He’s been wood-shedding like a jazz player for years, riffing on ideas and loops and textures the way a pianist learns their scales, and he can now confidently test those skills out on just about any combination of sounds out there, if only to see what happens. In some ways, this succeeds, and in others, it fails entirely.

The experience is nothing less than fully immersive by the time we’ve made it through “Shelter Is Illusory,” the closest the album gets to true pop (aside from Armstrong’s co-written “Adamah”), replete with a gorgeous quasi-operatic upward-searching chorus from Armstrong and a keening processed-strings backing.

While the Actress tracks were, by most accounts, club tracks exposed to organic erosion and presented in sequence as an endurance test, KOCH is more bizarre and less aggressive.

It’s rare for musicians to age so gracefully (and regardless, no one in Joan of Arc is really old either), and yet here one finds the band mellowing a bit from the over-exuberance of their early output while still retaining the ability to engage and be inventive.

It's an enjoyable record (if somewhat slight, for a full-length), but its best moments are a lot like those faded mom-and-dad photos Huntai likes to use: iconic, intriguing, but not quite his own.

On Weird Sister, Joanna Gruesome exotic blooms--forget the Ys and wherefores, and cue some!

It’s just a solid album that, like the title implies, holds onto its historical surroundings as much as it moves beyond them.

As advertised, Strange Mercy lets us off more easily than it should, but without the promised strangeness.

More often than not, Chung’s tireless attention to his work is well-edited, and even the most chaotic and boisterous tracks are riveting.

There is a crisp richness to the sound, best appreciated on a decent system, which is redolent of the orchestral pop of the 60s, bringing out also the best of Gold Leaves' folk influences (as The Velvet Underground taught us so well, an aptly placed tambourine shake is a wondrous thing).

One criticism of The Kills is that their stance can feel like a bit of a pose; sometimes it feels like there's a hole where the soul should be. The tracks can also sound a tad too similar.

For a few glorious moments, our beloved Mancs have that swagger back.

Any song on this album could function as a funny little short story well enough, but Barnett’s band, her guitar playing, her impeccable sense for melody and consistency give her stories life beyond their quirks, beyond her strength as a chronicler of the exhausting contemporary situation, expanding them into emotional worlds unto themselves.

What’s impressive about this broadening and deepening of their thematic coverage is that it’s been achieved with only a few subtle adjustments to their sound, making it seem like the product of a very organic and irresistible evolution from the days when they were playing with Mats Gustafsson and Ken Vandermark.

Longtime fans will be enchanted by such quips and the naked introspection offered by Goodnight Unknown, and while not at all challenging, casual listeners will enjoy it simply for its strong collection of pop songs.

Expertly and diversely arranged, the songs of Heart of My Own build and hover, often in surprising ways.

Despite its sub-30 minute run-time, Remain Calm packs a punch.

The record’s second half is sedate by comparison, skewing away from the drone element and more toward conventional pastoral film score calling to mind Terrence Malick.

I'm all for musicians not taking themselves too seriously, but with such audacious, irreverent, and yet captivating material populating the bulk of the album, it is a supreme letdown to finish on such strangely muddled notes. Still, Dead Zone Boys is worth some serious attention.

It is somewhat disappointing that they would play it so safe at this stage in their creative life.

The referents on CUT 4 ME are as well-studied as they are obvious.

While enduring a few accidents, the group’s fresh folk approach shows promise.

It’s gimmicky on some level, and maybe formally confined, but the absurdity of these songs can’t mask their joy and evident catharsis.

There is very little experimentation on the album, at least in relation to previous albums, but there is also a wider spectrum of songs.

It may not be exciting, per se, but it speaks to the ultimate appeal of Work (work, work); even in its drugged-up, mournful state, it holds your gaze.

They certainly have a grasp on what they're creating, but it hurts a little bit to think that the mysterious band-that-could from ten years back cares less for innovation than simply having a fleeting good time.

True, Money Mark has a typical singer-songwriter vocal presence, but lighthearted lyrics sprinkled with clever one-liners here and there do a sufficient job.

It’s poppy and fun, but it doesn’t let you get too comfortable.