His second album delivers fleeting moments of bliss, like a beach bum’s opiate dreams.

Here, tunes about racism, consumer culture, and the evils of TV hit their marks, then hit them again and again and again.

His neoclassical melodies feel warm and full of blood, his keyboards weep where others bleep, and he puts so much skillful passion into female vocal showcasing that the tracks on his solo debut are consumed by a yearning for companionship that's only shaken momentarily.

While Young's compositions occasionally flirt with the nuanced melodicism of Jimmy Tamborello or Jona Bechtolt, he rarely lets even the slightest risky idea emerge.

It's their most instantly accessible effort after "Bark," with a dozen catchy tunes packed inside 47 easy, breezy minutes.

Mostly wordless and free of Birgisson's trademark rapturous build-and-release, Riceboy Sleeps is more ideally suited for yoga poses or total headphone absorption.

Gather, Form & Fly extends Megafaun’s back-porch mad science into unexpectedly epic realms, including straight blues and even pure pop, embellished with skronky, experimental sound effects.

A primary-color blast of major-key melodies, airy boy-girl vocals, ringing guitars, skipping rhythms, brass, woodwinds, and rolling piano, the rather exhaustingly charming third album from this Canadian collective radiates with the earnest warmth of a child's finger painting.

Beneath the glitzy production, the songwriting lacks luster--catchier tunes like 'Daniel' and 'Dem Girls' offer jaunty bouts of melodicism, but the vast majority of this elegant Brit jangle feels a bit recycled.

Such an over-the-top approach could end in solemn self-parody. But Broken Records' refreshing playfulness and surprisingly light touch indicate they're really enjoying themselves.

The energetic players temper Farrar's grave persona--for all the vintage touches, this is a deceptively funky band, as the sultry 'Down to the Wire' proves.

The first single's called 'Pretty Wings,' but the whole thing flies.

While the similarly mystical/mewling Joanna Newsom seems adrift in fantasy, Tiny Vipers finds wonder in being rooted firmly to the terra.

Nils Edenloff's passionate songwriting comes across as both raucous (“The Dethbridge in Lethbridge”) and gently sweet (the harmony-rich boy-girl cupcake “Don’t Haunt This Place”), consistently marked by a joyful sonic ingenuity.

Of course, it’s much too much, but the fact that it works at all is a testament to their commitment to well-honed rock hypnosis. Good luck finding the front door when it’s done.

Best known as the distinctive voice of backpack hip-hop faves Jurassic 5, Chali 2na is sometimes reduced to a supporting role on his solo debut.

Wilco (the album), the band's seventh studio effort, treats verse-chorus-verse basics like holy truths. The result is the rare rock album about acceptance. And it's fantastic.

The mood is somber, mournful, and at times, downright postapocalyptic. But the best of these ambient orchestrations, gurgling uncomplicated beats, and scattered vocals add up to something emotionally wrought, even transporting.

On American Saturday Night, Paisley extends a hot streak began with 2003's "Mud on the Tires," singing about regular life in the USA wit and charm that make suburbs sound like heaven on earth.

Their debut shares Gnarls' yen for psychedelic weirdness and uncharacteristic (for hip-hop) emotional vulnerability, but with beats that are swampy, murky, and--when thumping below moaning guitars and spacey organ melodies--wholly disorienting.

For the most part, Varshons is pleasantly predictable, with celebrity cameos (Kate Moss, Liv Tyler) and selections from legendary rakes Leonard Cohen and Townes Van Zandt that practically qualify as typecasting. But the countrified take on GG Allin's 'Layin' Up with Linda' provides a moment of effective shock value, and improbable redemption arrives with the closing track: Christina Aguilera's 'Beautiful.'

Apparently, you can go home again, and it's still plenty loud and comfortable.

These eight tracks--only one of which stretches past the eight-minute mark!--actually make up the Mars Volta's most consistently compelling slab since 2005's salsafied "Frances the Mute."

Most of these ten tracks, though, make Jason Mraz sound daring.

Far snuggles between her previous efforts, linking the heady sweep of 2003's "Soviet Kitsch" to the roundabout pop treats of "Begin to Hope."

Although most of the songs on Patterson Hood's second solo album predate the existence of Drive-By Truckers, they'd easily fit on any of his band's records--same low-life characters, busted dreams, and black humor, rendered in solidly gothic Southern rock.

Krug clearly takes Sunset Rubdown every bit as seriously as his day job.