Walk Through Exits Only might not be a comeback in the way we're used to hearing one, but damn if it doesn't feel like comeuppance.

A motley crew of producers (Diplo, El-P, Rostam from Vampire Weekend, Drake affiliate Francis Farewell Starlite, one of the dudes from Yeasayer) serves up shinier, harder, louder, thornier beats, and our heroes occasionally respond in kind.

The rhythm section no longer plays the shadows either, blurting out Black Flag–circa-'81 bluster as a deceptively simple assist for their leader's colorful wheedle and strident wail.

This is a more mature nod to the bubbly pop that established her fame. And it's a statement from a woman who's come into her own, and who won't be going anywhere that isn't worth her while. We could all do worse than to follow her lead.

A record that's at once stark and lush... Mojave 3 makes sadsack rock of the first order, flying over the lives of the hopeless in such a way as to make their failures cinematic, their pains panoramic.

The most-balanced Kevin Gates project to date, discovering an equilibrium between his pummelers and his caressers we didn’t previously know was possible.

The melodramatic tunes masterfully push up against the antihero's downward narrative spiral, making Defamation the rare contemporary album that insists on being heard in full, in sequence, until the story ends.

Longstreth's prickly surface belies a bright pop center: tart, sweet, and gushing all at once.

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

Recording new material live in a series of concerts with his longtime road band is the best idea Thompson's had since he ditched soul-muting '90s producer Mitchell Froom.

Vernon's voice--delicately layered and yearning--gives standouts 'Skinny Love' and 'Flume' their stunningly direct emotional impact, but his sturdy folk cords, earthy melodies, and plainspoken, pastoral lyrics prevent the album from descending into self-pity. [Mar 2008, p.97]

Flying Lotus' spaced-out visions are the album's trump card, a computerized mesh of hip-hop beats at dub-like tempos.

The Diary is almost certainly for the diehards but even casual fans will find a lot to like.

A Scottish singer-songwriter with a number of spare and lovely folk albums, Alasdair Roberts goes for the mad prophetic gusto on the strange and visionary Spoils.

Blankly drawn out, they are as unlike expressive human speech as anything in rock.

The feeling is more of what comes when the drugs wear off: there’s a hint of euphoria, but moreover, it’s a sparse and sometimes desperate reflection on working through anxiety, somewhere between the realms of T-Pain and Tame Impala. As a result, this might be the best BMSR record yet.

Strikes the perfect balance between the pop-savvy shuffle of Lyle Lovett and the lush loveliness of '80s Englishmen Prefab Sprout. [Mar 2002, p.134]

The effect is more Tokyo neon than Lower East Side leather. Surprisingly, the sonic leap forward intensifies Casablancas' greatest gift--melody.

With his unnerving falsetto, Nikolaj Manuel Vonsild, frontman for this mesmerizing Denmark quartet, suggests an exotic creature who's fallen to earth, while his bandmates fashion a deliciously minimal version of synth pop that evokes Low-era Bowie.

HEAVN is musically spry and spiritually hefty at 41 minutes, the questioning half of a nationally fraught Q&A that’s long deserved the answers, none of whom are currently running for president.

Pretty.Odd lives up to its title because it dares to be optimistically beautiful at a time when sadness and ugliness might have won them easier credibility. [Apr 2008, p.92]

The group [her band] gives Kline’s ideas depth without ever bogging her down. Smith’s keyboard playing replaces the bizarre synth flourishes on 2015 mini-EP Fit Me In with an understated sound that mirrors the warm, delicate quality of Kline’s voice. Kline’s songwriting is more nuanced, too.

His patron saints appear to be Harry Nilsson and yacht rockers like 10cc, and rarely are either channeled with this little cheese and this much panache. He merges these influences with what's quickly become his signature guitar sound, an effortless style that can be playfully discordant. It's these dissonant bits that elevate DeMarco's easily digestible pop.

The Most Lamentable Tragedy can be a harrowing listen, but it’s also laced with jokes and music that’s fun and invigorating.

Besides restoring the muscle lacking on the emaciated An Object, the opening trio on Snares presents No Age as everything they’ve been (gritty, propulsive, atmospheric, a motorcycle taking on a sandstorm head-on) and the immediately accessible rawk band they’ve never been.

Songs in A&E, finds an eerie strength in quietude and mortality.

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.

More avant-opera than pop. [Jul 2006, p.90]