The earnest but tepid Clear Heart Full Eyes, which as a solo album makes an excellent argument for sticking with your apostles.

Even the terrible parts of Born to Die are just so lovable, which bodes well for the actually great parts.

Imperial Teen still sound as fresh and vital as ever.

Whether they're trying to obscure the songs' perceived flaws or make some sort of dazzling artistic statement, the band opts for grandiose production (courtesy of Jacknife Lee) and sprawling arrangements--cue the orchestra and the choir--that blunt the effect of Lightbody's deceptively strong songwriting.

The overall affect is a travelogue falling between chillwave's lo-fi explorations and the sophisticated melancholy of Lykke Li's Wounded Rhymes: tightly economic pop tunes that draw on aural largesse as much as claustrophobic bricolage.

Like cans of Monster Energy Drink, this collection is spracked out and ridiculous and fun and sometimes disposable, just one more shard of debris left in this kid's wake, and his generation's.

Sounds of a certain vintage, which can net a poignant, tragic-romantic classic ("The Weekend Dreams"), but occasionally overreaches.

Vibrates like youth itself.

A visceral display of synth prowess that makes exhilarating use of contrasting textures and subtle dynamics.

Echoes is a profound listen that, despite its veneer of cynicism, oozes pain and crisis.

The 21 songs here are no more or less inscrutable than the hundreds of tunes Pollard has penned since he last played with this band, but they gel in ways that so many of those didn't, reveling in their limitations rather than trying to overcome them. It's the difference between the White Stripes and the Raconteurs.

There is Michael Jackson bad, there is Ed Wood bad, and then there is BAYTL, a union so unholy that it cries out for a show on Bravo.

This slippery debut from Odd Future's Syd the Kyd and Matt Martians embarks on a journey into Twilight Zone pop, with a lovelorn story arc that transitions from giddy crushing to it's-over melancholia.

Mixing stately story ballads with Cee-Lo-esque uptempo jams, Back to Love presents songwriting substance as style, and although that might not be flashy, it's mighty refreshing.

Ideal for anyone who finds Cypress Hill too sober.

When it comes to trap raps, he's coined and refined a slick, successful musical formula that TM103, easily maintains.

It's hard to think of another post-hardcore lifer whose return to active duty is so high-five worthy.

The selections range from pre-Frank material to the last song she ever recorded, all united by a distinctive rawness, her voice kept naked and slightly flawed, despite the sophisticated production.

The Roots work hard and play hard on undun, but there's not enough pleasure to balance out Thought's business-like, consummately bland reading of the character who's supposed to bring the entire album to life.

This Berlin-via-Manchester producer's debut EP blasts through not only genres, but the divide between the otherworldly and the physical, too.

Tago Mago is the messy one, where ten-minute stretches of nightmare sound effects are followed by 20 minutes of caveman groove with Damo Suzuki's caveman babble to match.

Amid overwrought theatrical gestures, MJB still finds a slinky groove.

The five-disc set breaks down the album to its building blocks, while the two-CD version provides outtakes and an edit of what the original final product might have been: part tribute, part cartoon, part dream.

An anthology that holds its own against MacLean's "official" releases.

Thing is, dubstep's slithering textures actually suit Davis' demented croon, particularly in the cuts produced by Skrillex.

Gone are the prior albums' "tasteful" (i.e., boring) slow-burners; El Camino's 38 minutes are pure thrust.

On Far Side Virtual, he makes a glowing, glossy album out of everyday digital detritus.

Joined by the similarly un-categorizable Swedish reedman Mats Gustafsson, Live at the South Bank is an onslaught of sound.