief Bottle Rocket Brian Henneman is finally half-full.

Regardless, boppers as cheeky and infectious as these sound like sacraments in the church of lo-fi fun.

Their rhymes tend to feed off settling scores rather than giving pleasure, and as a result, this group debut favors punch lines over crafted songs. Still, the single 'The One,' which emits a stanky, rock-starry panache, could be an edgy crossover hit if such a thing still existed.

Japandroids have a point of view (young, male, infatuated with the promise of the present) and an M.O. (excellently fuzzed-out garage rock played as if at the apocalypse), but more impressively, they've mastered another secret to swaying the public: confidence without smugness.

The duo are most enjoyable when they just surrender to sweaty delirium on 'Summer Song.'

Though modest, Skyscraper may prove to be an integral step in Interpol’s progression.

The result is spare and somber--just that windy Americana tenor against a squeaky acoustic guitar.

Hey, if the Spank Rock and M.I.A. collaborator wants to two-step around in just a tank top, rude bits to the wind, that’s her prerogative--but there are consequences, and that’s where I Love You struggles.

This folkie indie-pop band doesn't slam you with hooks on its fourth album--everything is catchy in a modest, reasonable way.

The eclecticism is refreshing on the jammy, Built to Spill-like 'Hi-Fi Goon,' but enjoying the sum of Creaturesque’s shifting parts can be a taxing proposition.

It’s an ambiguous ending that makes the journey all the more fascinating.

They apply a borrowed Steinway Grand and some retro synths to a mess of ideas, from the rockabilly-plus-tabla stomp of 'The Time' to the Arcade Fire mimicry of 'Antonia Jane.' But they really shine on epic, Bat for Lashes-type ballads like 'Never Seen' and 'Waiting on the Sun to Rise.'

His second album delivers fleeting moments of bliss, like a beach bum’s opiate dreams.

Here, tunes about racism, consumer culture, and the evils of TV hit their marks, then hit them again and again and again.

His neoclassical melodies feel warm and full of blood, his keyboards weep where others bleep, and he puts so much skillful passion into female vocal showcasing that the tracks on his solo debut are consumed by a yearning for companionship that's only shaken momentarily.

While Young's compositions occasionally flirt with the nuanced melodicism of Jimmy Tamborello or Jona Bechtolt, he rarely lets even the slightest risky idea emerge.

It's their most instantly accessible effort after "Bark," with a dozen catchy tunes packed inside 47 easy, breezy minutes.

Mostly wordless and free of Birgisson's trademark rapturous build-and-release, Riceboy Sleeps is more ideally suited for yoga poses or total headphone absorption.

Gather, Form & Fly extends Megafaun’s back-porch mad science into unexpectedly epic realms, including straight blues and even pure pop, embellished with skronky, experimental sound effects.

A primary-color blast of major-key melodies, airy boy-girl vocals, ringing guitars, skipping rhythms, brass, woodwinds, and rolling piano, the rather exhaustingly charming third album from this Canadian collective radiates with the earnest warmth of a child's finger painting.

Beneath the glitzy production, the songwriting lacks luster--catchier tunes like 'Daniel' and 'Dem Girls' offer jaunty bouts of melodicism, but the vast majority of this elegant Brit jangle feels a bit recycled.

Such an over-the-top approach could end in solemn self-parody. But Broken Records' refreshing playfulness and surprisingly light touch indicate they're really enjoying themselves.

The energetic players temper Farrar's grave persona--for all the vintage touches, this is a deceptively funky band, as the sultry 'Down to the Wire' proves.

The first single's called 'Pretty Wings,' but the whole thing flies.

While the similarly mystical/mewling Joanna Newsom seems adrift in fantasy, Tiny Vipers finds wonder in being rooted firmly to the terra.

Nils Edenloff's passionate songwriting comes across as both raucous (“The Dethbridge in Lethbridge”) and gently sweet (the harmony-rich boy-girl cupcake “Don’t Haunt This Place”), consistently marked by a joyful sonic ingenuity.

Of course, it’s much too much, but the fact that it works at all is a testament to their commitment to well-honed rock hypnosis. Good luck finding the front door when it’s done.

Best known as the distinctive voice of backpack hip-hop faves Jurassic 5, Chali 2na is sometimes reduced to a supporting role on his solo debut.

Wilco (the album), the band's seventh studio effort, treats verse-chorus-verse basics like holy truths. The result is the rare rock album about acceptance. And it's fantastic.

The mood is somber, mournful, and at times, downright postapocalyptic. But the best of these ambient orchestrations, gurgling uncomplicated beats, and scattered vocals add up to something emotionally wrought, even transporting.

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.

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 the most part, Varshons is pleasantly predictable, with celebrity cameos (Kate Moss, Liv Tyler) and selections from legendary rakes Leonard Cohen and Townes Van Zandt that practically qualify as typecasting. But the countrified take on GG Allin's 'Layin' Up with Linda' provides a moment of effective shock value, and improbable redemption arrives with the closing track: Christina Aguilera's 'Beautiful.'

Apparently, you can go home again, and it's still plenty loud and comfortable.

These eight tracks--only one of which stretches past the eight-minute mark!--actually make up the Mars Volta's most consistently compelling slab since 2005's salsafied "Frances the Mute."

Most of these ten tracks, though, make Jason Mraz sound daring.

Far snuggles between her previous efforts, linking the heady sweep of 2003's "Soviet Kitsch" to the roundabout pop treats of "Begin to Hope."

Although most of the songs on Patterson Hood's second solo album predate the existence of Drive-By Truckers, they'd easily fit on any of his band's records--same low-life characters, busted dreams, and black humor, rendered in solidly gothic Southern rock.

Krug clearly takes Sunset Rubdown every bit as seriously as his day job.