Although sonically ominous, Relfection of Youth possesses a sophisticated breed of optimism which embodies itself through realism.

Are We There is one of the finest folk-ish albums of this decade, but this timely reissue illustrates that Van Etten’s remarkable talent has always been omnipresent. Eight years on, her incoming anxious queries and lovelorn passages are as pertinent as they’ve ever been.

This is perhaps the most simply alive Baths has yet sounded on record, retaining enough of his emotional heft, while allowing for an entirely new collage of flashy, elated songcraft. This is Baths triumphant.

The Greatest Gift is an appropriate accompaniment to Carrie and Lowell. A simple compilation of oddball tracks, it delivers enough to stand for itself--but is ultimately only really for the enjoyment of Stevens’ long-time fans.

L’Orange L’Orange doesn’t exist in one place or detail specific events, which is to say it’s a fine contrast to the 21st century’s culture of volume. It simply is, and that gives it grace.

Few albums in the Oh Sees catalogue are as emotionally intimate as Memory Of A Cut Off Head.

Many of the tracks vary to such a degree that those not acquainted with Olsen would be forgiven for thinking they were not by the same artist, yet to those who appreciate her work, the artist’s strong narrative ties the collection together.

Mechanics of Dominion is too heady for its own good, but still holds ground as a wonderful combination of influences and post-genre style. It takes time for it to reveal itself, and it’s usually worth the investment.

A common pattern on this record? A feeling of positivity and amusement that shines through in almost every song, while still preserving a solemn mood.

In keeping it short and sour, the normally too giving Sleigh Bells have finally done it: left us wanting.

While this easily could have been an enjoyable throwaway, with two young artists linking up for the hype and moving it, it beats all odds to stand as one of 2017's most enjoyable and essential moments.

The record is a lot of things and also unquestionably not, for the most part embodying an impregnable and extraordinary soundscape that fortifies itself against deconstruction, but its one truly distinctive quality is that it’s the precise opposite of boring.

On The Dusk In Us, we have a handful of tracks that see Converge pushing at the boundaries of their sound, even escaping it entirely. This leads to some of the most accessible, catchy, and (uncoincidentally) most emotionally resonant work of their careers.

Backwater being their most complete and mature release to date, the band’s creative dynamic remains organic and allows them to adjust themselves to a rhythm of their choosing, as they evolve as musicians and as a two-piece band with a wide range of possibilities.

She seems a lot happier, or at least more energetic and outgoing, coming into second album Plunge. But that only seems to bring her up against more frustrations in the world around her, which are wrought vividly throughout.

The Endless Shimmering is such a relief to listen to. It’s not just a correction for the band, it’s also a redemption and a potential catalyst for an exciting new stage in their career as instrumental rock leaders.

What elevates Turn Out The Lights is that it’s sensory as well as earnest, personally destabilising while artfully assured; it oscillates in the spilling synaesthesia of panic attacks, the dizzying clarity of epiphany, the paralysing futility of depressive episodes, the unfathomable locus of being okay.

The album is an engaging and enjoyable listen and deserves all the credit it will inevitably receive.

Ultimately, A flame my love, a frequency is an intimate voyage of a single human soul through nature, and the minimalistic synth compositions she has used to render this prove to be an ideal vessel.

Carpenter here brings together the themes from 13 of his movies to remind us exactly how pervasive is his influence on modern culture.

This album scales back significantly from the relative bombast of the grand Poison Season in favor of a more intimate, simple setting. Stranding himself nearly alone--aside from longtime collaborator Josh Wells--Bejar hunkered down to record the simultaneously unconcerned and emotional splash that is ken.

For those of us all too invested in the constant slew of bigger, louder, more flashy presentations every week, it's a true pleasure to get lost in such a graceful, deceptively simple world. Open is a true treat.

There’s a balance to be struck between playing it safe and playing it smart, and Lindstrøm leans more towards the latter. If he occasionally veers the wrong way, he recovers handsomely.

Mr. Davis seems to pull in every direction at once. Gucci himself, despite the attempted show of a triumphant album, largely seems to feel somber.

Ogilala lives and dies by the strength of its songwriting, and while there’s nothing here that even sniffs at the coattails of Corgan’s best work, it is probably the most consistent and least offensively pretentious album he’s put out in, well, nineteen years.

It makes for a veritable smorgasbord of genre pastiche wherein there is plenty of fun to be had in simply trying to pinpoint the artist or even specific song that is being aped. On the other hand, it also makes for a bit of a hit and miss affair.

Although Lotta Sea Lice didn’t exactly live up to it’s potential and hype, the end result is still something to be reckoned with; a fascinating and balanced attempt at perfecting the concept of the collaboration album.

Overall it’s a fun album of two halves. The first half tows the line between the cheesy elements of radio pop that even the snarkiest Slayer fan secretly loves, and some truly inspirational, if not fleeting, compositional substance. The second half, although still very much a fun listen, somewhat strays.