Themes and lyrics aside, the record is simply full of great songs.

This long-awaited comeback album stands on its own as a remarkable achievement for a band that had to earn their legacy over time, and the love that this album has received reaffirms that legacy, and proves that Slowdive are still capable of exceeding expectations for a modern, invigorating comeback album that cements their talent and emotional resonance.

With their feet up on the couch and laurels well and truly rested upon, they’ve gifted us with L.W. which (excepting its sister record) is undoubtedly the most comfortable LP the group has released in quite some time.

It's Barwick's most evocative instrument, one that sparkly piano notes can only help fill the room for, and one with which she diminishes too many comparisons to Panda Bear and other leftfield pop musicians.

It's tempting to label it as "primitive", what with that understatedly ominous cover art, but that undersells the album's strange immediacy, the way that these tracks feel absolutely familiar in spite of their grave otherworldliness.

Immolation’s music has once again taken a familiar form, only to contort it so as to spell out your inescapable fate.

Pissed Jeans have polished up their sound as much as is seemingly possible and because of that they've crafted their finest record yet.

Slave Ambient is the work of a band making us listen for every piece of them.

Each time you listen to it, you feel like you’re gaining a little piece of rare knowledge from the singer’s weathered and experienced life. It’s hard to fault an album that makes you feel such a connection, and Byrne’s latest does just that.

The core songs are decent, still, there’s nothing mind blowing. While the instrumentals occasionally dive into intricate progressions, they never truly reach a powerful climax. Thus, we are left with several fragmented bits and a couple of fleshed out numbers in between.

‘Espresso’/‘Please Please Please’ are each strong enough in their own respective ways to carry Sabrina to stardom and keep her there for years to come. It’s just a shame that the rest of this record couldn’t live up to those efforts, because anything worthwhile to be gleaned from this particular era of Sabrina Carpenter’s career has already been out and heard a hundred times over.

Off-kilter rhythms and dark thundercloud choirs may occasionally spell doom, and the incessant shrieking of the newborn in the next room may keep you up all night, but the album’s captivating parlor trick is its ability to stand confidently in fire and brimstone and smile through the rupturing of its eardrums.

Though occasionally wallowing, there’s a self-assuredness here, a comfort in one’s skin, that’s refreshing, and relieving, given how close to the edge this ship has teetered over the years. As entertainment via soundwaves, it occasionally sags-lags-drags, but for a thoughtful tome on patient self-betterment, you couldn’t ask for much more.

Doomsdayer's Holiday is certainly a step in the right direction in terms of balancing the eclecticism that marred "Burning Off Impurities," and it has some amazing moments, but the album as a whole is too nebulous to be complete nirvana.

It's easy to imagine a superior album being made from sequencing it with the best of its predecessor. But there's a simple, unassuming quality that would be lost if you did.

The Stage Names, despite being dense, is rarely difficult and is probably the band's most accessible effort to date.

Essentially the best debut album of 2010 thus far.

At its best, Overgrown brings to mind Frank Sinatra's iconic In The Wee Small Hours, a record that acts as almost a thematic analogue in its lonely tone and ultimate embrace of love as a painful yet beautiful emotion.

At Night We Live is refreshing. Far are heavy, but without sounding like a generic rock band, poppy yet not cheesy, and proud to show they are back.

Even with an eight-year gap between, it's easy to think of Final Transmission as a sister album to White Silence. The facts of each album's creation are remarkably similar, down to being nine-song hitters largely recorded in practice spaces rather than a recording studio proper. The difference, of course, is that Final Transmission is short and raw by necessity rather than choice.

Post Human: Survival Horror doesn’t break any moulds, it’s the sonic equivalent to fast food, by which you’ll consume it, enjoy it, and forget about it right after you’ve finished it, but it’s fun while it lasts.

Ranging from dense electronica to stark piano ballads to an amalgamation of indie pop, electronica, and concert orchestra, The Magic Position envisions a magical world where Wolf has everything he could ever want at his disposal.

It’s another impressive piece of art from the everchanging Emma Ruth Rundle, and the beginning of something entirely different from the wandering artist.

Scowl's push toward melodicism is overall a step in a positive direction; certainly nobody loves to see punks embrace melody more than me, but it feels like Scowl is still trying to appease their old fans and branch out at the same time, and they end up handicapping themselves in the process.

Be it the lush, massive hills of Ireland or her genuine gratitude to just breath fresh air, The Two Worlds seems conjured up from the musician’s most isolated, profound moments. Lucky for us, she’s been kind enough to share them--and man, what gorgeous moments these are.

Ethel Cain's debut album is an astonishing accomplishment; one that is as painful as it is constantly bathing in the most beautifully dreamy arrangements. Every moment serves to enhance the conveying of the record's story, and refuses to shy away from the unconventional, intense, or drawn out.

The majority of this new record feels stuck in a chordal rut. The dynamic tension between the musical surface and the tonal depth is alive and well, but Disappeared serves as an excellent reminder that good rock music needs more than just ideas to thrive.

There is considerable depth, particularly lyrical, offering the listener a significant amount of brilliant content to dissect. It may not be the album some fans wanted, still, it is an important step forward in the band’s sonic journey and overall development.

It goes from caustically smart presented social observations to absurd, childish rants, while keeping you dancing. I’m glad Viagra Boys found their niche without losing any of their edge.

It's contorted, full of loose ends, songwriting peculiarities and recurring cryptic imagery, and, although many individual moments do overtly recall other artists, it hangs together with such an uneasy balance of inner tension and stubbornly foregrounded idiosyncrasies that you will be unlikely to mistake it for anyone else.

If I’d stuck to just a listen or two of Bad Apple or No Homo, I’d be tempted to think this was a good album. But underneath the fight-montage attack, the songwriting feels about as lazy as it can possibly get. I’m not looking for math-rock bridges or string sections in my garage band or anything, but there’s a difference between walking down a well-trod path and wallowing.

Wakin On A Pretty Daze comes into focus with context, though, as does any accomplished record.

Nearer My God establishes itself as emo's first definitive document on digital-age despair.

The ONE… doesn't feel like work for G-Side, rather it feels like a first love, a record that gives a hundred percent to garner every compliment it earns: flowing, smart, sexy, and even global to those who hear it and its grand tone.

On Panorama, they show themselves to be one of the tightest units in music, writing groove after memorable groove. Guitars, bass, and drums meld seamlessly, with no component vying for attention above the others. What stands out is how rarely the guitarists resort to palm mutes, heavy distortion, or even fast strumming. There is an almost improvisational aspect to the music in a lot of these songs.

Asphalt Meadows not only lives up to but truly, actually fulfils the promise of Death Cab for Cutie – of music not always new, or unique, or 'experimental', but always, always genuine, and always, always packed with meaning and emotion.

Though it may not match its forebears’ ambition or near-flawless execution, the speculative and nostalgic centrifuge spinning like a catherine wheel at the heart of the record assures listeners of the usual cutting insights, by way of brazen bars and some of the finest storytelling of the group’s career.

Spoon’s bravest excursions to date, brilliant and distinct in their own way.

Further focus is rewarded with a deeper experience, sadder and more upset than you might hear the first time.

What these artists have pulled together in their last outing as a trio is something more than the sum of its parts, a paradoxical masterpiece that lies somewhere in the space between, blindingly bright and painfully incomprehensible.

It's not the kind of album that wastes time on flashy features and big beats to demand your attention, but if you come to it anyway, you might find more to Elephant In The Room than you would have expected.

This record nourishes Oxbow's most morose tendencies more generously than ever, and the fruit they bear is oh-so-flatteringly proportioned.

The Film is that rare kind of collaborative effort that sees both parties' voices enhanced into something distinct, marked by careful restraint and caustic volatility. .... The Film is one to be treasured.

It's Blitz will probably date badly and, despite clearly being better than "Fever To Tell," it probably won't be remembered by as many people, or as fondly by those people. Regardless, it IS a great album, and one that's come completely out of leftfield as far as its style and its depth goes.

The album captures the artist in scintillating form with its potent mesh-up of gutsy inventiveness and great maturity.

The real highlight, though, is the title track’s sentimental musing on a lost lover or friend or relative, simple but gorgeous and drenched in honeyed harmonies. It’s the best thing here by a substantial margin. ... I Walked With You A Ways is undoubtedly a solid album, and you could do much worse if looking for a straightforward and accessible record in the country/Americana sphere.

Some of it wants to carry on the torch of its predecessor, other parts of it want to redefine Karnivool, and other parts don’t even seem to have any discernible purpose, like those god-awful interludes.

I doubt anyone will be in a hurry to file this as either the weakest or the strongest Blonde Redhead record, but it might just be the most traditionally pleasant experience they've put their name to.

This is, arguably, the most consistent sounding album she has ever produced, and although it may not appeal to every one of her fans, it’ll certainly have old fans relishing in the brooding spiritual journey it provides.

Brothers marks for perhaps the first time in their career that the Black Keys may have opened the door on a new chapter, one that revolves more around the band’s refined songwriting, monster hooks, and growing grab bag of influences than on any one classic sound.

The Dream Is Over is one of the most unapologetically over-the-top punk albums in recent memory, and fitting proof that Babcock’s vocals are still fully functional.

Japandroids' (or JPNDRDS) first full length--Post-Nothing--is the perfect embodiment of the post-teen angst, excitement, anxiety and fuck-it artlessness of finally packing your bags and moving on, wherever the destination as long as it’s at least a million miles away from home.

While it's possible Pain Is Beauty would have benefited from some more time spent songwriting and fleshing out the overall direction of the album's sound, there's still more than enough impressive songs to make this a worthy addition to the Chelsea Wolfe catalog.

While they may be overzealous and inconsistent and pandering, there’s a certain gratitude reserved for the fact that these people, these dynamics, this electricity, all ended up in the same place at the same time: a trashed and cluttered share-house in California.

In short, it’s a Wolf Parade album. Much like last year’s EP4, the aperitif the band dropped prior to a reunion tour, however, it sometimes leans too far on the formulaic side of things to leave a real lasting impact.

The Long Road North is a more sophisticated record than A Dawn to Fear, and Cult of Luna’s reputation for steely competence is quite at home in its various details and refinements. It’s less contingent on the intensity of individual moments, benefitting more from a pervasive atmosphere of the risky-wilderness-journey variety.

Here, the sequencing is more dynamic and the lyrical settings are as intimate as they've ever been. ... Their body of work speaks for itself at this point: Manchester Orchestra is one of the greatest bands alive right now, and The Million Masks of God is yet another feather in their cap.

The negative bits that afflict the songwriters individually--clunky lyrics, a tendency to trend towards clutter, influences taking up whole damn sleeves--certainly remain here, but somehow, together, the couple’s issues never overwhelm, never distract from the Raconteurs’ thesis statement of just making great, concise rock songs.

Chalk Color Theory up as a sophomore slump - a misstep she’s not likely to repeat - and the most aggressively OK album of 2020.

While lacking the immediate and defining qualities of their previous releases, the album still manages to outclass its peers in almost every regard.

Her delicate fingerpicking and shimmering vibrato carried her across state lines, oceans, into record deals and mixing rooms. The juxtaposition is apt: Beware of the Dogs is Stella adjusting the scales, shifting seamlessly between intimate and all-encompassing.

Fading Frontier’s signature is focus though, and it’s evident in the concise and tightly controlled songwriting.

In all, Turn Up That Dial treads familiar ground, but their heart-on-sleeve message of empathy and admiration for friends, family, and the gift of music is a welcome addition to their discography.

It’s a bunch of sad songs which make you feel good to be alive. Can’t go wrong with that.

There's no pandering to authenticity here, no appeal to the emotion: Love Remains doesn't drag you into its world with any sort of force whatsoever so much as it places square within it, naked and indifferent.

As a whole, Sharon Van Etten really hits the nail on the head with her third try.

It may not contain anything that the casual Swift listener or average radio-goer will be breaking down doors to hear, but with Speak Now (Taylor's Version), she delivers an admirable and very intimate effort that will be extremely rewarding to her most devoted fans.

It's an album that shows a band comfortable and willing to begin moving on, 70 minutes of something new enough that you can see a pretty bright future for the band that seemed impossible to many just three years ago.

What does set this apart from Actress' earlier pieces is the incredibly organic feel that this album seems to thrive on.

Musical transcendence is a rare thing, but you can literally feel the weights being lifted on this album. It’s all so lush, airy, and pristine; a soundtrack for second chances.

Tears of the Valedictorian is easily one of the best records of the year.

One of 2011's premier releases in alternative rock.

Where its cool and dynamic at first, by the time the albums over you get the sense that there was too much, too quickly, and something was certainly lost. While it may break away from the hardcore realm, giving these songs more room to grow and expand would have greatly increased the replayability of Parting the Sea beyond the first listen or two.

Trimming would have helped, still, a portion of his fan base might have asked for this full retreat into darkness for quite a number of years now. It’s ironic how Lanegan’s most tumultuous experience came wrapped in one of the most toned down collections of songs so far. Also, the difficulties of relating to these stories refrain the LP from becoming one of the strongest in the catalog.

I could go on for hours about the beauty within the story of You Are The Morning, but the record truly speaks for itself. From the luscious instrumentation to the heart-on-sleeve lyrics, jasmine.4.t’s first full-length shares a message that needs to be heard: a message of hope found within community. You Are The Morning is nothing short of raw and emotional, and that’s what makes it so powerful.

Bark Your Head Off, Dog continues the Hop Along tradition insofar as it is sharp, well-produced indie rock accompanying Quinlan's bold lyrical earnestness. This is the band's hallmark sound, so loyalists can rejoice. What is different this time around, however, are broader and more grandiose instrumentation.

This is a much, much more consistent album, it's got nothing as immediate as "Mansard Roof" or "A-Punk", and it moves a little toward the pop end of their sound, but other than that it's business as usual.

Avi Buffalo wear their musical influences on their sleeves (Built To Spill, the aforementioned Shins, Elephant 6, etc. etc.), and their lyrical direction is more Superbad than J.D. Salinger, but it's charming without being cloying, poppy without being overly sugary. Most importantly, it's the kind of debut that leaves you thrilled for what the future may bring, and that's something special.

Ohnomite is another solid addition to a growing, consistent discography.

The instrumentation at hand is stellarly crafted, the riffs are infectious and most of the album as a whole is certainly on par with the band’s discography. Yet Intronaut’s most blatant change--foregoing harsh vocals, and only utilizing singing--is a decision that severely dampens the group’s fourth studio outing.

I hear Wheel slightly differently every time I listen to it, but what stays the same is the overarching feeling that there is some ungraspable quality to it, something indefinable in the way these songs come together, as if multiple worlds are eclipsing each other while remaining individually visible.

Colored Sands is exactly what a Gorguts record should sound like in 2013 and will surely breathe for years to come.

Brimming with the caustic darkness of his later material, the album feels wholly new while still featuring the same haggard nihilism that Wrest is known for.

UNLOCKED's best features are its brevity and simplicity. Songs drop in, do what they need to and cycle to an end without melodrama.

Love Is The King is weathered and patient, rarely effusive, and entirely demonstrative of its namesake. It’s a warm embrace.

Tight as heck, gorgeously thematic, lovingly orchestrated, produced within an inch of its life (i.e. well), seamless, vital, other compliments, all of them. An album with a pulse.

The league Big|Brave are continuously uncovering is one of their own: not explicitly inviting, but altogether demanding and utterly rewarding.

Somehow heavier but feeling lighter than they have in years, meeting your gaze not with a self-deprecating shrug but a grimace and a snarl, Blood, Hair, and Eyeballs is a perfect sendoff to one of pop-punk's finest drummers and a victory lap for one of the genre's best acts.

It's a shade overlong and overuse of certain choruses dampen the calculated effect of a few songs, but these flaws are barely noticeable when set against how gut-punch raw and earnest the writing is.

Although there are a handful of highlights, the group has settled into a comfort zone from which good tracks emerge effortlessly, but nothing outstanding.

At the end of things, Morning Phase remains exceedingly lovely but disappointedly insubstantial; not a sea change at all, but just another passing phase in a career that’s made a specialty of them.

While his lyrics may not make complete sense and can be hypocritical at times, Nas is on top of his game with Life Is Good.

They Want My Soul chases that sound far past anything Spoon have done to date in their careers. It’s a chase I hope never ends.

Women occupy a unique place in the indie rock spectrum. Their songs and makeup can put them nowhere else –- Public Strain would be a Deerhunter album if it weren't for that sneer in its lip- and yet their music is completely singular.

Actress is known to be deliberate and, one might argue, almost ponderous in how he paces his work, but AZD is especially bottom-heavy in concept. Like in an adult store, the best stuff is at the back.

Konoyo is a heavy album, emotionally speaking, in a way that is difficult to explain, yet can be expressed in a way that only someone like Tim Hecker would know. By destroying, contorting and reconfiguring these sounds, Hecker draws out the most visceral emotions in himself via soundwaves--his music being his therapy, and us, the audience, being his witness to his solemn excursion into his very soul. It's all too beautiful.

They're spinning a lonely, sad narrative on Down in the Weeds..., but in telling the story they share it with all of us, which naturally transforms it.

To describe this group's efforts as excellent or even superb doesn't do their record proper. American Dollar Bill is the record to the end of the world, maybe even to the world as it is right now. If it makes you afraid, then that's very okay. They probably want it that way.