Even Klaxons' most ominously rambunctious tracks grind out plenty of bug-eyed dream-pop chants.

All Delighted People documents his struggle between fealty to the here-and-now and preparing for the hereafter; accordingly, it's unwieldy, schizophrenic, and frequently devastating.

Equally comfortable with dance grooves ("When I'm Alone"), country-tinged laments ("Everywhere I Go"), and epic pop dramas ("Loosen the Knot"), Illinois-bred, California-based Elisabeth Maurus is a promising work in progress on this smoothly produced debut.

You've been touring nonstop in support of your first new album in seven years. What do you do next? If you're Texas-based scrungers Toadies, you redo your unreleased second album, recorded in 1997 and rejected by Interscope, presumably for lacking another "Possum Kingdom," which drove their debut Rubberneck to platinum sales.

Wilson is clearly energized, and it's delightful to hear one virtuoso finally meet up with another.

There's not much emotional nuance in Ray LaMontagne's fourth album, which maintains a brokenhearted downer elegance, similar to Neil Young at his most somber and sepia-toned, sung in a beautiful wail that Van Morrison might envy.

Modern Rituals feels like an encouraging first draft, waiting for the distinctive touches that would complete it.

The third album (and first for a major) from this Boston-born, Mississippi- and Chicago-bred singer-guitarist is bound to inspire Sam Cooke comparisons, but Get It just as frequently stirs up Jackson 5 dance fever.

Radiant with apocalyptic tension and grasping to sustain real bonds, The Suburbs extends hungrily outward, recalling the dystopic miasma of William Gibson's sci-fi novels and Sonic Youth's guitar odysseys.

Sad-eyed generalists with a knack for cinematic spookiness, they aspire to Wolf Parade's adventurousness, but often descend into lumbering, Interpol-style self-seriousness.

All Night Long posits Buckcherry as your ultimate all-night rager soundtrack; the fist-pumping anthem-makers who are best heard on 5 a.m. IHOP runs.

He's a natural co-conspirator: Collaborations with Drake, Young Jeezy, and T-Pain lack the BBQ spare-rib smokiness of vintage UGK, but still satisfy.

King of the Beach's specialty is Warped Tour–ready choruses, charred with noise and peppered with lyrics from a self-hating surfer teen who sees sunburn as spiritual penance for being a burnout.

Weirdly calm yet supremely uneasy, On the Ones and Threes fluctuates constantly from folk to psychedelia to grunge, often in a single song.

With double-time beats, Trent Reznor-level distortion, lost-in-the-matrix digital doodles, and the occasional gunshot, megamixxx3 works like a headbanger companion to El's 2007 album, I'll Sleep When You're Dead-soaring, paranoid, and ghoulish.

Gibbs elevates this eight-song EP above '90s-gangsta-rap homage with his baritone-deep hauteur and studious lyricism.

Previously, that technique fostered playfulness, but Menomena's fourth album mostly just broods.

Crazy for You is a soundtrack to bikini season as it's actually experienced, racked by impossible expectations and as high as the tide line.

The Bronx native's tenth LP is consumed by legacy: his lengthy career, his harrowing life, and his craft.

What elevates their debut beyond your average twee-punk rager is the gentle psych dabblings.

Ross's greatest tool is still his presence, which vouches for the strength of his persona when his lyrics can't.

It's not an essential set, but there's enough here (take the gallant "Grand Army Plaza" for a stroll or seven) to tide you over till the Veckatimest crew sets sail again.

Tightly wound to the point of unease, the Brooklyn singer-pianist's third album has its occasional irresistible moments.

From grandiose opener "Pink City" to the haunting mixture of reverberating voice and piano on the title track, it's evident that singer-songwriters MJ Parker and Charlie Cokey have closely studied Veckatimest's artisanal harmonies.

Aside from "Lovealot," she proudly proclaims her intentions as a first-world pop star, de-emphasizing found collage and "third-world democracy" for melodic sway and punky bluster.

His persistent self-flagellation could do with more hooks, but Remember packs pain by the pound.

Fussy knob-twiddling grounds a couple of tracks, but this skyward-reaching album delivers plenty of solidly earthy pleasures.

Like Paul McCartney, Crowded House leader Neil Finn possesses a massive melodic gift, but no longer seems interested in writing anthems (à la "Don't Dream It's Over"). That's okay when the results feel as intimate as they do here.