Employment feels more like a patchwork collage of past Brit-rock stardom... than a fully-formed statement of their own. But maybe that's missing the point. When a band has this much fun and crackles with this much energy, you don't ask questions.

With the exception of a few standout tracks, on one hand we are not engaged with memorable melodies that would lean the album toward the poppier side of 80s synth and its contemporary revival; but on the other, there is not enough complexity here to engage the deconstructive pleasure characteristic of long-form dance music.

Third is a carefully rewarding record with enough inspired turns to entertain throughout.

No matter her self-presentation, her grip, the music is relentlessly Sad--and exhausting in its sadness.

There are some obvious pitfalls to this newfound worldliness, and the second half of Girls in Peacetime is a bit of a mess.

With Echo Ono, despite their disposition to meaty and minimalist hard rock, Pontiak have shown that there is music beyond what they know.

CrownsDown certainly achieves its obvious intent, its impeccable production, and untouchable vocal dexterity, firmly reestablishing the group as a definite talent.

While still struggling a bit to overcome their influences, still sound no less than incredible and compelling on their debut.

Root For Ruin is hardly a great album, but it is an affirmative gesture toward commitment, to each other and to their craft.

Broder’s voice adds an extra source of dynamism to the mix. It all adds up to a sound that revels in rock’s limitations while working to redefine them.

The Mouse and the Mask's downfall, though, is its excruciatingly narrow scope.

While the band have shed much of their aggressive musical past, they are able to bring an edge to a wealth of genres that otherwise struggle with balancing a new audience with an older, AOR-accessible set.

Devotion has that same opiated warmth that left me lying in a bed of rose petals for long stretches last year, and though I would have preferred a bigger growth spurt from the Baltimore duo, they shot up at least enough to warrant a new pencil mark a half-inch/inch above where I placed them in ‘06.

While Don't Climb on and Take the Holy Water is a nice change of pace and a pleasant excursion in the free-drone for an underrated guitar band, it lacks any real defining moments that would make it a more noteworthy and essential album.

Gate of Grief puts the band back on the map, and while it sometimes stumbles, it nevertheless continues to slink around in the shadows, cackling.

Take Fountain... does little to expand on the formulaic offerings their followers have released. Instead, the album risks running itself into a dead end it creates, all on its own.

Mr. Hollywood Jr., 1947 won't win any awards for innovation and probably won't yield any radio hits, but that's perfect. This album isn't about creating the perfect pop song, but about creating a story that bridges generations.

A few forgettable collaborations and sing-by-number hooks aside (the usually spirited Seu Jorge sounds especially enervated on “Favela Love,” which languishes until a jaunty guitar riff revives it well after the four-minute mark), many of the guest verses on the record pleasantly surprise.

This music on this self-titled release is perfectly and tightly composed and arranged.

Playing it Strange isn't the most awe-inspiring Fresh & Onlys record, but it fits snug on the shelf next to their myriad other records and offers a few of their nicest melody slices yet. This is what lo-fi is meant to do.

The tracks blister with attitude and grit, but the persistent monochrome grows a bit exhausting all coughed out at once. The bitter sandstorm could stand more punctuation, even if it did make Horehound less terrifying.

Indeed, when everything clicks, Darnielle can't be denied, and even when there's cause for concern, there's always something worth taking note of.

Here, he’s stripped aside much of the theoretical sprawl, resulting in a work that feels both minor, even by his standards, and gargantuan, even by his standards.

Nevertheless, this unsettled eclecticism notwithstanding, Fading Frontier does in fact sport some of Deerhunter’s most conventional and poppy material.

The Kadanes have released their third full-length, a self-titled release best appreciated as the culmination of the Kadane’s experience of playing together since children in Wichita Falls, TX.

The album is consistently entertaining, but lacking in some of the really revelatory moments of his earlier records.

While The Sound The Speed The Light might not push the band beyond the ground they’ve already covered, it goes a long way towards proving that “more of the same” isn’t so bad when it comes from the right outfit.

Its intensity and aggressiveness reveal Truths about Raime’s process that “process music” can’t really tap into.

Local Business is an uneven record in comparison to the two that preceded it, owing to a slight loss of momentum in its back third, but the material that shines does so with an effulgent intensity that's become par for the course with this group.

Crazy Clown Time isn't a groundbreaking work in the way that Lynch's films are, but that's not to say that there's not a lot of darkling pleasure for the intrepid and the curious.

Dark Developments is another remarkably fine album from a musician who has been around doing what he does so long that he’s often unjustly neglected.

Temple and co. have obviously taken a big left turn that at the very least indicates a commitment to motion over stagnation; they're pushing themselves and their listeners somewhere.

Though Langhorne Slim has its delights, one would be remiss not to note its flyover country.

Music this agreeable and well-produced may not leave the most potent aftertaste, but it still makes for a sweet listen without veering into the saccharine.

It’s a good album. ... It’s a lusher, synthy, melodramatically gothy version of Tamaryn’s sound. More Soft Cell, less Chapterhouse.

Where the album stumbles is in its inconsistency, with some rather uninteresting filler that doesn't do much but flesh out the album.

Cut the World may not be essential Antony and the Johnsons, but it's a recapitulant compilation of some of their strongest songs, in some of their strongest iterations, while presenting stimulating ideas for reconsidering their music and our own planet.

Walker is still ultimately a troubadour at heart, a keeper of old languages retelling us stories from years past, and Deafman Glance shows that he’s continuing to sharpen his tongue.

Marrying the weight of her subject matter and boundless ideas into such a light and airy form can sometimes yield lopsided results. But given enough space, Lafawndah can truly soar.

My Maudlin Career may not be the kind of album that breaks new ground or does anything particularly forward-looking musically, but what it lacks in that department it more than makes up for with intelligent pop hooks and some of the loveliest string arrangements of recent memory.

It's a complicated exercise in postmodernism, and one that is surprisingly rich.

At the end of the day, Bleach is still the weakest of the band’s full-length albums, but there’s enough good stuff to merit a spin.

On City Wrecker, in the swirling synths and bottled righteousness, you can hear Krug stirring the embers.

The band returns to The Power Out’s playground equipped with the chops their latest personnel lineup displayed on Axes. The album only benefits from it, becoming a more-than-worthy successor to both previous releases.

The Wild Hunt is a very good record, but it's not perfect. The album's second half, though unarguably beautiful, runs together like an extended 60s folk mix.

Two Way Monologue is an evident progression forward, but not forward enough. It is extremely similar to Faces Down and ultimately leads to disappointment.

Whimsical waltzing and barefoot stomping, warm 'n' fuzzy resurrections of soothing old-tyme indie-baroque-pop shimmies for sunset revelry, splashed upon buoyant, Northern African-influenced rhythms and shining with the silky gloss of a keyed-up, Eastern-Euro-tinged lounge sashay.

Random Access Memories is by no means a perfect record, but it consistently possesses an inspired, organic sense of a vitality, a quality that is often denied by the cut-and-paste status quo of EDM.

While they haven't completely redrawn themselves, Alpine Static does signify a step forward for Kinski with its unashamed embrace of guitar rock.

Hecker's freshest exploration of the life of rave death comes thoroughly recommended.

A diverse and creative offering.

Dawson doesn’t obscure his political predispositions, which are quite understood on tracks such as “Civil Servant” & “Fulfilment Centre,” for example. But 2020 is far from a soapbox, despite being clearly inflected by contemporary anxieties. Dawson’s characters speak for themselves through their lived experience.

True Love Will Cast Out All Evil is a rare example of a man finding peace on record, of a long journey being rewarded with a slight glimpse of salvation.

Cheena is phantom shamble, a reanimation of bumps that still make us shake.

Collaborations abound, and most of them work.

His rhythm work is crisp and earthen, not so much pushing forward as flowering outward, the picture of a mind focused on growing and filling out.

What Chaos Is Imaginary serves as an important document of the Girlpool narrative: a juncture in the band’s career that highlights the emotional (and in Tucker’s case, physical) changes its artists are reckoning with as their success grows in the indie community.

The only thing letting The Strange Boys down this time is a lack of vivacity. Their attitude is dripping from every song, but occasionally you’ll find yourself wanting them to blow their top, to unleash the energy they seem to be capping throughout for the sake of melody.

If you're willing to forgive a little lack of innovation and the subtle feeling that Spelled In Bones might be a little more mellow than it ought to be, there's one hell of a nice listen in this record.

Herren has actually cooked up a brilliantly soothing and entertaining morsel for his fans.

However, after one has settled in to the comforts of "Daughters," a shriek comes swooping down in the form of Daniel Smith's falsetto voice. Even on these faster-paced tracks, where Smith's falsetto demands less attention, it is impossible to deny this is the shortcoming of Brother Is to Son.

This newest Cocker incarnation restages this conflict in a way that establishes his continuing vitality and creativity and confirms that his sardonic wit has only sharpened with time.

Octahedron isn’t a representation of the best The Mars Volta are capable of, but it is a glimpse into the power they possess when they better harness their capabilities.

This time around, Chasny is clearly interested in writing structured songs with clear lines drawn throughout, with seemingly no concern for the reactions that might ensue from such high production and exacting precision.

Atonement is the name of the game on this record, and when paired with Tillman’s gorgeous baritone and humble melodies, the self-reflective end result is often heartening. Not every track here captures this doleful magic (“The Songwriter” and closer “We’re Only People” occasionally get lost in their own sorrow), but it’s commendable all the same.

Though C'mon Miracle doesn't have the truly standout songs that made Advisory Committee so great, it is still a consistent piece of work that delivers on quality songwriting and musicianship throughout.

Although Bird certainly isn’t breaking new ground in terms of his overall sound since his last album, he has still put out another solid record chock-full of witty lyricisms and lilting melodies that do a wonderful job of showing off his oh-so-smooth voice.

Save for the one glaring misstep, Punctuated Equilibrium doesn’t disappoint.

Color is, first, a thing of intrigue and frenzy, as deserving of your undivided attention as it is confounding mixed with almost any other sense perception; second, it’s an exercise with a few robust rewards.

Unlike the hyper-specific storytelling of some of Bottomless Pit's indie rock peers, the band unravels general truths slowly, through cloudy, opaque narratives of love and loss, of time and fear and happiness. And they do it so fluidly as to appeal to even the most discerning music fan (or critic). Rarely does something so interesting appear so effortless.

James seems to be in a good place, and thankfully for us, he’s managed to capture and translate it quite well into his music.

Radical Connector softens up the abrasive glitch techno and broken beats of 2001's Idiology to produce a more dance-friendly album, with their signature warped vocals taking on a house sheen and invading every track.

Outta Sound shows a passionate and maturing George Evelyn that still had much to offer.

Everything is still flawed and everyone unredeemable on this album, but as a whole it doesn't grip completely like past gems.

Disquieting but somehow quite familiar, the record contorts the warm sounds of yacht rock and island music into something primal yet alien. The end result is a sound that you’d swear has been done countless times before in the avant-rock pantheon, but in reality, its direct musical forebears are few and far between.

Gold Panda shows himself to be a more mature, more skilled architect of sound, creating vast textures that expertly render the materiality of his samples.

Although the production isn’t what it would be if my dreams were made reality, Rabbit Habits is a respectable re-creation with chops cookin’ allova the place.

It’s a beautiful pop record, in its succinctness, its self-consciousness, and its sheer will to live.

Although technically their fourth album, Shadow Temple is Prince Rama's major bow in front of the increasingly intense glare of the online indie music press. But rather than withering from the mounting pressure, the band has forged an incredibly assured record that plays by its own rules and succeeds in creating its own unique world.

Satanic Panic in the Attic is a typically sprawling piece of music for Of Montreal. It runs only 43 minutes, but in that space, the band manage to throw in everything but the kitchen sink in winsome pop experimentation.

If the songs weren’t quality, it would be easy to write these guys off, but the tunes on Living on the Other Side are enough to make me consider charging a few tanks of gas to the credit card and seeing the ocean. And that’s saying something.

Pain has the audacity to come correct, while so many 90s miners are content to approximate. They place themselves in the pantheon and let the gatekeepers of dubious to imperious distinction do what they will.

Aesthetically, funk, soul, and gospel are part of the same tradition that runs from African polyrhythms, through house and classical minimalism, to minimal techno, and Hood’s faith enables him to embrace these influences as more than just empty signifiers. The result enriches all of these traditions, making for a thrilling and enlightening listen that forces a fresh look at Hood’s peers and back catalogue.

Lamp Lit Prose is a quiet retreat into the confines of basic rock and pop trappings--perhaps not an unpredictable stepping stone in the group’s career, but certainly not unwelcome either.

As a sophomore set, Lenses Alien is daring and cohesive, layered and challenging.

While the (simulated) exploration of the innards of this destruction may not make for the most hospitable or easygoing electronic album of the year, it undoubtedly goes some way to achieving its stated aim, even if its ethics could conceivably be indicted from the above-mentioned angle.

Where other reborn acts seem to revel in the sheer formal reconstruction and forget songwriting entirely, Costello gets it backwards and winds up with a listenable record as a result.

It’s no mistake that the title of this superbly fun album ends with an exclamation point; El Guincho has created an album that’s relentless in its ferocious rhythms and beats until the very last track.

The key to The Dodos isn’t their lyrics, but their melodies. And on Time to Die, they’re strong and sufficient.

Boils with energy, excitement, and a passion to experiment.

While acting more like a well-constructed argument than a manifesto, Unsound shows that you can still fight into the later years.

Regardless of the modernist leanings of Kanye's techniques, the album retains an organic feel that rivals Com's hemp beanie and Erykah Badu's incense.

There is plenty here to suggest Lamar has a long career ahead of him. But the album nevertheless falls short of the pedigree his storied elders have set for him, and its status as an all-time classic is far from guaranteed. For the most part, though, good kid is solid.

From the simplicity in songs like "Lightning Thunderbolt" to the momentary pause before the tempo jump of "The Rule of the Game," the lyrical content of the album depends on the musicality, which itself attests for the album's strongest moments.

American Band won’t transform our American landscape; good country music can’t heal a national soul. But an art of humanity and a faith in being better to each other can help redefine America.

The remarkable change here comes from courtesy of the record's sonic qualities.

There is something powerful about the chaos of these recordings: it evades critique in that, at its best moments, the instrument becomes a force of nature.

The overall air of the album would probably be more new-wave influenced trip-hop but Lock's sure and steady raga forges Rawar to a more funky-dub feel.