Part of how Cronin succeeds in making the listener feel good are his failures: the outsized ambition and the pushing of his practical capacities remind the listener than they’re being spoken to by an everyman.

It’s minimal techno made by someone in love with nature; dance music that should be narrated by David Attenborough — it's also what gives the album its beautiful spark of originality.

Despite references to hard drugs and depression, Boeckner’s songwriting betrays an unconventional joyfulness, marked more by the relief between emotional peaks and valleys than by its strict verse-chorus-verse structures. In fact, in my opinion, this is the first project of his that measures favorably against the solo work of his more cultishly-beloved bandmate and rival.

For anyone who found themselves begging for more than five songs, you will be happy with this new album; the distance traveled from Young Liars is not so drastic as to alienate anyone.

Darnielle [is] a songwriter still worth paying attention to.

The recording perfectly reflects the aesthetic of the world Jay has imagined, and both Calvin Johnson and Bob Schwenkler deserve praise for accurately materializing Slow Dance’s wintry, yet robust landscape.

Ghosts I-IV is a clear step forward while still managing to stay true to what NIN traditionally ought to sound like and represent.

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.

Heron King Blues definitely signifies a transitional phase for the band.

Songs Cycled--cheeky, geeky, and critical as ever--is his most approachable take on the whole sprawling mass yet.

Sleigh Bells have latched onto an exciting undercurrent in contemporary pop music and put their own distinctive stamp on it. In the process, they've made a hard-hitting album that will positively kill on the dance floor.

On “Fuck Me Out” and “Billy Not Really,” both these dissections of Ride and the brutal rearrangements of Björk’s vocal and fidgety programming would push the ensemble’s rough, nasty but compelling sound to new levels if they hadn’t already perfected it on The Money Store. Instead, what is achieved on niggas on the moon is something that speaks differently but through the same terms.

As a collection of stunning, yet unassuming, pop songs it fits in nicely with the Pernice oeuvre.

An unapologetically lovely affair that is sure to soothe the frazzled nerves of its discerning listening public.

Heterocetera is packed with writhing climaxes and blistering comedowns that leave you gasping without ever being able to forget who is behind them. Of course, confronting these contrasts remains a provocation on the artist’s part, but only ever in the best possible sense.

Lambchop’s albums often come off as minor masterpieces--not quietly stunning but aesthetically proclamatory, carrying material enough for a listener to stay with and dwell on. FLOTUS is no exception.

Pussy Cats Starring the Walkmen more than makes up for the lackluster A Hundred Miles Off.

The "black" of the title is not racial blackness, but the blackness of the void, the "abyss" of occultism. And that void, evoked by the dark, inchoate pop of Dean Blunt and Inga Copeland, is indeed beautiful.

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.

What makes Since We Last Spoke such an indisputably groundbreaking record is Rjd2's ability to create such an intricate pastiche of diverse musical styles that it seems like a wholly new genre in and of itself.

With a couple of exceptions, the Nicene Creedence Edition is the least essential of Matador’s Pavement compilations. But even with this caveat, the package performs the service of reminding us how good Brighten the Corners still is.

Choral, never succumbing to mere regurgitation, represents talented musicians confident in their methods, who channel their influences to produce a sound that proves accessible while remaining distinctive and utterly expressive.

Like the guileless ballers on the screen, Delicate Steve's got surprisingly smooth moves, and the album lets you see the wonder of each one. It goes for the layup every time, sinks it, and you'll have no problem cheering along.

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

Wilco are just doing what they do best, and doing it better than ever.

The Morning Star is both an Exaltation of the Guitar and a magician’s vanishing act: Bachman himself, noise-man under the role of hypnotist, embracing chance and slippages and sloppiness and draperies.

Post-apocalyptic muck and digital drivel, outer space splattering of dark matter, Mattel and Fisher Price toy instrument sets: it’s all here, and it’s all in accordance with Anticon’s aesthetic.

In Stetson's hands, the sax is no longer an expressive medium or even a madman's toy, but an artisanal tool, a machinic assemblage, designed for catching and releasing cosmic powers.