I Want to Grow Up involves aspirations rather than answers, and thus little is resolved of the album's many inner conflicts. Only the sweet-and-sour music they're set to offers any kind of relief, deep-fried in fuzz and totally stoked for that Juliana Hatfield Three reunion.

Peace Queer includes an acoustic antiwar rant and a ghostly reading of Creedence’s 'Fortunate Son' (with Patty Griffin on backup vocals). But the high point is a ragged bar-band jam about the dissolution of the middle-class dream ('Stuck on the Corner [Prelude to a Heart Attack]').

Its excellence and momentum vastly outweigh one’s ability to describe it.

It's a minor miracle that these Swedish vets' 24-song sixth album clocks in at 94 filler-free minutes, stuffed with late-'60s guitar romps ranging from slow-burn psychedelia to up-tempo struts, and more deliberate mood pieces.

As music alone, the band is looser and more flexible than ever, deploying Superchunk’s Jon Wurster for accents and subtleties outside of his main band’s dynamic range, and punching out the gate with highlights as varied as the Louisiana ragtime of “Southwestern Territory” and the punked-up “Choked Out.”

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.

Kicky enough for late-night drives, sultry enough for backseat prospecting, and versatile enough to sell anything, it may be the most user-friendly record of Underworld's career and a better follow-up to Play than Moby's own. [Oct 2002, p.120]

Like all of Four Tet’s work, New Energy can be viewed as an addition to this unlikely canon, whose practitioners share a desire to remove a listener from their surroundings and bring them someplace higher, no matter the means.

They demonstrate their impressive penchant for writing a variety of songs that stand on their own, but also work symbiotically. COVID-19 may have briefly put their ascendancy on hold, but with this EP, Mannequin Pussy show that they haven’t lost any of their luster.

This Montreal group's first full-length features a slightly brighter, looser sound than their wonderfully sludgy 2006 EP, perhaps due to the input of Justin Vernon (a.k.a. folkie marvel Bon Iver), who coproduced with the band.

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.

Lovers Rock is an airy album, demo-like in its simplicity. It has none of the agression of a "comeback." In fact, Sade has never put out anything quite so ephemeral. [Jan 2001, p.114]

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.

Vibrates like youth itself.

Eno unleashes tempests of breakbeats ("Horse"), electro exotica ("Bone Jump"), even roiling post-rock ("2 Forms of Anger"), creating a perfect storm.

The upgrade is one of focus and intensity.

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.

What the album lacks in political incisiveness, it gains in the nuance of its twin perspectives. Having told the story of his country, slowthai is ready to tackle his own.

Yet with its detours into slick synth pop, weepy roots rock, and big Broadway music, the sprawling Genre proves that emo needn't be boxed in by stylistic dogma. [Dec 2007, p.120]

The efficiency of his drollness has grown uncanny, in fact, and the creepiness of its perfection is part of the fun.

Just about every song here has a couplet Elvis Costello would be proud to call his own, and the money shot "Elephant" has several.

That Converge can dabble in so many styles and still inherently come out sounding like themselves is what makes All We Love work.

A real corker. [Nov 2006, p.96]

That most welcome of albums: a great driving record that exquisitely soundtracks crushes and heartbreaks. [Feb 2007, p.89]

Infinity on High reveals a group that has grown so confident with success that the members are willing to give in to their every musical whim. [Feb 2007, p.83]

While the lyrics to 'On the Rise' never explicitly address the se-duction of addiction, the pretty drone that cuts through the jangly melody nails it exactly. [Aug 2007, p.104]

Despite the resourcefulness of Kronos’ contributions, though, Anderson is Landfall’s most crucial actor and its saving grace; the humility, naturalism, and humor of her recitations justify the scale of the project.

Touching on elemental fears and desires, Changing of the Seasons rewards intimate listening--in the final verse of the title track, a lover’s embrace suddenly silences any thoughts of straying.

[Corgan's] the closest thing our generation has to John Fogerty--a control freak who actually knows what the fuck he's doing. [March 2003, p.118]

Despite personnel changes, Here's the Tender Coming, the Unthanks' third LP, is still steeped in brutal Northumberland lore, and its doomed subjects (drowning sailors, child mine workers, a woman who dies on her wedding day) are well served by the band's dark, gentle strums and ghostly piano lines.

The first half of Blonde is astonishing, sustained beauty. The second is more distant, closer to the shower improvs of Friday’s sounds-like-a-soundtrack-and-it-is Endless.

Muttering Jon Langford, golden-toned Sally Timms, and the rest of this sweaty eight-strong mob are at their red-eyed best here. [Sep 2007, p.134]

"Satan, your kingdom must come down," Plant croons on the penultimate track. Take that, Jimmy Page.

All this willful messiness adds up to a funny and surprisingly touching mission statement. [Mar 2008, p.101]

Despite (or maybe because of) his peculiar web of influences, Beal is a strikingly singular performer, synthesizing various muses into something deeply unique.

An amazing all-originals simulation, mostly of teeny-bop smashes by sundry Kasenetz-Katz-produced studio concoctions (plus the Archies) circa 1967-1970.

The Haunted Man is her weightiest work so far.

Jeremih’s no saint, certainly, but this album feels universal in its depictions of desire--his sexiness is satiable, his desires multifaceted, and the way he chooses to explore them deliberately diverse.

This album will never top MM1 or even 1999's Slim Shady LP for the visceral thrill of watching a celebrity twist and distort his own identity like a comic strip transferred onto Silly Putty. But we get rhymes. So many rhymes. More rhymes than some rappers manage in a whole career.

This Oakland quartet teams with Yo Ma Tengo producer Roger Moutenot to create a make-or-break manifesto that often trumps indie rock's big-leaguers. [Oct 2007, p.110]

Stunningly blending American country, English folk, and Victorian pomp, the album documents a life resigned to sadness amid a world brimming with beauty both real and fake.

If it's not yet clear, Centipede does retain much of the band's earnest, knowing naiveté.

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

The follow-up (without Chao) is a more straightforward Afro-pop record, with a few exceptions.

Parquet Courts’ ridiculously good new album Wide Awake!, is a delirious ode to the power of collectivity thinly masquerading as a gameday anthem.

A return to 1994's seduction strategies: pomade-greased riffs, subdermal bass, distorto samples, and free-associative rants about how Miami is cooler than Hollywood. [July 2002, p.112]

It slips down easily, and the duo's knowledge and pedigree (their debut is out on 16-year-old rave label Ultra Records, once home to the Chemical Brothers and Tiësto) also satisfies the yen of longtime dance-music lovers who might be side-eyeing all the Johnny-Come-Latelies.

File it [“NVRLND”], and the rest of 2016 Atomized, with the band’s impressive collection of non-album treasures.

It's the sound of a man moving to his next stage, unsure how he should make his machines howl. Mournful or loud? Why not both?

For listeners coming into the album without knowledge of its overarching concept, PROTO is also full of pop-forward compositions that are striking in their own right. ... For a record about the development of machine cognition, PROTO is remarkably human at every turn.

While Mr. M consists of 11 allegedly different songs, the album has the unified feel of a single multi-movement suite.

What’s most charming about But You Caint Use My Phone is how unpretentiously Badu comports herself, ever-mindful that one of her most special qualities as a vocalist remains her ability to entwine the resilient with the goofy.

Widow City goes on for a while--maybe too long. But it's quite a trip [Oct 2007, p.106]

These adventuresome Swedes, led by instrumental virtuoso Gustav Ejstes, might be inspired by psychedelics, but they never leave anything to chemical-enhanced chance on their moody, lovely fourth album.

On his debut album, he shoots for the stratosphere and lavishly scores.

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

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."

I See You is still distinctly and deeply an xx album, but in the gap between albums the group has found a way to move unmistakably forward while still sounding like themselves.

Packed with these canny connections between music and lyrics, Cupid highlights Hynes' tremendous recent advancement as an arranger.

When I Get Home, on the one hand, is a portrait of Solange, following the success of A Seat at the Table, leaning to the point of falling into all the most pretentious aspects of that record. On the other, When I Get Home is a complex and fascinating exercise in reconfiguring a whole history of black music for the post-modern age. ... Yes, When I Get Home is overbearing in the way it wants to announce itself as art, but the album also makes that easy to forgive.

Synths push this from kraut-psych-cruise-control curiosity to unabashed triumph.

In a narcotized haze of lounge blues, New Orleans jazz, gauzy retro soul, and understated guitar pop, he has made the most compelling record of his career.

Unlike 2007's self-indulgent The Third Hand, here he wisely picks his spots, chirping a few modest ditties. Four albums deep, he's found his comfort zone.

The jams always pull back at just the right moment, and the songs equal their folksy models. There's so much heart here that even the most exacting re-creations of bygone FM wank seem spontaneous.

They're not robots, they're "robots." They "rock" and want you to "dance." In that sense, this is absolutely in keeping with the band's legacy. It is theater: absolutely sincere and totally fake.

Banisters is far from the flashiest or most radio-friendly album Del Ray has produced, but rarely have fans gotten such crystalline, autobiographical work from the guarded star, who appeared to revel in the cool distance of her early albums. Now, she feels more present, and much closer to her music.

Vedder has never been shy about naming his influences, and here they form a buoyant cloud lifting the enterprise up among the stars.

Complicated shows a real grasp of musical history. [Jul 2007, p.99]

Sinister remixes of cuts fronted by Martina Topley-Bird and Elbow's Guy Garvey reconnect Massive to their stylistic descendants, while further refining their calm on the verge of chaos.

Kouyaté’s new Ba Power offers an even more streamlined and forceful take on West African tradition.

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.

As halting, spare, and downbeat as its predecessor was giddy, verbose, and, okay, downbeat. [Jul 2001, p.125]

It’s not quite as satisfying as Kaleidoscope Dream, but it expands that album’s palette, pushing Miguel into further depths without submerging him in the squalor.

Rancid is a roots record, scouring off any glossy residue left from the Alternative '90's by returning to pure punk... [Nov. 2000, p.209]

There's a simultaneously appealing and slightly off-putting looseness to all this, conjuring the sort of drowsiness where you'd rather sleep for a week straight than let in more heartbreak.

Rather than diluting Lewis' appeal, the mainstream-accessible, arena-sized sound of Eclipse feels like it's unlocking the potential for Lewis to reach new heights with his indie-dressed soul-pop.

Fortunately, buried beneath the Lips' psychedelic slop heap are surprisingly exacting pop hooks, clever musical experiments, and insidious grooves that belie the band's wastrel image.

We need to find a way to smoke this.

The Devil's Walk creates a compelling mix of programming virtuosity, songcraft, and plaintive vocals, with spastic blips fluttering amid languid string washes, while a 
mechanical scrim obscures and accentuates the underlying emotions.

Her best album-length-EP since Quarantine remains instrumental, but now skitters jazzily.

An emphatic and generally more unbuttoned sophomore project. The “surrender” here appears to be two-pronged: First, a submission to the songwriting process itself, as this record is markedly more explorative than the last, particularly in its crunching British rock sensibilities. ... Many of the album’s most affecting moments accompany her urgency to hit the road.

She continues that trend on Sling, where she explores musical terrain that’s completely new to her. Though Antonoff’s production sometimes feels like it’s holding Clairo back a bit too much, that doesn’t impede Clairo from writing excellent songs. Sling is further proof of that.

There are expected blips of Fiery playfulness -- pinballing "bop bop" vocals, backward-masked beats -- but this is as straightforwardly evocative as abstract pop gets, with the hazy beauty and fractured narratives of a vintage Polaroid slide show.

Every musical stroke is a concise yet instinctive caress.

New Magnetic Wonder couldn't be brighter if it had been performed on the sun. [Feb 2007, p.82]

A short, precise album which is equal parts inventive and masterful.

Kvelertak reach further back on their epic third album Nattesferd, which sounds more like 2016 metal rode a time machine back to the ‘70s and ‘80s to see what blood-curdling shrieks could do for the likes of bar-band glam and proggy power-metal.

A rousing, enjoyable pastiche from start to finish, Thirteen Tales is an awful lot of fun...

Gracefully melancholic electronica with too much soul to be relegated to sushi-restaurant background music. [Aug 2007, p.106]

Khan's trashy Sam Cooke and Bo Diddley impersonations are uncannier than ever, but it's Invisible Girl's ratio of 1960s tribute to 21st-century blaspheming that makes it his most immediately enjoyable work yet.

Whether struggling with sobriety or confronting her own meanness, Pink has never been less cool: She's hot-blooded throughout, and it suits both her pipes and a female pop genre that rarely embraces this much tangible pain.

Often gorgeous and never soothing, the damaged pop on Phantogram's mesmerizing debut is pure nightmare fuel.

Like all Baker’s work so far, Little Oblivions is an album that rewards close listening and multiple run-throughs — afternoons lost to foot-tapping despair and, hopefully, some catharsis as the wildly talented songwriter welcomes us back to her saddest show on Earth.

A magic carpet of woven steel, Transverse soars up and out, borne aloft on ghostly vocals and sheets of guitar noise.

The lack of in-your-face future-funk arrangements isn't a sign that Beyoncé has lost her appetite for domination; indeed, as a singer's showcase, 4 will probably end up bested this year only by Adele's 21.

It's the perfect summer record--if your summer begins with your dad running off with his secretary and your girlfriend dumping you for that asshole lifeguard at the water-slide park. [Jul 2002, p.107]

It's a completely exhausting listen, one that might prove easier to admire than enjoy. But at the very least, it's never anything less than fascinating.

Yo La Tengo remain true to their Velvet Underground roots. [Oct 2006, p.105]