As Moon Duo have become sunnier and rockier - a trend evident on 2011's Mazes and continuing on Circles - their vision seems less distinctively their own.

I haven't heard, read, or seen anything that portrays or recalls the state [Montana] as beautifully as Dept. of Disappearance.

At the end of the album, no stone on the topic of love and disillusionment feels unturned. Such is the strange comfort of blanket statements, but Lekman's fans may still feel the pea-like irritant of stories lanky and untold.

All We Love We Leave Behind entices kinetic release in every possible way, irrational and otherwise, allowing unchecked ventilation as means for escape through a medium that has never sounded so engaging.

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.

Oblivion Hunter recaptures missing pieces of the Lightning Bolt jigsaw and reconfigures them in a new context, painting a broader picture of the band's roots while giving us the sense that it might not be a singular instance of "lost" material being pulled back from the edge of eternity.

Twins shows Segall in greater command of his craft. Whereas the songs on Goodbye Bread and the previous (and spectacular) Slaughterhouse would gradually fall out of control, here the dissipation feels deliberate, as if Segall were trying to drive the songs to their deaths.

It's in songcraft that Black Marble shine (though that's not to give the expectation of overt hookiness, which would miss the point, moodwise).

In its more spacious moments, Look A Little Closer recalls the best Talk Talk in the way that their tight grooves serve to (almost) order and contain the ambient chaos and arrhythmic percussion in the gaps.

The Dropouts tend to the same dynamics and tones, and even at 30 minutes, it gets a bit tedious.

Another solid release.

Until the Quiet Comes isn't bad, exactly. It's just definitely not good either.

It's a stand-up, spaced-out entry in the already formidable footwork scene.

There is a currentless drift to these nine doggypaddlers, what with the sloppy rhythms, plain-as-dirt vocals, and obligatory wah solos - but it's all so satisfying in its way.

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.

Foster is a surprisingly competent and natural songwriter; freed from the constraints of tonal faithfulness owed to giants of poetry like Dickinson, Foster is able to draw from disparate genres to play with whatever form she's interested in from song to song.

Beams, like Asa Breed, is front-loaded with the atmospheres and vocal manipulations that are bedrock to his best work. But Beams fails to evince the kind of songwriting growth that the vocal minority of his fans have been waiting for.

In the moment of listening itself, the lo-fi complexities, interactions, and repetitions create a revelation

Their most concise yet dense and appealing album since their first non-album, Description Of The Harbor.

This new approach is graceful but weary, with mixed results throughout.

Cruel Summer is half a classic and half a concession to mediocre talents.

As much as Stephens desires for a naturalist/humanist authenticity found in the limits of the extremes of existence, The Bloom and the Blight achieves an equal subjectivity that Stephens searches for.

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

The contemplative Mary's Voice may win over listeners who couldn't stomach the unrefined energy of The Music Tapes' older work, with artistic integrity intact.

Where xx was an album that got its hooks in you, Coexist becomes a somnolent atmosphere-in-itself, in which hooks are conspicuous by their absence. It all works best when the tempo rises (relatively speaking), as on "Tides" and "Swept Away;" still, the pulse races placidly.

I admire the boldness of the album's sequencing more than I admire any of its individual tracks.

Tempest's epic scale and grandeur makes his few previous albums look like short stories leading up to a great novel.

Held is as sputtering as it is spartan, and as such the perfect tome to the eternal wretchedness that surrounds human need.