The music is often awesomely original.

Wilner’s talent lies in revealing the abundance of music locked inside even the smallest fractions of extant recordings.

As hard-rock takes on the shape of minimalist composition, the repeated rhythms and snatches of melody express rage and frustration long after the lyrics have ceased explicitly stating the message. It’s the kind of song that feels as appropriate today as it did 33 years ago. That kind of fervor makes ...For the Whole World to See such a blast and a defining example of the spirit that drives not just rock ‘n’ roll, but true outsider art.

Never ratcheted up over a pleasantly throbbing pulse, this is music as anti-depressant, mood enhancer, and muscle relaxant.

As always, Berman and the Silver Jews work best in their classically sharp, witty song stylings and deftly produced Americana constructions. And most of the songs here exhibit just that.

Hospice is a work of rare beauty and a watershed moment in The Antlers’ career.

I'm New Here is undoubtedly a bleak record, and given Scott-Heron's trials, it's hard to imagine it being anything else. But his take recognizes a hard-earned beauty, as well.

Quixotic was one of the best albums [in] Europe last year and Anything will be one of the best here in 2004.

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.

Middle Cyclone still stands out as another strong entry from a woman who is more than proving her mettle as a revered indie veteran.

Regardless of what you think of his previous and complicated output, he's proven here that he can just as easily make sick chill as maniacal IDM or ambient glitch; and he's just as strong as anyone else going.

It's a great introduction to the wide range that Broadcast works with, and it holds together as well as any of their albums.

The most subtle incorporation of drum machines, horns, and vocal effects transforms Bon Iver’s music from the quiet afterthought that characterizes much of today’s indie-folk into a sonic landscape of moods and nuances.

Post-Nothing is convincing in its candor to the point of exhaustion.

Real Estate might not be the best classicist-leaning pop record of the year (that dubious honor goes to the more stylistically varied "Album," by Girls), but it certainly is the most confident, the most assured, and the most unassuming.

As it stands, the album (along with the essential corresponding film, Icon Eye) stands as a rather moving document of the profundity of the cross-cultural and cross-generational conversation that goes on throughout all popular culture, and given the niche audiences for both Sun Araw and The Congos, this project offers a view on a very rarely explored conversation at that.

It was great listening in on Hungtai’s world, a filmic mixture of life and life-that-can-be.

There isn’t a misstep to be found here. There are a couple moments that veer close to an overly-maudlin tone (namely when the piano shows up on the sixth and final tracks), but this tone is just part of the strange alchemy of traditional singer-songwriterisms and fumbling tremulousness that make these 45 minutes so curious.

These pop-forward moments are frontloaded on No Shape, extravagant and baroque. The soaring production value is not accompanied by conceptual upending or reinvention, but rather extends into a grand sort of sequel vision of Perfume Genius.

Not only, then, is Spoils a splendid introduction to Alasdair Roberts’ repertoire, it is also a fine way to get your feet wet in the British Folk kingdom.

Pullhair Rubeye is significant not because of its aesthetic and non-conceptual disposition, but also for its dedication to instinct and brave novelty (in the best sense of the word).

True Minds continues a proud tradition of celebrating dead ends and lost causes.

Jackie doesn’t often transcend its own well-established boundaries, and it doesn’t flow as ***Flawlessly as TMT favorites Beyoncé or 1989 (much of Jackie’s most interesting moments occur in its first half), yet it is a solid alternative for those craving that rare and varied pop gem that warrants repeated listens.

An intriguing album that grows both more complex and more likeable with each listen.

This is Jack Tatum's Platonic pop record, and if it doesn't meet the expectations of critics, for lack of soupy textures or the rough edges of home recording or whatever, it's because he exceeded them.

It may not break much new ground, certainly not for instrumentation or other reasons given, but it's one of the most solid albums all year.

They’re a thrilling pair Richard Bishop and Ben Chasny], giving each other space to stretch out but staying close to cohere. Corsano matches the energy of each with an enviable malleability, staying closer to Bishop than a shadow, then turning around to throw cars, houses, and oil tankers into Chasny’s twisters.

With Swim, Caribou has transcended the confines of indie pop and electronica.