II is, on the whole, worthy of the names and histories that have coalesced and been commingled in its making.

There isn't much about Stars Of CCTV that hasn't already been done and better.

They are unprepossessing in style, dainty and sweet in quality.

While End of Daze features some of Dum Dum Girls' more sophisticated songwriting to date, there is an overwhelming shadow of certainty and safety that is cast over the EP, preventing it from being a truly singular musical experience.

A connoisseur of contemporary folk may find something to love in Andy Cabic’s latest offering. For the rest of us, Tight Knit will likely serve as little more than a relaxing soundtrack to our mid-afternoon siesta.

Junior is about as sturdy as a disco album can be, which is a remarkable achievement itself. One deliberately-paced decade in and Royksopp are showing no signs of creative fatigue or self-cannibalization.

Far from essential, Hvarf/Heim can merely be looked at as a stop-gap before the next proper record.

An album that, much like Pinback’s 2004 full-length Summer in Abaddon, is more immediate in its appeal but suffers from repeated listens.

Once upon an Axcess and Ace, this was a musician who would let his timid voice and simple themes sink in until they were a full part of the consciousness. Now, and more so than on the MEC premiere, strings, slide guitar, peddle steel, banjo, violin, trumpet, and piano are filling in every cranny to create less of a full-on effect, but an equally satisfying rash of strong songs.

A double album of prickly rock-outs, pugilistic odes, and utterly eerie ambient entr’actes bridging an anthology of lyricism that shunts your earbud-plugged head toward the mirror to take a good long look (and listen).

Long’s trax are emotionally at a remove from the soulful sirens who are sometimes associated with deep house--that tension between joyful celebration and a modern-day blues, between major and minor keys.

For Herren devotees (a group in which I would place myself), this album will appear as a necessary, blissed-out, and relaxing installment in an ever-evolving musical saga. For others less familiar or only interested in the Prefuse aesthetic, La Llama may leave them feeling adrift.

While this is drastically experimental by their standards, there is nothing here you haven't heard done infinitely better many times before.

Let's Go Eat the Factory works as an offering to those obsessive enough to be satisfied just to see Sprout and Pollard up on the same stage and little else.

The Drop Beneath takes their sound in a direction both more eclectic and more shoegazy than 2011’s excellent Correct Behavior, even occasionally straying into jangle-Cure territory.

Listen to NYC, HELL 3:00 AM close enough and you’ll hear them drumming at the windows of your mind’s storefront.

Far from a drop off in coherence, Mr. Beast is just another stop on a long, strange, satisfying trip.

With Tapestry of Webs, Past Lives prove how musicians spawned from relatively constrictive sonic bloodlines, like hardcore, can eventually produce something that's different, yet equally penetrating.

Due in large part to Herring's undeniably affecting vocals and lyrical laments, In Evening Air is a record that sticks. It is one for autumn, for spring, or for any moment of your life that is vividly tainted with love and all its trappings.

In the final analysis, of Montreal represents a rare and comprehensive attainment of vitality in modern music.

Somehow they straddle the line between fluff and absolutely essential hipness that few attempt, and even fewer succeed at.

While stripping back the instrumentation, so went some of the ambitious structures and much of the angularity that draws the ear into their gorgeous textures.

Falls between Starsailor, Travis, Elbow, Alfie, etc, always raising the question: who are The Veils?

This descent into industrial retro-futurism provides a fitting artistic and aesthetic parallel to the corresponding descent society has made into technology worship, into a disempowering worship of things at the expense of an appreciation of the social, political, and economic realities in which these things are situated.

I find it hard to find fault with their approach, which is same-y but laced with beats and rhymes so powerful they conjure the old ‘if it izain’t broke, don’t fixxit’ axiom.

It’s Frightening is far from a bloodless copy of a more vivid being; it is, rather, a living, breathing creation, one that is only dubiously theirs.

Rafts may seem conceptually like a retrospective or statement of purpose, and it holds up nicely as a portrait, but it should also be considered a refinement, wading further away from readymade images of the tropics and into the depth of the traveler’s imagination.

The songs are neither here nor there, which, to me, is exactly what a cover should be. That the men and woman behind Yo La Tengo have created yet another fine album after 25 years of existence and 11 full-lengths is outstanding.

Harcourt's piano proficiency separates him artistically from guitarists who tinker with mere chord-banging to accompany lyrics. There are a few misshapen puzzle pieces on this one, though.

Although I'm usually a fan of the short and (hopefully) sharp delivery, at 34 minutes the album feels insubstantial in terms of length as well as material.

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.

Mellow Waves might be a strange bedfellow for the seminal albums of the year so far, but it’s a nonetheless unassumingly essential artifact.

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.

Suspending cynicism for a moment, this is their strongest release to date.

Again is probably one of the most derivative albums I’ve ever heard. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, though.

Despite Andrew Barr’s attempt to develop new rhythmic ideas in every song, the tracks tend to bleed together, impairing each song’s distinctiveness.

The real point is that, as a compilation, Dark Was the Night far and away surpasses its predecessors-- even in an age when it should be irrelevant. Go buy it.

Anyone who dug Beam’s official albums will likely enjoy this odds-and-ends release.

Despite all its goodness and lunacy, Steal Your Face is not a record that is likely to find itself touching the needle very often. It doesn’t beg for repeat listens, simply because most normal human beings aren’t able to handle the speed and sonically-pulverizing vibe.

Alias gives us a promise that, after closing a three-year mute gap, after a decade of production and creation, there is still in him an artist to be excited about.

There's nothing here that so sheerly encompasses the tragi-gorgeous indie nexus as earlier tunes "Already Over" or "Spectator and Pupil," though "When To Let Go" comes close.

Records like this are what will eventually outmode the contradiction of “too street for the industry,” eschewing both categories in the unique accomplishment of a profit-driven truth-telling venture. More like this.

Armed with bolstered production and the band's strongest songcraft to date, Alamanac represents not only the next step for Widowspeak, but perhaps the next point in our never-ending discussion of what "real" folk is in the 21st century.

Ghostface may be the most spectacular survivor of the Wu, but Rae is its real heart; the voice of speed, he moves through these tracks like a field of threats, chronicling progress towards a goal that's never lost.

Instantly enjoyable.

Road to Rouen isn't going to blow away any fan new to Supergrass, nor is any old fan going to go ga-ga over what they're hearing, but it's good to know the band isn't sitting on their laurels fantasizing about killing their commercial appeal.

Death Seat leaves nothing unsaid, and through this purge, Wooden Wand is absolved from past sins, ready to face a new life with a new resolve. The fiery mess of mangled metal and flesh looks much better from atop the cliff than from the wreckage.

Thee Oh Sees construct a serious approach to a non-serious existence, placing value upon both craft and childishness.

The Long Shadow of the Paper Tiger cements their place at the forefront of contemporary dance music. The songs are funky and immediate, but display a global consciousness that puts them in a class of their own.

With The Stoned Immaculate, Curren$y has successfully touched down in the land of commercial weed rap with a solid set of downtempo tunes that have everything they need to be successful: rich soundscapes, witty brags, hummable hooks. It just needs a stronger presence from the Jet-Life juggernaut himself.

Sure, with Cloudland Canyon stringently adhering to their newfound formula and retaining a similar pace throughout, Fin Eaves doesn't lend itself to any startles or immediately striking moments. But their renewed approach allows for the full realization of the album's flavor: grandiose, ambitious, and almost painfully beautiful.

ANTI is folk music played in a video-drome circularly projecting a 360° image of sprawling, semi-wilderness on fire as a compassionate, loving apocalypse. It’s a charged bleeding heart of sponsorship and exclusivity thrown into the throat of Yosemite. It’s a white horse galloping fiend-like across the continental divide, with a hoof-print-tire-tread that could pull the land apart.

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.

Allways, then, is simply a welcome return from one of Chicago’s most consistent artists, reaffirming their primacy among contemporary exploratory rock bands.

Though proVISIONS offers some playfully charming moments, ('Can Do,' 'Out There,' 'Increment of Love'), the dark center of this album’s middle is telling.

Each track feels more like a costume change than a true exploration of new waters, as the group's newfound love of blustery free-for-all psych ultimately has more to do with the members' broad record collections than their ability to function as versatile musicians.

Throughout its brisk playtime, Overgrown Path evinces an airy touch with transitions, a knack for phrasing (the pauses and extra beats always find their right place), and an invidiously deft hand for crafting verses equal to their choruses.

It all hits you at 78-rpm, and that these guys have the dexterity to recall the unadorned energy of 1977 punk is their greatest asset.

These are songs that should be performed on a rare cabaret stage in a slum.

Despite its honed brunt and conceptual integrity, the album just doesn’t quite achieve enough to raise it above its similarly disaffected peers.

The strongest tracks here make a case for Braxton’s compositional skills; the rest feel like recycled tales from his nights out with Stanier and Williams, an unfortunate byproduct of placing them within this context.

When it’s watered down by this much sneakerhead aestheticism, it becomes hard to even hear the culture-shaking subversion that lurked in the sounds of Machinedrum’s influences.

It's rare when rock of this ilk misses the mark, but somehow Pearls and Brass have accomplished just that with ease.

Good Bad Not Evil covers a wide range of territory, but never feels needlessly eclectic. Every stylistic experiment employed over the 35-minute runtime is a welcome departure from their signature slime rock

If nothing else, Astronomy For Dogs should be heralded as a step in the right direction after six long years of wandering.

While the latter two discs have their moments, they’re all too predictable when held up against the first disc’s ambitious blend of noise and dance.

Drained from the melodic juices of previous works, Cosmos is left to bubble atop of a seething pan of sharp shards of metal, to be later buttered with a mechanical hum.

Magic is a sturdy, sure-footed Bruce Springsteen album.

Like a daydream, St. Catherine is to be savored while it lasts, then let go until another day.

Trial is as rhythmically acerbic and propulsive as the last couple of French Kicks offerings, but the pace is a little slower and more deliberate, the songwriting more cohesive, reflective, and mature.

There’s an attempt here to go back to the relative atmosphere of at least Going Blank Again, but the resulting music ends up sounding like the more reverb-heavy, turn-of-the-millennium British art-rock bands.

With five songs, Jack establishes himself as a well-schooled artist in musical history and a fine performer with his traditional adaptations.

Whether Kimya is trying to find the light side of death or losing faith in her heroes of past, she comes off rather upfront, upbeat, and positive.

If there’s a problem, it’s that this batch of songs doesn’t quite show off Donovan’s gift for weirdness as much as previous Sic Alps outings.

The album’s pervasive sameness hinders sustained interest.

The Silent League sounds pretty, but their gooey emotional stuff doesn't run very deep.

Pressed together, it becomes apparent how pleasurably the band’s entire discography has crystallized. Capturing the quicksilver violence of youth may be beyond us now, as it is for Wild Beasts, but we still make time to celebrate the night’s dark chemistry.

With a bevy of somewhat indistinguishable tunes, a production aesthetic that keeps everything front, center, and earsplitting is a problem.

The album's distinctly lacking in structure or direction.

While The Floodlight Collective offers a great set of songs, I’d still like to see Pundt deliver a more idiosyncratic album through which we can truly hear him expose himself.

The Visitor seems especially appropriate in this age of additive excess. It’s less a demonstration of O’Rourke’s ego than of his conceptual vision, which has always been relayed with an innate sense of purpose--a rarity these days.

C-ORE offers its own representation, served by the idiosyncratic artists involved.

This is just a modern rock record, and it definitely won’t change your life, but it’s more than competent and beyond clever.

Early Grass Widow gems like the haunting "Lulu's Lips" suggested a band that was really going to deliver one day. Past Time confirms those suspicions with firm resolve.

Pan Am Stories is an early masterpiece for Knight, an ambitious photographic travelogue constructed out of the raw materials of bedroom psych-pop.

The Pipettes are only fresh in the sense that they've appropriated Spector-influenced girl-pop for a new era.

Sometimes Avi Buffalo’s entrance into the gauntlet of the undisguised voice leads to a pretty song or two, maybe a moment of blissful pop; but more often than not, the songs whimper without much intelligible emotion.

Riceboy Sleeps is an elegiac set of powerfully evocative songs, functioning at its best as lovely background music while flipping through the pages of the art book it's bundled with. Listened to unaccompanied and in its entirety, the experience is frustrating and unpleasant, and its bloated feel renders a lot of it impotent.

Witch is a solid heavy metal album that is nearly as much fun to listen to as it probably was to record.

Ultimately, 13 is a lens buffer for viewing Supersilent’s previous interrogations of how conditioned humans process sound and space, yet it needn’t in itself be a normative work.

Perhaps they still haven’t quite gotten there with La Di Da Di, but they’ve come somewhere close.

What we have on The Jazz Age is music that’s haunting itself.

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.

An enjoyable yet essentially average release that plays it very safe, sticking close to preconceptions and relative “rules” of electro/synth pop without straying too far from the groundwork set down by the figures from another era it quotes and, to some degree, replicates.

A Day with the Homies is a generous record, littered with gestures of friendship. The music is pleasant and simple, the melodies nurturing and whole.

The production is lush and crystalline, and the melodies are dense and aplenty.

The bad news is that Tears isn’t as gripping as Kingdom’s earlier work (notably 2013’s Vertical XL). Tears sacrifices the ping-pong polyrhythmic beats that made his earlier material so compelling and replaces it with something simpler.

Paracosm is, at the very least, beautifully rendered wallpaper, and it’s hard to blame Greene for living in this fantasy for as long as he possibly can.