Honeys marks the band's sharpest, smartest work yet, hypermasculine yet self-defeating.

Moderating the spellbinding verbosity that saturated previous high-water marks like "Ducking & Dodging" from 2014's Sunbathing Animal gives this latest batch more space to develop and marinate.

Townes is unparalleled in its versions of Van Zandt's songs, Earle bringing all the emotional complexity of their association to bear in tones of both joy and regret.

Rocket is nuanced and shifting.

Mixing standards ("Laura," "Lush Life") with an occasional political rap ("Where Are They Now?") might fall flat in lesser hands, but Wyatt's voice is the linchpin, and Atzmon/Stephen work amicably with it.

One of the most ambitious artistic statements of the year.

The album has textures that make the group's 2000 debut, Mass Romantic, sound medieval by comparison.

While Point is ultimately plenty of fun, it's also serious work that can be taken seriously.

Raw and melodic, standing at the crossroads between the Ramones and Shangri-Las, singer/guitarist Lydia Night demonstrates a remarkable grip on youth and vulnerability in 2017.

If the midpoint between The Future and the Past is modernity, Natalie Prass nails it.

The urgency is still there, as guitars and pianos take turns screaming during the breakdown, but the violence is replaced with a sense of frivolity and playfulness that lingers throughout the group's fifth release.

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.

Filled with a brand of progressive folk music unlike anything you've ever heard, it crackles, sways, and whines, breaking through barriers we didn't know existed while creating a listening experience that's spellbinding.

Nine albums in, the newly downsized trio rolls categorically mind-bending and noisy while sustaining creative novelty.

It's music-making for the pure joy of it, and that delight overflows in a manner that's truly rare.

Following in the paths of American jazz counterparts Robert Glasper and Kamasi Washington, UK jazz savants Yussef Kamaal weave a fabric of the genre steering free of up-nosed traditionalist conventions in pursuit of exploratory grooves and improvisation on Black Focus.

II Trill but never too trill, the second solo swagger from UGKer Bun B spins triumphant, Houston hip-hop ripped both in celebration of properly executed gangster prophecies and passed partner-in-slang Pimp C.

It's a bold, scattershot declaration that leaves vinyl junkies ready to track down Fucked Up's coinciding (but not included) 7-inch single, "Couple Tracks."

By the time the album closes on the warm, wandering "Goldtone," Vile and the listener remain dazed and confused, but smiling.

The One ... Cohesive earns all 55 minutes, from the simmer of YelaWolf's Creek Water on "Came Up" to "How Far," the duo's clever remake of Beach House's "10 Mile Stereo."

ts sleek, dance-oriented patina veers appreciably from the linear evolution of the Austinites' previous output. This might be Spoon's most radio-friendly release ever, and given its jarring position in the catalog, their most adventurous.

The success, and devil, of Smoke Ring is in the details, however, as the tunes prove intricately textured while still retaining an inherently garage feel, unraveling new elements as they sink in with lethargic weight.

Folklore has less of a sense of urgency than 16HP's previous recordings, but it seems to indicate the band is comfortable in its skin, albeit shifting around.

Elbow is a sad lot, likely to lead to a life of Merlot, Silk Cuts, and a straight razor or two if you don't watch out. They're gorgeous just the same.

Derek Trucks, jazz axe John Scofield, and producer/Soulive guitarist Eric Krasno all go toe-to-toe with the phosphorescent Vieux.

Sample and/or revisit the blitzkrieg roots rock of his first band, the 101'ers; the world music fusion of his final band, the Mescaleros; the Johnny Cash duet of Bob Marley's "Redemption Song," one of Strummer's final recordings; and some of the blues and country pastiches pseudonymously written for Alex Cox's Sid and Nancy soundtrack. Most interesting is the unreleased track "London Is Burning," a Mescaleros attempt at chronicling a UK--through pronounced Clashness--that eerily resembles 2018 America.

Earle cleverly uses the almost-hokey comfort of his music to couch lyrics with deep sadness, rescued from desperation only by the resulting irony.

Six years later, the New York trio's third LP, It's Blitz!, is only as subversive as its cover image.

The result's a bit half-baked, which is disappointing when you know Hebden's capable of far more spirited adventures in sound.

They're fine tunes with few faults, but they fail to add anything meaningful to the conversation.

Central to Birth of Violence, the Northern Californian's stunning voice and insular lyrics tie everything into one clear, bewitching vision.

Brothers excels with its ballads, notably the 1960s pop swoon of "The Only One" and "Unknown Brother," while the Philly soul of Jerry Butler's "Never Gonna Give You Up" beckons for white suits and synchronized moves.

Help Us Stranger moves garage-punk polymath Jack White from the Sixties to the Seventies. And from the sounds of things, he, Brendan Benson, Jack Lawrence, and Patrick Keeler did it in Z/28 with an 8-track player and a hash pipe.

Read: wall-battering grunge, post-final battle atmospherics, and enough emotional gristle to feed a Tyrannosaurus rex.

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.

His innovative days may be long behind him, but Bowie's melodic gifts remain undiminished and his lyrics appropriately ambiguous.

Two new originals from this ageless giant conclude a beautifully contemplative set that shines like a polished mirror.

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

This Land runs as a philosophical course correction, as a truer start on his path forward.

Van Etten is in control like never before.

The DVD material is marginal, live versions of the bonus tracks plus offstage footage left out of the Maysles brothers' infamous documentary Gimme Shelter. Better is a B.B. King and Ike & Tina Turner audio disc, because the Stones were still in awe of their idols and every tour opened with blues legends you weren't otherwise likely to see.

Blank Face stalls near its end with pedestrian raps and an awkward R&B crossover bid, but when Q locks into the streetwise grooves of "Dope Dealer" and the lush psychedelia of "That Part," he hints at the masterpiece he came tantalizingly close to making.

Tarpaper Sky proves that the Houston Kid in his 60s remains as vital as ever, balancing ballads and bar room stomps, both cut with his characteristic sense of autobiographical detail and precarious mortality.

Cat Power for the next generation.

This is Kate Bush's domestic album. Listen to it stoned on a Sunday afternoon.

Lyrically, Loveless can still hit a clinker ("Verlaine Shot Rimbaud") or two ("Head"), but the yearning in "Everything's Gone" and pain expressed with "Hurts So Bad" illustrate she's come a long way in expressing universal emotions.

AM's a heavy seduction, restless and all the better for it.

The New York quartet works its way out of that corner on its meticulous sculpted sophomore LP, Contra, branching out with tangents into kinetic ska-punk ("Holiday," "Cousins") and hyper dancehall music.

[It] tries putting everything from the buffet on your plate, even the Jell-O you're not going to eat. C'mon, sounding like a stripped-down version of the Stooges wasn't such a bad thing, was it?

[A] psychedelic rap reality worth wigging to.

Save for a track or two, Help is indeed fully erect.

Jardín proves spring's arrived for Gabriel Garzón-Montano.

Green Twins realizes a sound that's truly Hakim's own.

Empathetic and hopeful, By the Way rivals breakout The Story as Carlile's best.

A perfect union, Mien proves the sum of its grimmest parts.

If it feels like throwing styles against the wall, it's a testament to Privott, guitarist John Courtney, drummer Damien Llanes, bassist Megan Hartman, and keyboardist Natalie Wright that almost all of it sticks.

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.

Benjamin Booker might not know where he's going, but he's well on his way.

RR7349 mingles the tangible with the abstract to spur a novel meld of both imaginative atmosphere and gripping substance.

Where 2003's Her Majesty the Decemberists unfurled tales of royalty, and debut Castaways and Cutouts talked of the sea, Picaresque drafts a whole new cast of characters just as colorful.

They Want My Soul returns Spoon to rare form.

Deep Time has finally arrived.

A marvelous recasting that achieves both comfortable familiarity and surprising new emotions.

In Civilian, quiet despair sounds like anything but.

In short, Burst Apart, as truly beautiful as its compositions are, is haunted by Hospice.

Solid and gaseous, dark and light in all the right places, this is the Comets' brightest so far.

Like his piano chops, his lyrics are no-frills expressions, ripe and ready to be groomed into something even bigger.

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

It all adds up to a challenging song cycle.

Swirling strings and thudding guitars compare more than they contrast, brilliantly revealing that the band's "normal" music – a prowling, rhythmic churn that moves like sludge metal but strikes with blackened ferocity – is actually pretty avant. ... You'll marvel at how scrubbed of obvious influences they've become.

A marvel of tone and production, the Austin trio's third half-hour aneurysm mutates root metallurgies into a future missing link of punk extremity.

Fever hinges on bouncing beats and an inspired brand of feminism.

Spanning glacial, lonely instrumentals ("Being Her Shadow") and muffled Americana ("Vital,"), this abyss proves worthwhile.

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

Like Cox, Monomania is an enigma, wrapped in distortion.

An intentionally loose-strung concept of hip-hop and psychedelia, which at times loses focus.

Their robe is cut from cloth that matters: melodic Peter Hook-like basslines; the divine shoegazer textures of My Bloody Valentine and Ride; a peppy, Strokes-like bounce; and a singer who's a dead ringer for Ian Curtis.

Armchair Apocrypha, is as instantly engaging as "Fake Palindromes" from 05's Andrew Bird & the Mysterious Production of Eggs.

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.

Marling's fingerpicking still marvels, but the low blues of "Howl" and the title track's aggressive drone shade with bleaker hues.

The Dap-Kings' most complete album closes with the stripped-down gospel thump of "Mama Don't Like My Man," a far cry from the rough funk of 2002 debut Dap Dippin' and a move that proves Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings have learned a thing or two since then. The hard way, naturally.

The Boston foursome's anxiously blissful take on apocalyptic concerns bends toward chamber pop after past Americana leanings, the 12 tracks grounded in plucky instrumentation and energetic harmony.

It's perfect for getting some shut-eye, but the boy wonder bores when cast upon alert ears.

Earl Sweatshirt finally reconciles those influences and the voices inside his own head on sophomore effort I Don't Like Shit, I Don't Go Outside.

Backed by a full band, there are flourishes of rock and even reggae, but Azel stirs up another desert blues masterpiece.

Streaming melodies ("Liar"), Sam "Quasi" Coomes' organ ellipses ("Gone"), and the top down, spark-throwing "Conventional Wisdom" rush head-on into the 21st century like Hunter Thompson's hovercraft.

Gates stands out amongst his peers through his ability to write fully realized songs, versus the normalized attempts to ride waves the production presents.

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.

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

His genius is on bold display in the way he intertwines the raw beauty of tunes like "The Ladder," a ballad for Christoff, and "Evita's Lullaby," about his mother's love for his deceased father, with the urgent, Velvets-esque drone of "Break This Time" and the ferocious pounding and vivid imagery of attempted suicide on "Sacramento & Polk."

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.

The songs spring from a warm hearth, upping the ante from their well-received sophomore LP, 2003's Heart.

Standouts "1001 Pleasant Dreams" and "13" wipe down the band's more melodic side, while "Spider's Web" and "Let Yourself Go" sound just as urgent and bottom-heavy as anything MoB throttled 20 years ago.

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.

Ambivalent, fatalistic, heartbroken, defiantly hopeful.

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.

Damn, it feels good.

Melody A.M., sweet dreams are made of bliss.