Torche's sound is touched by many of these bands, but not beholden to any of them: In fact, the band sounds more singular than ever on Restarter, becoming less sonically limited as their aesthetic grows more defined.

On the surface, it's big, dumb, and fun; just beneath, there's an improbably complicated band at work, showing its hand only on repeated listens.

After ranting against Christian extremism on their last outing, they're back to mindless fun, and with new drummer Westin Glass, they've resurrected the savage, speed-strummed fervor that once made Kill Rock Stars matter.

Quickly working 11 tracks into 40 minutes, the album is visceral and unrefined, two qualities not often associated with Hebden.

He sounds comfortable with his new band, a pristinely recorded quartet that frames his lyrics with music just interesting enough to not overwhelm them.

Swedish electronic dance producer Axel Willner consistently finds the sweet spot between breathlessness and breathing too hard on his follow-up to 2007's acclaimed "From Here We Go Sublime."

Led by effects-pedal guru Oliver Ackermann (the Edge is a customer), this Brooklyn trio further their rep for insane volume on their first proper studio album.

Throughout, drummers Carl McGinley and Eric Hernandez play tight, tribal beats. The heat subsides at times, but it never breaks.

Wordy but somnambulant. [Sep 2006, p.112]

On their sixth, the band's sound finally matches their romantic ambitions.

Things appear quieter for Kozelek this year, and the magic of Universal Themes is in the telling.

This loud and proud psych-folk trio want some old-fashioned joy on their fifth album -- and they want it now.

Middle Cyclone carries case's unique vision one step further: here, she truly embraces the beast within.

The group... get more expansive--and more pop--on their second album. [Sep 2006, p.102]

Blessed feels more like a country-blues toast to the pissed-off side of interpersonal relations, set to coproducer Don Was' sturdy barroom roots rock. And Williams calls 'em like she feels 'em.

The results are the most pleasant kind of rambling imaginable.

The Kings are probably sick of the "redneck Stones" tag already, but the signs are all there. [Aug 2003, p.111]

aybe listeners trapped in the depths of mourning or an exceedingly bad breakup might find hypnotic comfort here; others will likely admire the pretty vocals, fingerpicked guitar, and spectral atmosphere--then crave songs just a little more eventful.

Age of Transparency is his best album yet.

By setting its course in the equal and opposite direction of Life Without Sound, it becomes its evil twin, a still-incomplete picture of Cloud Nothings. ... Yet Last Building Burning feels like a triumphant return because there isn’t as much pressure on it to do or say anything beyond its purely utilitarian aims. It slaps, shreds, and whips ass in whatever way you see fit.

While We Wait has more features than the nearly all-Kehlani SweetSexySavage, but the guests acquit themselves best when they’re subsumed into the mood, like neo-soul throwback Musiq Soulchild and a relatively chill Ty Dolla $ign. Where the ballads on SweetSexySavage were very period-accurate--in that they were often filler--on While We Wait they’re the standouts.

Rancid doesn’t venture too far outside of its sonic comfort zone on Tomorrow Never Comes and 30 seconds into each song, it’s not difficult to guess their structure and how they’ll likely resolve. Rather than being a weakness, this is one of the album’s strengths.

A steely affair that finds Drake and longtime producer Noah "40" Shebib pulling their sound and worldview further inward to increasingly murky results.

Over the course of 24 tracks, we get taut grooves set on Al Green cruise control, lots of havin'-fun-in-the-studio byplay, and the occasional spritz of rude fuzz-box gutiar to give all the gold-leaf detailing some shape. [combined review of both discs; Mar 2004, p.97]

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 duo's tinny new-wave pop is spot-on. [May 2008, p.104]

Kraut-rock drones run together into one long, thudding hum. [Mar 2006, p.95]

“Direct Address” fails to make sticking mantras of “Honesty is like a kiss on the lips” or “I don’t believe in first sight” or “I fall in love with everyone I see,” but there’s plenty of promise here that she’ll move past them, and it’s sometimes fulfilled.