LP builds a steamrolling production and piston-like percussion out of broken electronics and heaps of scrap metal.

That [the "Heaven Sent" track's] parent album is as fun to listen to--with its soaring harmonies, left-of-center biblical influences, and total abandonment of traditional genre restriction--as it is insightful is a credit to its author.

Playing out like a one-man Verzuz, Pusha moves deftly between Pharrell’s outer-space soundscapes and Ye’s on-the-nose vocal loops. Despite their audibly different production styles, the two artists occasionally mirror each other as they cater to Push’s sinister style.

Gang Gang Dance are back to testing boundaries. For them, it's a return to the future.

Beyondless is a far cry from the New Brigade immediacy that attracted fans, but it offers something perhaps much more valuable: longevity, if you’re on their side.

In a genre where “authenticity” is supposedly located in stripped-down effortless amateurism, Priests is at their most authentic when they’re using performance to challenge themselves and their audience.

Rarely has dispiritedness sounded so uplifting. [Mar 2007, p.88]

Throughout Grinderman 2, the guitars and violins pant and howl with a visceral, veteran's swagger. Late middle age has never sounded so thrilling.

As broad as their discography is, though, In Search Of still feels radical. [Apr 2002, p.113]

Half expansive, burnished radio-rock, half swampy Delta hoodoo-hollerin' that reeks of Brock's Southern sojourn. [May 2004, p.103]

Hidden would be unbearably pretentious if Barnett and crew didn't execute their mission with such wild-eyed determination. Instead, it's a chilling thrill.

Pitting his manly baritone against squishy feminine keys in the sexually ambiguous '80s tradition, O'Regan gives his transformation a thrilling edge, not least because there's real danger involved.

Li's new album, Wounded Rhymes, is equal parts seething ice princess and lonely snowwoman, vacillating almost track by track between fury and despondence over a scotched relationship.

Majesty Shredding does favor a more thoughtful pace at times, opening up room for the occasional ornate sonic touch--a horn riff, decorative keyboard figure, even viola.

Instead of the pleasing pop potpourri of their last album... the 13 songs on And Then Nothing . . . flow together subtly, all texture, mood and shade.... Yo La Tengo's tenth collection of warm, tiny songs is by far the finest in their careers...

The music is stately and nocturnal guitar pop, arranged precisely and played with quiet conviction, as sure of its purpose as the song’s narrator seems unsure of theirs.

On Reloaded, he's written perhaps the most vivid rap album of the year--and possibly of his lifetime.

Granted, 10 of those are just a minute or less (sometimes far less: "Yet Unknown" is nothing more than a nine-second sample from a news broadcast), and 11 more don't even break the four-minute mark. On the plus side, we're treated to some of the best songs from his recent, out-of-print releases.

Even when the music flags, Common's remarkably hungry raps push it along. [Jun 2005, p.102]

Sequenced like an upside-down bell curve, the band's fetching fourth album opens with the vintage hippie wisdom, musique concrète, extended space rock, and lush, jazzy Americana of "Isadora."

While not as conceptually taut as its forebear, the new record plays like a jolt back to reality — and a sprint toward the dance floor. It is, by many leagues, the most objectively fun Mitski album to date, anchored by the pairing of ‘80s-tastic “The Only Heartbreaker” and “Love Me More.”

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

[Patterson Hood] cedes too much of the spotlight to competent but less distinctive mates Mike Cooley and Shonna Tucker. [Feb 2008, p.92]

Though indebted to the brassy blasts and pleading yelps of James Brown, as well as the riffs of the MC5 and Stooges, Lewis and Co. avoid sounding either self-consciously retro or awkwardly modern on Scandalous.

Wild Flag offers odes to volume and youth ("Romance," "Future Crimes"), suggesting the barely contained frenzy of teenagers. It's all the fury you want, but executed with the capability and confidence of lifers.

Though Swim is less referential, the artist that does come to mind in these sprawling pieces is Arthur Russell, whose outsider disco and house featured warped cello and ghostly vocals.

The album shuffles and grooves like Fela Kuti sloshed on gin and tonics. [June 2003, p.100]

These Brits deconstruct bombast via bombastic guitar riffs. [Jun 2005, p.108]

The result is one of Cave's hardest-rocking records, but also one of his funniest. [Apr 2007, p.86]

Though it would still be a potent political statement, Hopelessness would be something of a joyless slog if the music weren’t so gorgeous, matching the intensity of the subject matter without overwhelming it and giving the appropriate space to ANOHNI’s voice, which remains a glorious instrument.

On his third full-length, Weber keeps the beats crisp but more varied, conjuring steamy pipes (on "The Splendour," featuring !!!'s Tyler Pope), wind chimes (the twinkling "Bohemian Forest"), and a bullet train ("Welt Am Draht").

Sounds exactly like what you'd expect. [Oct 2005, p.132]

Under Color Of Official Right rumbles along with tense basslines and drums that feel like they're trying to stay out of Casey's way, as guitarist Greg Ahee slashes a path forward.

This time, the band lug the still-smoking amps from their lightning-strike live show into the studio and let the noise chase the midnite vultures away.

As a work of scholarly revisionism, Purple Snow is peerless. How and why the Twin Cities helped transform Prince Nelson into the Artist remains a mystery. But this is a charming addition to the Paisley Park family.

The more down-the-middle SVIIB shows that these postscripts aren’t always special, but we’re grateful for the closing chapter nonetheless.

The seven minute thriller 'Joe's Waltz' demonstrates their flair for balancing craftmanship and raw emotion. [Apr 2008, p.96]

For now, we’re stuck with a record that’s both intentionally and unintentionally frustrating: A record about self-loathing where the actual remorse is absent, where its creator would insist that’s the point.

So strength meets strength on this unusual album-length remix, as Smith's skittering beats and ghostly soul divas put Scott-Heron right where he belongs: in the future.

Darnielle's written some of the toughest and most open-souled music of his lo-fi outlet's oft-brilliant history. [May 2005, p.110]

She may sing about her belief in herself faltering, but her sincerity is actually stronger than ever. The victory here isn't just that Nikki Nack betters Whokill by beefing up its feral ferocity with more sophisticated chops, or that she triumphed over her detractors by proving she hadn't already peaked. Garbus found power in a hopeless place.

This record isn't as masterful as the last, partially because they're trying out new things, many of which -- horns, vocals, ska(!) -- are old things. [Jul 2001, p.134]

They offer a survey of rock’s history, but their take is revisionist.

The strangest and most ambitious album yet by the electronic composer and producer born Daniel Lopatin. For all its references to the past, Age Of is a distinctly 21st-century collage. ... When the Baroque arpeggios that close “The Station” enter a lockstep reminiscent of his synth-drone score for the 2017 thriller Good Time, for instance--it’s a musical thrill that renders questions about historical fidelity irrelevant.

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

Though A Brief Inquiry is just as dizzying and disorienting as 2016’s heroically omnivorous i love it when you sleep, for you are so beautiful yet so unaware of it, the 1975 take themselves a little more seriously now.

We Are KING’s quiet moments have more churn than most bands’ fast ones.

The way What a Time to Be Alive zooms by, there are songs you might blink and miss if McCaughan weren’t writing some of the most sharply worded lyrics of his career.

What remains Bruun’s strongest suit is the way she juxtaposes the extremity of her influences. She comes out of more subdued sections to use blast beats like scare tactics, drops in glacial vocal harmonies as soothing lullabies.

The swathe of great moments here is impressive. .... Indeed, Trixies might be the duo’s personal masterpiece.

Troubled frontman Anthony Green and his mates have embraced glossier production while reconnecting with At the Drive-In's teeming passion.

No one song sticks out so prominently this time around, but that’s just because Star Wars works so well as a cohesive whole.

His first Music Tapes album in nine years suggests an unhealthy obsession with Brian Wilson's "SMiLE," the wobbly-voiced outsider makes his own quaint magic.

Despite the fact that Carnell appears on the cover of his own record drained of both pigment and life, this record’s full of both--moments of calm that justify the storm, peaceful lapping waves that follow the tempest.

Amedeo Pace's wailing, overemotive tenor invites the mess of Blonde Radiohead jokes the band will inevitably receive. [Apr 2007, p.86]

Nosaj’s remarkable, entrancing debut album gathers sundry influences, from U.K. dubstep to Aphex Twin-styled IDM, into a 36-minute computerized symphony.

These songs never reach catharsis or resolution to their grand queries, but nonetheless find moments of joy in the process of seeking answers.

A generous, pacifistic record about the dynamics of friendship and the grace of listening--both, however coincidentally, apt palliatives for a tense, hostile global moment.

Though rife with standout tracks, GUMBO! is greater than the sum of its parts. Siifu’s ambitious range and impressive pool of features create an otherworldly listening experience, only bolstered by accessories like the poetry of Dungeon Family’s Big Rube.

He still enigmatically declares solidarity with the urban proletariat and critiques pop-culture clichés, but Black Up impresses most with its beguiling sounds.

Hive Mind remains as soulful as ever, weaving disparate sounds and textures without feeling erratic; it’s moving even at its most minimal.

Snaith now claims he's taking time to composae songs, rather than winging it out in the studio, and these sticky-pop confections are the result, full of lithe vocals, swooping keyboards, distant drums, and assorted benign flashbacks. [Sep 2007, p.124]

Perceive is ethereal, sure, but it’s also multilayered and compelling, staving off New Age-ness with pensive beauty and trenchant spoken-word (Saul Williams, Elucid, Anum Iyapo).

B’lieve bears a much closer resemblance to Vile’s true breakout, 2011’s Smoke Ring for My Halo. But even though the late-night atmosphere carries over, the haze isn’t quite the same.

The Whole Love feels more of a piece with 1999's Summerteeth, the caustic pop opus on which Tweedy sped away from alt-country (or y'allternative, No Depression, whatever) in a car far sleeker (and blacker) than the one Hank Williams supposedly died in.

Presided over by Molly Siegel--a fiery young Yoko Ono impersonator--the disc is precocious but never precious, combining a smart, Juno-esque appreciation of old-school punk that steers clear of mere revivalism.

Once it all sinks in, the self-released approach, scrapped-together band, and 29-minute running time should only shock those who expected this to be a huge statement by Grace on anyone's terms but her own. This is no rock opera, no American Idiot, no novelty.

They're still not so great at turning their majesitc heft and pushy paradiddles into memorable songs with hooks. [Oct 2006, p.100]

Viewfinder might not have any hard answers, but it does find a kind of ambiguous truth that lies beyond the perceptible.

This Baltimore dream-pop duo, whose dense-fog organs, reverb-y slide guitars, and nodding harmonies feel as lush as a midnight walk in a wet garden. On their third album, those feelings now sound like actual songs, with swelling choruses and an all-encompassing ache.

On (), the band steer their ghost ship into darker waters, erecting a vast, austere cathedral of sound, then sticking around to score a funeral mass inside. [Dec 2002, p.140]

For years, Dillinger Escape Plan have been the metal standard-bearers of dizzying, time-signature torture, though they have occasionally eased up to construct NIN-damaged, alt-rock superhero fantasies. The band's fourth album gives these two personalities their most seamless marriage to date.

Sebenza, though, is less a showcase for younger SA talent than a genuine international collaboration of equals.

mostly Nine Types of Light feels like the liquefying of a band, ten years and four albums deep, into the soft tenderness of pre-middle-age satisfaction. Like, maybe family life sounds pretty good right about now--and it fits them well.

The result is the rare heady corrective that's as fun as it is thoughtful.

On her fourth album, Portland, Oregon singer/songwriter Mirah Yom Tov Zeitlyn expands her sound palette, somehow adapting a Carnival parade for the otherwise restrained "Country of the Future."

Blunt and bratty, emotionally pubescent. [Mar 2006, p.93]

The only drawback is that in his expansiveness, Bilal forgot to give himself that killer tune or two that would bring it all home. [Sep 2001, p.158]

Wainwright never runs short on clever conceit. [Jul 2001, p.130]

For the juke-joint blues of “Jimmy Mathis” and the breezy mountain song “Comin Round,” he takes old-school-as-the-hills song forms and gussies them up for the club.

Vol. II may lack the celebratory tone of its instantly gripping predecessor, but this trip through Guthrie's more tormented thoughts finds Bragg and Wilco yet again forging gold with their musical alchemy.

Though his delivery veers between strength and frailty, he's in full control. [Aug 2006, p.83]

If the Sheryl Crow–isms of the first few tracks throw you off, sit tight: From tempestuous meditation "The Beast" on, every song is chillingly badass.

In declining to meet expectations, the Body have gotten free of the potential pigeonholing that plagues both them and the genre at large, providing something so utterly resigned, hopeless and, above all, barren; the most exciting bits on No One end up heightening the frustration and disappointment we crave more and more with each listen.

Pretty Girls Like Trap Music, his third solo full-length, feels like a cousin to Migos’ Culture, another highlight of 2017—a bit more sinewy but still overflowing with seven-figure absurdism.

Sail on Sailor – 1972 is a fascinating look behind the curtain at the end of the Beach Boys’ most fruitful creative period.

Utopia is full-on music-theater unlike anything Björk has yet attempted, and the rare tenth album by such an established artist to genuinely surprise with unforced and meaningful reinvention.

On Epic, she's grown as brassy as vintage Lucinda Williams while still drowning in the intimate bite of street noise, the confessional feel of studio chatter, and the postmodern swirl of dream-pop slurry.

These are passive recollections that come off as quietly rebellious, because he plainly acknowledges the value of the black voice, as well as the weight of its silence.

While the band still lack a truly distinctive vocalist, it's become clear that with their mastery of water, earth, and skye, Mastodon's music now feels as powerfully elemental as its subject matter.

Taking his cue from predecessors like Clinton, Wonder, and Prince—consummate artists who defied genre and charted their own musical course—Clark relishes in his boundless freedom. His virtuosity throughout is commendable and often quite impressive.

The arrangements simply aren't as sharp as before, even as the ensemble uses ingenious tricks, like shifting rhythm mid-number on "Q.U.E.E.N." and girding each song with string melodies that circle back to those suite overtures.

His astounding new Life is even more songful, all the more impressive considering his claustrophobic medium that he gleans so many colorful variations from, à la Fetty Wap.

Grim Reaper is an unedited adventure of blossoming soundscapes, vision-blurring, dissonant melodies, and cheerful robot dance numbers like "Principe Real." It hardly hits the same note twice.

Webster’s commitment to alt-R&B-style repose, along with some keen sonic quirks, are just a couple of the ways the 26-year-old Atlantan contrasts the ’70s-era singer-songwriters she’s so often compared to. Still, the sheer musicality of what she does deserves boomers’ approval.

On Yellow & Green, he [John Baizley] finds the confines of metal itself too limiting; so Baroness dive, dive, dive, dive into '90s commercial alternative harder than a sackful of Yucks and come out smarter and weirder and better than any metal band this year.

It should be noted that this all sounds fantastic.

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