woods’s golliwog is the rare symbol that truly awakens from the dead on what seems like his twentieth stellar full-length, given breath by the cursed voodoo that permeates the entirety of the album.

Their return more than holds its own as a direct progression of Mclusky, but there’s a sense that they themselves feel like expectations should be tempered just a hair, a self-awareness that ends up dangerously close to hamstringing the cocksure arrogance that’s such a crucial part of their charisma.

Pink Elephant isn’t jumping the shark, so much as it is a formal DOD.

Animaru is as gorgeous as can be, and undeniably triumphant as a debut. Mei’s music has all the exuberance of a sprint imbued with the mindfulness of sitting with your eyes closed; it fits just about every occasion. “There’s something I like about it” indeed.

This album sucks and is probably the band’s best and worst work yet. Sleep Token have conclusively proven themselves to be wholly incompetent songwriters and everything here is almost offensively boring.

What truly makes Shell~Wave unique is the uncanny ability of its creator to imprint himself in the music, making some of the most machine-like techno around sound uncharacteristically human. This was the genre’s calling card when it was invented, and decades later, it’s still the thing that makes techno interesting and exciting. Surgeon hasn’t forgotten.

Who Will Look After the Dogs? is a long way from a perfect record, but this is no obstacle to respecting it on its own terms — as a sadsack burnout trip from a band that has lost sight of almost all its past brilliance and knows it, but still has enough dignity to own its scrappy qualities for what they are, rather than inadvertently collapsing into them (The Unraveling of PUPTheBand) and/or self-consciously hawking them (per The Unravelling of PUPThegoddamnedBAND).

There’s something absurdly listenable about the whole package, and I suspect that the listening experience will only get better as the weeks go by and the thermostat cranks up to increasingly unbearable temperatures. This is, after all, one of those records built for those moments spent wallowing in the heat haze. Sounds like a bloody good time.

viagr aboys is a remarkably consistent affair that invites attention and dance-steps, but not by swinging for the fences. Instead, the band commits to a steady churn of tightly written songs, each one grounded in better hooks, tighter grooves, and a more coherent sense of pacing.

"Marks of the Evil One" and "Umbra" (I hope you like cowbells) could have easily been singles, they’re that good, and they solidify Skeletá as a worthy new chapter in the history of the only mainstream band that is able to sing about Satan in stadiums while having the ultra catholic zealots silent as a grave.

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.

Stygian Waves crafts a rich, immersive experience that thrives on atmosphere, melody, and mood. It’s an album that rewards patience, pulling the listener in with its delicate intricacies and dreamlike textures – all executed with remarkable finesse. At the end of the day, you may come for Alex Lifeson, but you’ll stay for the strong songs and capable vocals of Maiah Wynne.

Thunderball would greatly benefit from another 10 or 20 minutes worth of mid-to-low tempo grooves to grant their now-besotted audience a chance to sway like sluggish Evangelicals in a primal stupor.

There are a few tumbleweeds in the bunch (“Dirt” is curiously overlong to begin the record; “Showdown” fails to make much of an impression), but this is about as good a curiosity that I would imagine a Julien Baker and TORRES country spinoff to be. It’s evocative, heartfelt fun.

The record’s most profound and memorable experiences arrive at the hands of the tracks that are not afraid of crossing timelines, the ones that are unafraid of integration and understand there is no returning to the past.

The album's relatively narrow focus does it few favours here; its reluctance to experiment outside of sparkly, quickfire bangers inadvertently spotlights how the appeal of its weaker cuts is directly interchangeable with that of the highlights.

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.

All in all, Forever Howlong feels like a missed opportunity. There are enough good bits to show that the band are as capable as ever of crafting a spellbinding moment, but there’s a frustrating lack of direction or commitment that prevents these moments from ever coalescing.

Despite the obvious beauty on display, there’s a thick veil that I just can’t seem to lift in order to fully connect with the work. Try as I might, a good portion of the record seems to roll by its picturesque scenery without causing too much of a stir, with “Capezio” and “Hanging Out” challenging the confidence of my object permanence.

In spite of its more defined nature, Microtonic is an entirely immersive affair. There’s tiny sonic motifs littered across the record, connecting each moment to the next and making everything feel like one well-rounded experience.

Lonely People With Power is a masterpiece that turns Deafheaven’s story on its head, leaving greyed out charcoal marks where Sunbather was once penciled in. In fact, declaring it the band’s best work is probably the least interesting thing you could say about the album when there is so much thematic resonance to latch onto and seemingly endless points of musical intrigue packed into this dense of a package that will only continue to reveal itself in time.

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.

is is (yikes) a low-stakes and contented release, quite enjoyable for what it is and wholly inessential.

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.

A willingness to wear many hats and Benny Blanco's dreamy production help usher in Selena's best project yet.

Whether they burn out sooner or stick around long enough to become cult heroes, 45 Pounds is the kind of record that will leave a mark—on your eardrums, on your nerves, on your ability to process sound in a rational manner.

The number of songs and the length would be a bit more understandable if there weren’t also the feeling that some of these songs are woefully undercooked and underdeveloped, but it feels like a true russian roulette to engage with the totality of Music when you get a song that feels kinetic and lively and progresses, only to then be met with a bonafide voice memo that repeats one idea over and over.

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.