With support from Geffen Records waning, Young retaliated with a crack country outfit in the International Harvesters and dug his boots into the outlaw sound with conviction.

A 25th anniversary minibox stuffs poster and postcards in with a mother lode second disc of 19 "Athens Demos," from punky ("Bad Day") to finished ("All the Right Friends").

1993's Icky Mettle thumps Warp's warpath between lo-fi sad sackery ("You and Me") and shitstorm post-post punk ("Sick File"). The Archers of Loaf vs. The Greatest of All Time EP ignites a bonus disc as anthemic as 1977 Clash ("Bathroom").

Tassili's more acoustic than previous efforts but entirely transfixing, filled with haunted pleas about solitude ("Asuf D Alwa"), faith ("Ya Messinagh"), and drought ("Takest Tamidaret").

FSHG continues this wheelhouse effect, drifting from Smile session bounce on opener "Honey Bunny" into the heavy-psych wind tunnel of "Die" and sprawling anchor "Vomit."

Singing sometimes borders on yelling, but the promised heights reach their summit.

Metals is darker, more contemplative, heavier, a heady, atomic blend of folk-pop and emotional menace.

Though Waits holds a reserved seat in the small club of artists who don't put out bad albums, the whiff of wild youth hangs around Bad as Me as if it was recorded in back alleys, behind churches, and in bars after hours.

This John Dwyer-led, San Francisco collective's jagged psych-punk has always been ear catching, but this ups the ante.

With the CD mix the same as the 1996 remaster, plus a poster, 7-inch single, replicas of Townshend's handwritten notes and drawings, a DVD of 5.1 mixes, and a hardback book packed with photos and creative musings, this Director's Cut earns its indulgence.

The Roots are the best hip-hop band today and ever, no questions asked, and Undun is Black Thought's greatest mark.

From cow-punk ("Killed a Chicken Last Night") and DIY metal ("Dontcha Lie to Me Baby") to gritty classic rock ("Wind up Blind"), Biram proves the ultimate outlaw.

The Lion's Roar lacks gravitas, but that will come with time and heartbreak. The soul, candor, and the way they sing "darling," that's the hard stuff, and it's scarcely sounded more gorgeous.

This is dirty, dusty, disintegrated bay-music at its best.

Sequenced hopscotch-style between the two principle composers, Old Mad Joy barely drops a beat ("You Must Not Know").

Heartless Bastards return not as they started, but as an undeniable and tightly controlled force of nature.

Its debut gets a lot of traction out of being crisp and clean.

New Multitudes is a resilient tribute to Woody Guthrie based on the folk pioneer's unpublished lyrics.

May be his best yet.

Wrecking Ball spins Springsteen's most focused work since 2002's The Rising and most defiant and hooky since 1984's Born in the U.S.A.

The band's third album, Milk Famous, returns to the twitchy dance-rock that made this Brooklyn group such an unstoppable opening act, folding in dashes of Talking Heads' jitter-pop and some blackened post-punk tautness.

By going back to adolescence, Fite's made his most mature album.

With material like this, he may even find a way to add a chapter to the Great American Songbook.

Broken never sounded so divine.

It's Ray Wylie Hubbard at his best, candid, shrugging, unapologetic, and dispensing rock & roll philosophy in words that matter.

Torture builds speed, human gristle, and institutionalization. Unforgiving ("The Strangulation Chair"), its Howitzer recoil runs molten currents of melody and rhythm.

It's unclear whether the stunningly simple sound of 1985's feedtime was forged by artistic primitivism or limitations in musicianship, but its monotonic songs ride feeling rather than melody, and when it's good, like "Fastbuck" springing outlaw quatrain, "I got a Pontiac, gasoline, grab the cash, split the scene," it's paralyzing.

Black humor, demons, g-o-d, easy women: Welcome to the cult of Father John Misty.

It's a heroic effort all around.

Through producer John Congleton's flourishes you can still imagine Jaffe strumming the songs on an acoustic guitar, each heartbreaking love song written for the same audience who embraced the subtle desperation of Suburban Nature.

The general expansiveness of sound on songs like "Ho Hey" make this young group's eponymous debut uniquely American in all the best ways: gritty, determined, soaked in sweat and love and drive. There's nothing precious or affected here, just three dedicated artists opening their hearts.

The refrain in "Fineshrine" ("Get a little closer, let it fold/Cut open my sternum and pull/My little ribs around you") sums up Purity Ring with creepy efficacy, consuming and surrounding the listener. And as sweetly chirped by Megan James, it never seems like a bad thing.

It's a headphone masterpiece that bangs on shelf speakers.

Twenty-one discs address it in explosively comprehensive detail for The Box, all seven of Blur's full-lengths now doubled by a brimming parallel disc of era singles, B-sides, demos, and live swaths.

Taut, toned guitars meet tendon-snapping rhythms and acrobatic frontman Mike Wiebe's almost talking punk blues--mocking, self-deprecating, unyielding in their needling efficacy.

There are cleaner, prettier albums, with more candor and a greater point of view, but White Lung makes few apologies.

Picking up where 2001's two-disc BBC Sessions: 1964-1977 left off, this 5-CD/1-DVD UK import meticulously traces the band's enthralling path.

Anchored by three tracks stretching past 19 minutes with only momentary lapses of Western conventionality, The Seer stands as an immense and jarring homage to unpredictability.

Now in his 50s, Bob Mould returns not as the forefather of modern indie rock, but as a vital contemporary.

The Odessa Tapes has it all, most tellingly a warmth and intimacy foreign to More a Legend's typically starched Nashville conformity.

Above all, this is an album of intensely dramatic arrangements, never allowing the listener to settle and continually rewarding anew.

Although the Avett Brothers can't seem to decide whether they're introspective folkies or a big rock act, The Carpenter hits the right chords in such a manner that no one will likely care.

World Music sounds like a truly panglobal operation, a remarkably organic siphon of dozens of musical traditions.

2 is nothing if not authentic.

Impressive company, and Johnson earns his spot among them.

The quotidian problems and longings of the title track making up the real heart of the album, a rough and tumble struggle to the top.

What a sublime hush of an album. Your iPhone dreams about this music.

Companion piece Hands of Glory restructures the old and new alike in dusty-trail cowboy swag.

With more than two-and-a-half hours of music and enough extras to keep children of all ages occupied deep into the long winter's night, Stevens once again pulls off a wondrously wide-eyed antidote to the boring Christmas album.

Zack de la Rocha's fevered shout doesn't sound any more graceful now than it did then, but Tom Morello's riffs still cook, the grooves still burn.

It's an album of brainy rock songs that state their claims then defiantly step out from beneath the ethereal haze.

Closing with the SST stomp of "Lips," summery strumming "Frank O'Hara Hit," and the smudged punk of "Communist Eyes," CLM never amounts to a full state of the union. Settle instead for a New York state of mind.

It'll evoke memories of Wilco's Being There ("Open the Door"), GNR around Lies ("The Seeds"), and Neil Young doing "Big Time" ("Freaky").

["Song for Zula" is] brutal, beautiful, and like the rest of Muchacho, masterfully executed.

The combination of Roth's deft touch, Hunter's gritty vocals, and the band's skilled musicianship makes Minute by Minute one of the best of the year.

He's the finest true soul voice of his generation.

Aural adventurers, the mothership has landed.

Ready to Die finds the quintet on Fat Possum, making them indie artists for the first time, and they give their new label the best produced, loudest, and slickest--without sacrificing any primal grit and drive--Stooges disc yet.

Sing to the Moon is a bold and beautiful debut: airy and dense, soul and jazz, dark and light. Head in the clouds, toes in the dirt.

On the London quartet's debut Silence Yourself, the group whips up a storm of aggressive rhythms, strident vocalizing, and six-string sheen as if the succeeding pop trends never happened and Gang of Four and Siouxsie & the Banshees rule the charts.

RAM has the immediate appeal of disco, but never overstuffs with candied hooks, even when we want it to.

The National reveled in self-effacing jokes between the heaviness of their songs, and Trouble finally finds that balance on disc.

Bandleaders Phil Cope and Laura Pleasants show off five LPs worth of development, coming into their own on "Unspoken," "Quicksand," and "Grounded," all lessons in following the muse down a path of riff-ripened enlightenment.

Like Clockwork: great for rock & roll, great for culture, great for the world.

Sure, they're not very hip, but Portugal the Man are anything but slouches, and Evil Friends is proof that some bands get big for being good, nothing else.

He's become a master craftsman on the order of Guy Clark and John Prine.

The freshest, most exhilarating rap album of 2013.

This is the Octopus Project you've witnessed a million times, the one you've been waiting to show up on your speakers.

Pushin' Against a Stone showcases a stunning and unique new voice.

Destruction Unit appreciates chaos, as their guerrilla bridge show a few SXSWs ago demonstrated, but Deep Trip proves they know how to play their instruments even if ducking behind a wall of squall.

All the studio LPs are augmented with bonus material, while three discs compiled exclusively for this box are where the treasure resides.

Combined with illuminating outtakes and demos from less-troubled follow-up New Morning, they make Another Self Portrait a far more rewarding listen than its predecessor.

A pair of trad-style instrumentals, "Snake Chapman's Tune" and "Pacific Slope," underlines Fulks' sublime stylistic mastery.

Challenging, enigmatic, and melodic don't always go together, but coupled with Case's sleek vocals, they make The Worse Things Get ... a marvel.

Made In California's hefty price tag won't endear it to serious fans, but it's the first release to encompass the Beach Boys' entire inspiring, frustrating, contradiction-laden tale.

The Scottish trio aren't trying to subvert anything on debut long-player The Bones of What You Believe, churning out hard-driving and utterly undeniable electro-pop, and the hooks arrive absolutely relentless.

With every release he proves his idiosyncrasy. Nobody else in the world knows how to make an Oneohtrix Point Never album.

Build Me Up From Bones calls on the same whimsical picking that earned her an early Grammy nomination for Best Country Instrumental Performance, while diversifying to great effect.

Gentle outlaw Cass McCombs luxuriates in sunlit California landscapes, weaving offbeat tales of carousing and yearning on Big Wheel and Others.

Eccentric, eclectic, and brilliant.

San Diego triangle Isaiah Mitchell, Mike Eginton, and Rocket From the Crypt propulsionist Mario Rubalcaba hurtle third studio LP and first since 2007 into the void atop a gloriously earthen pachyderm crunch on four tracks.

Rosanne Cash caps a trilogy of reflection with poise and insight, a complex cultural legacy moved distinctly forward.

Indian throws a temper tantrum on From All Purity that goes beyond petulance and into an appropriately pure state of sanity-stomping anguish, purging the demons with sulfuric acid and a nail-studded baseball bat.

There's sex, drugs, crab cakes, and people you've never met and never will, including James Gandolfini and the children of Newtown, Conn., but their presence devastates nonetheless.

Olsen transcends ephemeral charm at every turn.

With every track, Beck makes a statement, one that's overwhelming but oddly comforting. It's the need to be a part of something larger, a fear of being alone. And with Morning Phase, it feels like we're his lifeline.

Clark's exacting sensibility makes every song a new experience, finally birthing an album where every shot hits its mark.

At times on Small Town Heroes, Segarra echoes them [Karen Dalton, Lucinda Williams, or Gillian Welch] precisely, taking what they do best and making it her own. That's a rung many have reached for but most have never grasped.

Real Estate already evaded the sophomore slump on 2011's impressive Days, now Atlas furthers the catalog.

Backed by Budos Band and Dap Kings' Tom Brenneck, and produced by the Black Keys' Patrick Carney, the band somehow remains degenerately disheveled and brilliantly bombastic in a way that belies their tightness.

Not only does the noirish blond front duo now boom, the group's theatrical flourishes wail like the harmonies howls punctuating the title track.

Here Be Monsters, the Brit expat's latest under the recurring Skull Orchard banner, embodies all of the qualities of Langford's best work, emphasizing the bittersweet, introspective edge that's become increasingly prominent in his work in recent years.

Tremors ultimately flourishes as a dazzling set of pop tracks.

The surgical staple of a riff on the ensuing "Everything About You" then reiterates that Big Head Todd's 10th studio disc of originals pivots on sonic stings embedded in superior songwriting.

It's as if this box set wants to prove Slint was human, not just a faceless menace that cut a record lost to time and circumstance, worthy of celebration and also fitting neatly in a box.

What makes the seventh Wovenhand LP such a refreshing departure [is] Refractory Obdurate is the unabashed electric rock LP the Colorado fourpiece has hinted at in its last two releases.

Boasting enough insidious imagination to evolve beyond easy metallic labels, Agalloch transports The Serpent and the Sphere into its own phantasmagoric astral plane.

From skittish garage-blues ("Duckin and Dodgin") to pale blue-eyed elongations ("Instant Disassembly"), it all hits like a blast of warm subway air on a cold day.