The result was a rich listening experience, as Swift flew past the mark she set for herself with ease, daring to look further inward than ever before.

To their credit, Dry Cleaning is not compromising their often prickly art. Rather, like the most resolute artists, with the provocative and relentless Stumpwork, they admirably move their boundaries further afield regardless of appealing to a bigger audience.

The swapping of leads with both voices joining on choruses is wonderfully executed, the songs float and swoop with the nervous anticipation that comes with looking forward to better days and the backing musicians add just enough weight to keep it all grounded.

The album, sees the pop maven realize her own strength and let it take her somewhere new while keeping with her characteristic candor and energy.

At just over a half hour, the short but compelling set finds a generally chipper—if somewhat guarded—Andrews expanding her musical boundaries and peering cautiously to a brighter, more fulfilling, and looser future ahead.

This is soul music of the most raw and affecting type; naked but brimming with more feeling than the majority of today’s stars in the genre whose elaborate productions can’t touch Son Little’s cottage project for purity and emotional clarity.

It’s adventurous and elastic, played and sung with honesty and a sure sense of the mutual lyrical, compositional, and especially vocal abilities of its three talented musicians.

Few others, let alone from Texas, are creating anything quite like this. While it won’t bring Barrett back, The Black Angels are intent on keeping his art alive for future generations.

The unexpected is to be expected, and in that regard, Wagner and company don’t disappoint. The Bible may not be the last word as far as this band’s creativity is concerned, but as always, Lambchop’s music is worth heeding.

A sturdy but far from a revelatory example of Creedence rolling through a dozen hits and album tracks without much fuss and virtually no connection with the audience for a meager 42 minutes.

It shows Nikki Lane at her best, stepping towards a darker direction while keeping one foot planted in the country and roots music of her past.

Combs describes the disc’s overall tone as that of a black and white film. Add foreign to that description (one song was inspired by an Ingmar Bergman flick) and you’re a few steps closer to this stirring, decidedly non-commercial music that sounds like little else.

Overall, the hardest part about listening to Noah Cyrus’ The Hardest Part is turning the album off.

An impressive collection that’s innovative and inventive if not collaborative.

Perhaps a few more originals, or even covers, could have been wrestled with to bulk up the playing time. Nevertheless, what’s here is solid, uncluttered, unadulterated blues rocking, played by a trio who will never sell out.

Despite his relatively young age—he’s barely 25—he conveys a remarkable sense of self-awareness, and if he seems especially vulnerable on some of these songs (I love myself but that’s alright, he insists on the album opener “The Funeral”), one gets the sense that he’s speaking for others that imagine themselves in a similar scenario.

Not surprisingly, these Orwellian soundscapes don’t make for a particularly easy listen. ... It’s that collusion between sonics and strife that makes The Invisible Light radiate so remarkably.

Competence and creativity are never in question, even though every one of these numbers requires the listener to allow added indulgence.

For them [super fans], the voluminous and informative liner notes alone, which track Blondie’s history from those who lived it, seldom seen photos, and track specific comments will be worth lightening their bank accounts for. Others less dedicated may want to tread more carefully.

Unlike its predecessor, it comes across as a decidedly calming affair, one that stands apart from the earlier album’s brash and bombastic surge of racket and rumble.

The tone is consistent throughout, a sound so giddy and engaging, that it can easily break down barriers in order to allow for a communal embrace.

Marcus King isn’t pushing any boundaries on the leathery Young Blood, he doesn’t need to. His talents as songwriter, singer, and guitarist are skillfully displayed in these dozen roots rockers that any musician in this genre would be proud to have crafted with the energy, enthusiasm, and sheer professionalism he displays.

Few tracks instantly jump out, but after multiple spins, it’s easy to get lost in Lynn’s creamy, dreamy approach, her breathy yet compelling voice, and the life-questioning lyrics that define the album’s overall entrancing soundscape.

The pair deserve credit for an adventurous attitude and for not allowing their reverence to deter their intents. These are, after all, interpretations, and in any such circumstance, creativity counts. Granted, it’s an unorthodox tack for a tribute, but it’s one that still resonates well.

At its essence, From Capelton Hill is an album that’s literally brimming over with unceasing delights, making it not only an exceptional comeback but what can justifiably be called, Stars’ album for the ages.

The ambition is admirable, but a schizophrenic quality pervades the effort overall. The dramatic shift in sound makes it hard to get a handle in terms of either consistency or feel. Perhaps the two are merely feeling each other out and taking advantage of their options. Whatever the case, 18 still seems like an odd assortment of numbers at best.

The 11th release from the Toronto-based, foursome certainly contains some of The Sadies’ finest work. Colder Streams is one of the group’s most diverse sets.

Anyone who has somehow been immune to the late icon’s talents need only push play and let his showmanship, musicality and sheer star power wash over you to understand why he was such a legend. This captures it all and it has never looked or sounded better.