There are a few more hooks on this latest release and the production is clearer, but it certainly doesn’t water down the sentiment.

Despite the variety, this is a decidedly marginal set of songs, one that’s well out of sync with even the most archival Americana.

It captures an aura of domestic bliss through songs that are unfailingly effervescent and jazz infused to the max.

All in all, it’s Rodriguez’s way with both a samba and a sway that helps elevate this effort while making it one of her best yet.

You can’t help but feel a little let down that they didn’t experiment a bit more on this one.

It’s exactly the kind of album you’d expect to emerge from a deserted cave full of records--dark, solitary, a little mad but extremely well-versed in musical style.

Probably not the best soundtrack for you Christmas Eve Open House, but destined to be a Holiday classic for Crowell diehards.

It’s a cerebral, sometimes sinewy sound, but one which leaves a lasting impression regardless.

Though only seven songs long, at least two--“Mallow T’Ward the River” and “One Can Only Love”--offer multiple movements that provide opportunity to explore more exotic environs.

It makes for a suitably successful second record that, regardless of the salacious story surrounding the band that made it, pretty much lives up to the inspiring promise of their first.

Todd tended to distance all but the most devoted, thanks to an album that was, to say the least, rather difficult to digest. So while Global draws from the same synthesized setup, fortunately there’s plenty here to keep everyone enthralled.

There are times when Wilson's meandering style emphasis on ambiance turns on a twilight sound.

Friedberger sits at his keyboard noodling around on little motifs with slight variation here and there, which do evoke cinematic cues. But without the images on the silver screen, it becomes the music of buttons being pushed which gets old quickly.

There's still plenty of glamor and atmosphere in the Crystal Stilts' aura, but with this EP a significantly clearer sense of structure and purpose.

There’s an elusive aura that surrounds this set, suggesting Lord Huron will never pry its door open entirely. Then again, that’s what makes this outfit so fascinating…and possibly so essential.

Despite those candid confessions, Arrows never bows to Scattergood’s self-indulgence, given the swooning synths and other cosmic confections.

The lack of a rhythmic anchor sometimes gives the songs more free form than they actually need--there’s a difference between playful interchange and self-indulgence. But most of the music simply translates deep musical respect and chemistry into moments of artistic fire and great beauty.

Their music, those influences intact, circles around a classic rock genre, but without any mediocre redundancy or artificiality.

What you might miss in Fake Yoga, if you’ve been around for a while, are the mordant, Wilco-ish ballads that dotted Hesitation Eyes.... Still Fake Yoga is a very solid album and much more compelling than 2010’s Bible Stories.

Intended as the follow-up to Griffin’s sophomore set Flaming Red, Silver Bell finds a young artist still determining her direction. Griffin’s furtive vocals dominate the album overall, but the settings shift dramatically throughout.

Spectral effects and pulsating tones swirl through each selection, but it's the persistent rhythms that steer the aural acrobatics, making Den a harbinger of fascinating efforts yet to come.

This latest effort is underscored by sweeping arrangements and a turbulent pulse that only serves to accelerate that sense of drama and defiance.

Worship the Sun has the lemonade-y ambiguity of all good pop.

The band’s timbres are more distinctive than its songs, which means that even the shorter tunes are best when they let the instruments do the talking.

The news is, basically, modest: On the whole, Hairdresser Blues picks up where the first album left off.

This is a very good album, sure, but it adds not so much to the Rangda catalogue.

All in all, United States demonstrates McLagan’s allegiance to a pure pop mantra.

Live in Japan is more valuable as a historical artifact than as a concert recording one is likely to return to again and again.

Holy Ghost finds him coming across as remarkably unassuming, a casual, somewhat weary traveller bound for a yet undetermined destination.

Singer Brittany Howard’s vocals are as pliable as ever, a high pitched squeal one moment, an irascible growl the next. Yet, in this case, it’s the band--bassist Zac Cockrell, guitarist Heath Fogg and drummer Steve Johnson--that have evolved most this time around, providing a shifting set of circumstance varied in both tone and texture.

They play one too many Springsteen cards with the dark “Cadillac Road” (at this point, Bruce pretty much owns any lyrics that revolve around mills shutting down), but the record ends on another strong track, “Across the River.” Taken as a whole, All Across This Land is one of the group’s strongest offerings in years.

No Age has made an album devoid of joy, yet I couldn’t help but smile when listening to it.

It would have been better to be more sharply focused, and more limited in scope, so a wider audience could discover it and maybe love it as much as Johnny Boy.

Given the earthier sonic aesthetic of the band’s previous LP, the gauzy mist of Warpaint may be hard to accept at first, but given time, the record’s sensuality becomes clear, making it more of a next step than a radical rethink.

The raw, mellow, hip-hop, electronic, jazz infused solo return of Neneh Cherry is an enjoyable ride; some songs are immediately addictive while others slowly become more appealing after several listens and sonic osmosis.

Ministry of Love may wax gloomy but proves to be an enjoyable album that fans of IO Echo just may happily play repeatedly.

It’s as if the quartet decided to pay tribute to one of O’Malley’s chief inspirations: Earth. That sounds dull, but there’s something hypnotic about these songs.

As incisive a crime story as ever committed to a groove, Juarez is striking and surreal, a torrid and twisted pastiche stirred from decadence and desire.

At over an hour, Instrumentals may try the patience of anyone not already acclimated to Pearce’s mood-driven vision. But fans who can’t get enough of his distinctive approach to composition and performance may find this record to be the purest expression of FSAness yet.

COIN COIN is not an album made for casual listening (that's probably the idea) nor is it entirely successful, but it has an absorbing quality that warrants further listens.

Melodic, dark and captivating.

Though solid throughout, without hooks like the best ones on Goes Missing, Untouchable suggests the more random approach suits Kelly and his fans better.

In short, if you liked what you heard on MCI and MCII, MCIII is more of the same, only slathered in lush arrangements with a little less of the raw outbursts of his earlier garage-y grunge sound.

Though it may not be perfect from start to finish, there is plenty to like about It’s All Just Pretend and serves as a great argument that the band is much more than just another neo folk also-ran.

The best of these songs, by a long ways, is "Counting." [...] Yet elsewhere, Ashin sounds like he's treading water, emoting floridly but to no real purpose over shiny, surface-y arrangements.

Allegedly a bubblegum record, in reality this is Collins’ take on psychedelic pop, with twinkling keyboards, polite guitars and a heretofore unimagined Collins croon that could charm the panties off a lesbian punk rocker.

It’s an odd little record, a kind of confessional chronicle that gradually gets under your skin. In this era of fractured self-identification, Ten Hymns From My American Gothic nicely serves as a soundtrack for all the searchers and seekers out there.

The music will put a smile on your face and make you want to dance - which is what good, timeless pop is supposed to do, in the final estimation.

Yes, this type of record has been done before, and arguably better, but there are still some powerful tracks on The Things.

The lack of a pulse gets wearying--some of these tracks could be tantalizing space rock if given some propulsion on a motorik beat. But other tracks become genuinely soothing, even mesmerizing, as they unfold.

SB makes hermetic/occult music by design, made to appeal to cults and that’s what makes them so proudly unique. Nevertheless, here’s hoping that next time, their ambitions include stretching out their songs and their ideas stuffed inside each tune.

Given that parts of the album seem intentionally radio-ready, there’s reason to suspect the Rosebuds may have shed their thornier side to win greater acceptance. Happily though, they’re able to dispute that notion with entries that remain unerringly intriguing.

Though not as great as their last few albums of all original songs, Play The Hits is still a fun holdover until the band comes back with another record.

The lack of anything that’s decidedly uptempo may be a detriment to some, but the blend of strings and acoustic instrumentation more than compensates for the subdued stance.

Over accessible grooves derived from the same source used by groups like Tinariwen and Terakaft, Brahim sings with an easy tone that coils her passion into a tight spring, rather than shoot it out of a cannon.

While this isn't going to make you toss your copy of George Best, it shows the guy still has some gas left in his tank and is far from embarrassing himself.

Sure, Kool Keith lets some profoundly dumb lyrics loose on Love and Danger, but they all seem in service of some improvisational rope-a-dope that ultimately finds him landing a knockout punch.

Wright relies mostly on covers — she’s only credited with co-writing the final track “All the Way Here”--but her choice of classic material--Dylan’s “Every Grain of Sand,” Allen Toussaint’s Southern Nights,” the timeless standard “Stars Fell on Alabama, as well as newer, but equally impressive choices by k.d. lang, Rose Cousins and Ray Charles--testify to her ability to make the material her own.

That McCombs is seeking a specialized niche seems all too obvious, even though his sound flirts with being elusive.

I was kind of hoping for more hooks, but sometimes forget that every record can't be Singles Going Steady. When the White Wires release a greatest hit collection that might be just what I'm looking for, but in the meantime, WWIII will do.

Too often, it seems like the singer is leading us into blind alleys, stringing words together willy-nilly on bead chains, then scattering them like sparkling baubles in a heap.

Quever’s songs are meant to provide sweet succor, not catharsis, and in that Life Among the Savages proves to be pretty good company.

Certainly, there’s a fine line in-between a record bearing cohesion and every song being a clone of the tune before it, but Naomi suffers, even if slightly so, from multiple personalities.

While the lyrics here do tend to come off as pretentious at times, the sentiment is still admirable and actually pays off on songs like “March in September.”

Though not for every taste, Felder has enough going on to be more than just aural wallpaper.

A transitional record, then, one that seems to be leading to a masterstroke.

Ivy Tripp is more of a “This is what I can do,”’ album, worthy enough, and intermittently excellent, but not as shocking, not as eye-opening, not as much of a sock in the gut as the predecessor.

Family functions more like a sampler than as an in-depth insight into their collective prowess.

Moments of stark beauty do chime or trill within the trio's overall locked-in-the-engine-room sound.

Some of the half-crazed momentum is missed, particularly during the meandering tracks that end the LP. But mostly the Warlocks thrive in this environment of release-free tension, letting Skull Worship seethe rather than rage, and it’s no less effective for the restraint.

Despite his delicate--make that dainty--designs, Henson also knows how to set a fanciful mood, albeit one that’s singularly subdued.

The disc’s first half is most engrossing, especially the slinky, smouldery swagger of “Lady and Man,” which whips up funk intensity with explosive starts and stops. ... Late album tracks drift and drone, pillow-padded with angelic “oohs” and paced for motionless contemplation.

Like his debut, 2012’s Clear Heart Full Eyes, Finn’s solo records tend to be a little darker and more-sparse than Hold Steady albums.

Good Sad Happy Bad is more an interesting record than a piece of music you’ll return to for enjoyment. It’s a fun place to visit, but you might not want to live there.

Revelation hardly pushes the boundaries of what the BJM can do, but it’s nice to hear the band reiterating what it does best.

To the Happy Few combines the experience of veterans with the joy of rediscovery.

The best tracks, though, come when Earle focuses on just simply rockin’.

An impressively ambitious feat no doubt, but this album would probably be better served with a little more restraint.

While not his best effort to date, there are still some standout songs on this one.

For all of Fritz’s humorous lyrical twists, his strongest moments here often are when he doesn’t hide his feelings behind funny lines.

Let’s be honest: the [Brian Jonestown Massacre] hasn’t hewed to its classic sound in some years, so why not let Psychic Ills take on the drug pop mantle instead? As this album proves, they [wear] it well.

Fans of Rundgren’s more song-oriented LPs may balk at Runddans, but fans of experimental electronics will grok the vibe.

Their latest, crammed with 17 tracks, will likely be a case of too much of a good thing for all but the hardcore fans.

Bid and his crew are real pros, totally confident.

Yet another viciously fun balls-out rocker of an album.

There’s a feeling of triumph and celebration imbued in these tunes, although Joan’s voice remains cautious even in the midst of the revelry. Ranging from wistful to giddy, this is an uncommonly expressive effort that boasts clear allegiance to modern pop while still remaining a step or so out of reach.

The songs on their second full length Baba Yaga are not immediately sticky, in fact they take some time sink in.

Darkly defiant, Nothin’ But Blood is turbulent and tempestuous to a manic extreme.

Some of their ‘80s-style material also works in a pretty way (“Re-invent Your Second Wheel,” “BW Silence,” “Time Lock Fog”), but not so that you’re convinced that their collective hearts are in it.

The rock instruments--drums, keyboards and guitar--set the framework, but it's the chamber music instrument that blows the doors down.

While the melodies are occasionally amorphous, the poetry and passion are clearly conveyed.

There’s a lot to like here and hopefully these three will keep working again, trim the fat and lock in for an even more thrilling ride next time.

Unfortunately, while the singers add some variety to the down-tempo dance stew that Green comes up with, they also fade into his lounge-like, bare-bones background all too well without adding much flavor, not to mention bite, to the proceedings.

When the band kicks on the distortion, things pick up immensely.

The ferocity in their delivery and the sheer sweep of their eager entreaties create an anthemic exposition, resulting in a series of songs that make it impossible to sit still.

It’s always comforting to know that certain stylistic bents of rock never go out of style. That’s usually because someone puts a new spin on an old formula. That’s arguably the case with E.

The album is chirpy, playful and transitory, dispensing 10 songs in 31 minutes.

Interesting juxtapositions proliferate, but Ava Luna often seems to be pursuing oddity for its own sake. The best cuts here are the most unitary.