The satisfaction at being amongst those who make it through to the other side threatens to supplant the sonic satisfaction, but there's nothing artificial about it; if anything, it's flat-out welcoming.

With Christs, Redeemers, they ignite a range of complex reactions designed to inspire and to petrify, the consequences of which reveal a wholly unsettling listen.

There is something martial, something insistent, to Compassion. True to his aims, Barnes has created something that denies passivity.

The hit and miss nature of Transistor Radio makes it seem more like a compilation of songs rather than a cohesive album. But in the end, the album is a winner simply due to Ward's unique voice and talent as a songwriter.

An architecture of mediated sound is being built here, flecked with the indelible traces of the locations, communities, and forms of feeling contained in the music. And, importantly, the process of this construction is suffused with joy, with the afterglow of countless nights remembered and forgotten.

Ships is a brilliant collaboration of the finest indie minds backed by only the best intentions.

These Four Walls is a consistently exciting album full of memorable songs, and one of maybe five records this year so far that I would recommend unreservedly.

Her words read and speak like a haunting.

It may be something of a litmus test for newer listeners due to its uncompromising severity and double-album length (I'd suggest either of the aforementioned full-lengths, which are somewhat more manageable), but longtime advocates will no doubt be pleased.

The depth and craft in these songs keep The Sun interesting and make its inspired moments that much better.

Fab and singer Rodrigo Amarante (of Rio De Janeiro’s Los Hermanos) affect the heavy hearts of coastal lounge singers yet retain the resilience of city kids who can’t be beat. Although backup singer Binki Shaprio is too feathery to really make an impact, the sum of Little Joy’s sincere regret and wide-eyed optimism lend a bedroom intimacy to the group’s debut.

With Childish Prodigy, his debut for indie-juggernaut Matador, Kurt Vile stretches and pulls the increasingly annoying “lo-fi” tag into interesting new shapes, distancing himself from his Woodsist-kin.

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

Saturn Over Sunset is imperfect and timeless nonetheless.

In the end, Junior Boys' improved skills at constructing pop songs within their fantastic sonic template is more than enough to make So This Is Goodbye one of my favorite releases of 2006 so far.

Craftsmanship sets him apart, and allows Insides to be as incredibly moving as it is and always will be. It will easily be one of the best electronic albums of 2009.

Lazy Saturday mornings are meant to be had with this album.

Absolution is an emotional, philosophical, sophisticated, poetic, and beautiful piece of rock music.

Downright seductive.

A relaxed, tender record with enough grace, humor, and intelligence mixed at just the right moments with heady rushes of musical energy that one is left captivated.

The compositions here are rich, complex, and moving, and they consistently bring out the best in their (very talented) collaborators.

It doesn’t break any new ground, but it’s not a retread. It’s just good, for you and your soul.

They have taken on a wider range of styles and adapted them to their strict sound, but it still sounds like Tunng, which is never a bad thing.

The production is slick and striking, even when it fades to black (“Xanny Family”) or gets tangled up in layered hi-hats (“Program”)--these tracks sound equally as engaged and provocative as anything on last year’s masterful DS2.

Autumn, Again is a rarely dynamic dream-pop album, an ideal caffeinated companion to birch skies and stubbly faces. It is a secret pleasure like the sound of a sleeping town and the feeling of control that comes with the first morning light.

His arrangements stay wondrous as usual, carrying a gravitas that hasn’t been present in his recent creative (see: non-musical) work.

What emerges is a baroque topography of movement and energy, culled from the explosion of an ultra-specific cultural context outwards, and then back into the dusk.

Miss Machine simply crackles with stress; not stress over homework or girlfriends, but the kind of stress a bunch of semis put on a bridge.