No Time for Dreaming wails in a world of "Heartaches and Pain" (see the memorable closing track), but Bradley's despair is never less than stirring.

Though Blow Your Head leans hard on the Diplo cohort (Major Lazer, Rusko, Borgore), its colossus is James Blake, whose shower of warped arcade-game synths and butchered old gospel vocals is stunning--heaven for believers and headaches for everyone else.

Cheerfully ignoring stylistic boundaries, Brit duo Malachai (formerly Malakai) polish their cut-and-paste skills on this follow-up to last year's tantalizing Ugly Side of Love.

The Gathering should be a hoot, at the very least, but this Baltimore clan's fourth release is more of a slog, shackled by monochromatic guitar churn and a slack pulse.

Killing Time is no breakthrough, but it does pack actual hard-rock crunch, not just sure-shot emo punch.

Fluorescence, their fourth studio album, has an overwhelming brightness.

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.

Most producers who approach the mic do so at their peril, but on Dropout, West turns out to be a full-service hip-hop artiste.

Upbeat sentiment is scarce, yet there's barely a downcast moment -- no insignificant trick -- and somewhere Alex Chilton nods his approval.

What the album lacks in focus, it makes up for in sheer listenability.

Ices' lush melodies and dreamy voice will convert skeptics and mesmerize supporters of Kate Bush and Joanna Newsom.

Camper Van Beethoven and Cracker frontman David Lowery splits the difference between the former's loose eclectic twang and the latter's tight psych-country on his solo debut.

They might not know where they're going, but they have no doubt they'll get there.

Recorded leisurely over tea at his sister's place on the southern edge of the Sahara Desert, Sidi Toure's second album is an intimate gem of bone-dry acoustic Afro-minimalism.

Marion's approach varies, but his surprisingly soulful songs consistently connect, a significant feat considering we only hear his voice through a Fender.

The People's Key proves Oberst has learned to balance a cutting perspective with a bleeding heart.

Hardcore is mostly content to refine the band's epic, frequently breathtaking constructions.

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

It's yet another trip to the part of town where you really shouldn't be, in a district the Truckers call home.

Sung with warmth, these tracks offer a welcome antidote to her more familiar performance mode--spectacular austerity. They're as bloody and forceful as the battles Harvey references.

Gradually, he surfaces along with the band's worldly identity, but the sentiments behind the histrionic symphonics often remain obscured, and the band's desperation lacks focus.

Beans' avalanche of verbiage can obscure his nuances, but a cast of collaborators--disco evangelist In Flagranti, electro-hop eccentric Tobacco, psychedelic beat guru Four Tet, even Interpol's Sam Fogarino--burnish his rhyme schemes into high-tech funk.

Singer Christopher Owens remains unchanged: Choked on teen melodrama and blessed with a documentarian's keen eye, he's the rare indie rocker with a tender hooligan's heart.

Apparently, [Craig Fox's] been stockpiling solid songs: From the slinky "Go Tell Henry" to the stinging snarl of "Underestimator," everything here is taut and lively. The lone drawback: It all sounds terribly familiar.

The record works best at its most focused and extroverted.

The band's typically thunderous melodic sprawl and cryptic musings on life and death perfectly fit the conceptual bill, with everything cranked to its natural extreme.

On the follow-up to 2007's terrific Neptune City, Atkins trades that album's lush torch-song vibe for scrappier indie-garage arrangements that drain much of the drama and romance from her music.

If you're looking for a record that'll make you wanna trash your beloved's belongings and have make-up sex amid the ruins, 21's your jam.