Guero isn't exactly Odelay. It's more like a photo album tracing the phases in Beck's musical career.

Fan Dance is one of those albums that needs to be absorbed to be fully enjoyed, and those who take the time are sure to find its many rewards.

Dye It Blonde certainly demonstrates polish over its predecessor with the leap to Fat Possum.

The devilish duo flips dubstep, EDM, and Dr. Dre's 2001-era G-funk with nary a hitch.

They've constructed a menagerie of animal references and escape fantasies that encompass acoustic reverie and snappy Motown-like bounce.

With no thrills or spills on its journey through Dutton's ideologies, a now-threepiece Special Sauce (former Boss Hog keyboardist Mark Boyce's addition is official) slinks and sways on its traditionally level medium.

The frontman's voice is largely clear and earnest with grit where necessary and a dash of Neil Young's nasal falsetto, the kind of delivery just begging for a listener's impassioned sing-along.

Each new song is an homage to one influence or another, but the clues are so subtle, they tickle the brain in a way that causes a vague, slightly pleasant itch that's impossible to scratch.

Real Animal tamer Tony Visconti (Marc Bolan, David Bowie, Thin Lizzy) again harnesses Escovedo considerably more effectively than Stephen Bruton, Chris Stamey, and John Cale at a juncture in the local rocker's four-decade career when he enjoys a stable national profile. Street Songs of Love continues that instinctive trend, though profits are down.

Metz locates a bittersweet spot between post-punk calculation and garage-rock urgency.

Young & Old proves it can still make shimmering beach pop even while anchored to the shore.

Although his hard drawl torques easier melodies like Elton John's "Country Comfort" less effectively, Dayton's growling makeover of Jackson Browne's "Redneck Friend" and the laid-back dance hall turn of the Cars' "Just What I Needed" crackle as smart and surprising interpretations.

II ain't what doom could be, but it's perfect for what it is.

[Graceland is] perhaps, the musical mash-up of all time... a summit of Western self-reflection and African spirituality.

If this record isn't as compelling as Frosties past, it at least signals a veteran innovator still engaged in his craft.

Decades from now, Petty people will wonder at how a modest marvel like Hypnotic Eye aged into a late-career riff rocket.

It's an organ-ribbed massage of Stax man William Bell's "You Don't Miss Your Water," forever at the heart of the Byrds' gospel-kissed country rock classic Sweetheart of the Rodeo, that really connects.

Impressionable singer Finn Andrews masters his Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde routine on the Veils' third disc, splitting time between desolately romantic piano ballads ('Begin Again' and the title track) and dense indie rock detonations.

Still the same Fiona Apple: bigger than "all the fishes in the sea."

This time around, no celebratory hand gestures are required.

As a whole, there are throwaway tracks ("Porno") and overstayed welcomes (ambiguous anthem "We Exist"), Butler playing roulette with themes: the pains of indie rock ("Normal Person"), star-crossed Greek mythology ("Awful Sound [Oh Eurydice]," "It's Never Over [Oh Orpheus]"), and existential despair ("Afterlife").

Alt-J crafts an ethereal ocean of sound that's remarkably cohesive-at once strange and familiar.

Demonstrates... that artists are rarely more inspired than when creating for themselves alone.

Besides a batch of solid singles – electro-punk death march "Survivalism," fiendishly swinging "Capital G" – every so often Year Zero devolves into a feverish barrage of squelches and squalls that comes off as mood music for especially amorous androids.

Blak and Blu throbs more like a lava lamp turned upside, a red-line splat of molten nightlife served on a huge sonic bed only achieved by major label productions.

It might be one big, saccharine, catchy fuck-you to the industry and culture, but it's really just addictive songwriting reared on Britpop pioneers who didn't prioritize reputation over substance.

A few moments of woozy, crystal-strewn guitar, and we're right back where we left them.

A two-disc version of The Monsanto Years includes a DVD offering a full hour of songs, some sounding better than on the album proper.

Uniquely imaginative, the duo's efforts will seduce like-minded forward-thinkers, but High Life will be too ostensibly weird to be widely digested.

A Sonic Youth sneer, VU drone, and the Jesus & Mary Chain fuzz-tone shackling.

If only all legacy-burnishing attempts could be this effective.

Feels like a sequel.... a photocopy that's strong but lacks the original's clarity.

The two Nashville linchpins' close harmony duets and stellar guitar work uniting the eclecticism of styles.

The self-produced debut from guitarist/vocalist Dan Auerbach isn't quite the revelation it should be, though he demonstrates his keen versatility with like-minded grooves.

Bassist Mike Dean may not have the monster vocal chops of immediate predecessor Pepper Keenan, but he's forceful enough to cut through the firestorm whipped up by guitarist Woody Weatherman.

For a group that's never settled down, Mess could be described as Liars' comfort zone.

Merging Siouxsie Sioux with Aphex Twin, Silent Shout twists manipulated sounds around a basic core of addictive rhythm in a convoluted game of tetherball.

Miller's plaintive vocals sell you on the sincerity of his damaged goods.

Oceans laps upbeat and crisp, like winter in the Hamptons, a sleigh ride to 16 Lovers Lane.

Lovesick Blues once again proves Stamey's worth as a pop magician.

It's an unintentional throwback to Texas' slo-core scene of the Nineties that--despite its eyesore EDM cover art--strikes a compelling balance between glacial pacing and immediate songcraft.

Even in a lower gear, the Truckers are hardly idling.

The much-publicized rift of RZA and his seven other swordsmen glares on 8 Diagrams, production far more experimental and melodic than any prehiatus work. RZA of Renaissance proffers an unequaled vision, and the inability to convince his soldiers to follow suit keeps the disc from being the complete innovation Wu's abbot intended.

Tefloning the lo-fi clang of their 2001, self-titled indie EP breakthrough with Interscope's sugar Daddy Warbucks, Fever to Tell sounds like a tenement rolling, garbage cans bashing some helpless gutter rat.

[Yours to Keep] doesn't have the stylish and sexy six-string swagger one would expect from the 'froed Strokes guitarist, but it does yield enough Top 40 radio gems to spark a small feud with Liam Gallagher.

The underlying want and yearning pulls the songs most effectively.

A burbling psychedelic rain forest that harks back to the vintage wood nymph traditions that once defined the AnCo legacy.

Deep Fantasy falls short of its predecessor's Hellraiser hooks, but only by degrees of fuck-and-run whiplash.

Syro pales next to Richard D. James' groundbreaking best, compared to the plurality of drivel penned as EDM, it'll more than suffice for another decade or until Aphex's next fix comes along. A grower not a show-er.

One of the most ambitious artistic statements of the year.

12th album Lousy with Sylvianbriar strums out a more agreeable amalgam for the veteran Athens, Ga., clown car.

Every subtlety comes steeped in retro classicism.

The Broken West's debut sports a big, masculine sound strangely lacking in swagger but with a sensitivity that never devolves into emo self-consciousness.

Lost in the Dream matches last year's Wakin' on a Pretty Daze from Vile riff for riff.

Led Zeppelin II binds the biggest and baddest of the group's heavyweight first chapter with the thinest of extras, 33 minutes of early mixes and backing tracks.

Few songwriters today write with Isbell's combination of lyrical economy, deep-seated empathy, and masterstroke axe melodies.

Transference is a good album, just not in league with what's become par.

It all adds up to a challenging song cycle.

On Jigsaw, erstwhile Jay-Z protege Lady Sovereign reaffirms that she's the singular queen bee in the hive of the still-buzzing London grime syndicate.

An exuberant return to old-school form.

The electro thread of Wal-Mart bouncer "There's Always Tomorrow" and formulaic struts "Don't Walk Away" and "Can't Slow Down" try too hard, but the balance of Revelation relaxes and, in that down-home groove, thrives.

The resulting Willie and the Wheel is exactly what one would expect from such a musical brain trust: an old-fashioned good time with expert instrumentalism. If anything, the disc could use more dirt under its fingernails, as everything comes a bit too easy.

Scandalous doesn't venture far from its home turf, but that's because Black Joe Lewis & the Honeybears' brand of Southern soul is a breath of nightclub air just how you need it.

Sneer away, jaded hipster. All you're missing is rock & roll being saved.

Sadly, familiar streams – "Matchbox," "That's All Right, Mama," "Big River" – don't yield any gems. Constant studio chatter and fumbled lyrics frustrate rather than charm, and even when duetting, Dylan and Cash's aw-shucks mutual admiration smothers artistic collaboration. Disc three's bonus content with banjo legend Earl Scruggs fares better.

Pop rock rather than space prog, The Color Before the Sun is akin to his beloved Rush's permanent wave goodbye to fantasy epics in favor of radio-friendly AOR.

Gonzo garage maniacs King Khan & BBQ Show offer the aural equivalent to a drunken hook-up: short, weird, messy.

The dark synth pulse of opener "Roseate," driving mad as Gika trills into an effervescent falsetto, sets a tension that flows throughout

The chillwave connoisseur thus delivers according to expectations, creating a short, bubbly experience fit for a fest.

At 42 minutes, Cyclone could still lose a few tunes ('Fever,' 'The Pharaohs'), which elongate a back end that never seals the album properly, but in penning almost all of her own material, Neko Case can even get away with a 31-minute final track of cricket song.

Perkins' funereal, imagistic pull still haunts the album, but bolstered into the Elvis Perkins in Dearland fourpiece, the eponymous LP lopes with a processional gait.

Someone had to pick up where Oingo Boingo left off when Danny Elfman decided to grow old and rich composing film scores.

Clocking in at just half an hour, their third LP streamlines sonically, but the bulldozing remains.

Missing the shambolic charm of Cronin's earlier work, MCIII nevertheless guarantees bigger stages.

Jones has concocted a pleasing effort underneath its delicate air.

Low Country Blues is a long exhale after day fades to night and the moon is on the rise.

Repeated listens to Devils & Dust reveal some of Springsteen's most pensive, if difficult, work.

His trademark big-band singer-songwriter acumen is splendidly arranged and performed in a manner equivalent to Lovett's high-class reputation.

The Swedes ignite right from the "Intro."

The local duo has struggled to top its electroclash charades. Their solution? Lasers. On Ghostland's third self-produced LP, Robotique Majestique, mastered at the Exchange in London by Nilesh Patel (Daft Punk, Justice), that strategy largely translates into massive, Technicolor electronic interludes delving deep into Depeche Mode.

Working on a Dream crowns Springsteen & the E Street Band's most productive period since their first four LPs.

The piano-backed punch of "Jealous Girl" and swaying "Gossip" both achieve pinnacles of pop, completely masking their lackluster lyricism, but it's Kweller's pushing his ruffled tenor into Seventies roots-rock territory that serves him best here.

The Clairvoyant's long-simmered songcraft rarely tarnishes.

While not as sunny as 2009's Hold Time, it's confident and multifaceted.

The controlled recklessness of Little Honey was a long-awaited antidote to Car Wheels' strong medicine, and now Blessed basks in its older sibling's afterglow.

If anything, Here Before echoes the pastel colors of 1986's The Good Earth, each song a subtle variant of the next, measured and metronomic. This isn't a first-spin grabber, but if you're as patient as the Feelies have been, it might grow on you.

This Odd Couple is from the future, even if Gnarls Barkley's second LP comes littered with shades of the past.

Tell Me deserves praise for its alternative vision of what a singer-songwriter album can be.

The Blind Boys are oddly relegated to the background of the Sam Amidon-assisted "I Am Not Waiting Anymore," making it barely distinguishable from the indie-folk currently blanketing AAA radio, but the island groove of "I've Been Searching" is a delightful surprise with Tune-Yards' Merrill Garbus helping channel the Jamaican harmony trios of the Sixties.

Allusions to the Birthday Party abound as Iceage thunders across the high desert of the soul, and you can almost smell the toxic fragrance of cheap liquor and stale cigarettes on Elias Bender Rønnenfelt's tortured, breathy vocal as he slurs his way through half-cocked entreaties that would make Stanley Kowalski take pause.

While it may occasionally get too precious for some ears, Own Side Now is a tantalizing debut.

It's lovingly curated, shambolic in all the right places, and celebrates the Texas troubadour's 70th birthday in high style, with an emphasis on the high.

Upon first listen, meanwhile, Agnostic Hymns is disorienting. Snider's voice is typically craggy, but the music is too. Amanda Shires' violin shadows his words, and the rhythms occasionally miss a beat. Once things come into focus, his stories are of those affected by the Great Recession, told with a wrath rarely expressed.

Akin to Doug Martsch's 2002 solo debut, Mascis' side work remains foreign in its acoustic aesthetic, but like the Built to Spill frontman's Now You Know, celebrates its songwriter's new stylistic terrain.

Segarra taps into lamenting barroom country previously explored on "Life to Save," but uses the lightning-fast drumming of Puerto Rican plena to address the often physical struggle to protect the sanctity of any homeland on "Rican Beach."

Sweet, ephemeral, with a quick comedown.

It's Wayne's personality that both floats and sinks TC III.

Sean Tillman deliciously and shamelessly embraces his Motown passions.