This album may not prove to be everyone’s cup of tea and may require a bit of hope and patience to listen to Samurai. Joakim has made an album that is simultaneously familiar yet unique and sets you on a creative sonic journey.

It almost as if Wire set out to make a concept album without actually calling it a concept album, so consistent is the sound throughout, and with subtly recurring melodic themes.

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.

Like all of his best work, Fantasizing About Being Black makes an impact on the soul that will be felt until the end of one’s days.

It finds her expanding her palette while resulting in her most diverse offering yet.

The acapella gospel of “True Religion” aside, this is a gritty set of songs, performed by an obviously unhinged individual who takes pride in his warped weirdness.

Melodic to a fault, this new offering continues a trajectory begun two decades back when as a folkie-turned-rocker he first plied his charms and initiated a brand that never ceases to satisfy.

While some might complain that the tone is a bit too uniform throughout, the overall impression is one of sweet serenity, adding up to an entirely engaging effort that makes this a supreme standout by any measure.

The way the group interweaves its strengths on its take on Miles Davis’ “Nardis” shows the pure pleasure that comes from listening to experts who love their jobs doing them well.

The LP’s few highlights--the thrumming “Cremated (Blown Away)” and “Bridge By A Tunnel,” the only track with a memorable chorus--can’t rescue Proper Ornaments from the ugly truth: there’s a bomb already in this Foxhole.

The Universe and Me offers more evidence that, as time goes by, Guided By Voices’ other songwriter may be aging more gracefully.

The mix of blues, with their standard, folk and country is a nice addition, but may not be enough to win over folks who aren’t already Son Volt devotees.

Far from nailing down who he is or what he’s attempting in this second self-titled album, Ty Segall seems to be trying all different things. Good for him.

In Between takes more spins to reveal its charms than is usual for the Feelies, but the effort pays off handsomely.

A Big Bad Beautiful Noise rocks hard, lives smart and re-establishes the Godfathers as a vital force in rock & roll.

All this noise stays in service of the songs, which remain as self-reflective and personal as ever.

Though he avoids dissonance for its own sake, Bleckmann amazingly never descends into treacle, nor does he indulge in the usual nonsense syllables of typical scat singing. Instead he forges his own distinctive path on Elegy, taking the concept of the human voice as instrument to new and shimmering places.

Eitzel and Butler work so well together one hopes that this collaboration doesn’t end with the remarkable Hey Mr [sic] Ferryman.

What you get here, in 2017, is an accurate representation of their setlist at the time, seven lengthy numbers that include a pair of originals from the trio alongside extended, improv-tilting covers of Jimmy Webb, Bacharach & David, Herbie Hancock, and more.

Wholly enjoyable, but nothing revelatory.

Northern Passages shines as yet another jewel in their crowning achievements, setting hope against hope, that it’s follow-up won’t take as long to arrive next time.

Simply put, My Foolish Heart is the epitome of an acoustic jazz guitar record.

Future Standards feels a little too respectful, well-done but static and without much animating fire.

Mick Harvey deserves every accolade that will certainly be festooned upon this album for not only showing us Gainsbourg’s brilliance but his own as well.

They blast their way through what will be one of the best punk records you’ll hear this year, and their best album to date.

Musically, expressive and thematically sound, I’m Glad Trouble Don’t Last Always is as promising a pronouncement as its title suggests.

The songs vacillate between solid, classic McClinton and ho-hum and you can’t help but miss the more raucous, wilder Delbert.

Stinson doesn’t try to be profound--he simply knocks out one greasy gem after another with an ease and grace that only comes from a combo of talent and experience.

Regardless of the narrative you attribute to the running order of an album after listening to this record, I felt as if I had genuinely experienced something groundbreaking, elemental, and thoroughly thought-provoking.

Chapman’s songs range from bleak to wryly humorous, but they’re dark and lonely at the center, and it’s a pleasure to hear him in such good company, for once, and not alone.

Contrary to its title, Do Not Disturb might prove disturbing to those whose tastes don’t necessarily allow for introspection of intrigue, but for those that miss the adventure and ambition British prog rock once had to offer, it’s well worth the risk.

Whether the new album will get them anywhere close to the mainstream remains to be seen. Most likely it won’t, but that doesn’t mean we can’t root for them all the same.

Deep, brooding and magical, The Starless Room is simply one of the finest artistic statements of 2016.

NMA is the epitome of using focused musical imagination to properly exercise thoughtful narrative and controlled passion. Nearly 40 years on, New Model Army still burns as hotly as ever.

Unseen alludes to The Handsome Family’s darker realms, but the beauty it boasts is so unerringly mesmerizing, it begs repeated hearings simply to soak it all in.

It has, not surprisingly, an elegiac quality, a mournful, melancholy cast to its elliptical phrasing. Like the first iconic first lady, the music is polished and well reined in.

It’s neither time capsule nor curio, but rather a valid projection into the collector-archival ether that should hold up for future generations.

There’s rarely been an addition to Cohen’s canon that couldn’t be deemed essential, but in truth, none could be called more revelatory or revealing than this.

Clear Shot, the Brighton, UK band’s third LP, brims with catchy melodies and straightforward performances--only the richly layered production really betrays any overt psychedelic influence.

Patterns of Light is a unique collaboration that gives what seems like conventional psych/prog rock a depth no classic band would have ever imagined. You may think you’ve heard something like this before, but trust us--you really haven’t.

The combination of energies is so seamless that it’s hard to say where Oneida leaves off and Rhys Chatham begins, and yet, both artists seem to benefit from a push outside their regular territory.

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.

Signs of Light fulfils the aim the band’s handle appears to indicate. This is after all, music that connects with the head and the heart, and imparts a dual sense of resilience and delight in its wake.

Steven Wilson has remixed the entire original album for this “Elevated Edition,” so Tull trainspotters will no doubt thrill to the opportunity to debate, anew, the myriad sonic nuances, nooks, hooks, hobbit-holes and crannies afforded by contemporary studio technology compared to a decade and a half ago. In one sense, the Swedish show is the main draw here--it’s been bootlegged extensively, but never with sound quality this superior.

By not serving up familiar musical touchstones the band have risked plenty but the payoff is a work of art that is brimming with aural intensity and potent creativity, just begging for a listen.

Williamson’s voice is arresting, a haunted amalgam of Karen Dalton and Tanya Donnelly, but don’t it distract you from her very fine guitar work.

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.

Much of today’s music draws inspiration from more recent antecedents. Arguably Freedom Jazz Dance: The Bootleg Series, Vol. 5--even as a collection of material originally deemed unsuitable for release--is superior to much of what is new.

The same basic sound is here, but a bit dancier and more electronic groove. Not nearly as much of the straight pop or shoegazey stuff.

They hit their stride midway through on a trio of sweet ballads--“Rock in the River,” “Jackie Boy” and “All That’s Left”--and although the surrounding songs keep to the same tone and tempo, those three numbers give the album its emotional imprint.

You won’t be able to resist this delightful album’s charms, either. Don’t even try. Gabba gabba hey.

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.

Needing to prove nothing, Goat have created one of the most definitive musical statements of 2016.

Heads Up could easily pick things up right where the band left off, as it elaborates upon the Warpaint dreampop while bringing in purposeful elements of dance-pop and post-rock.

For a primer in what went right in the ‘70s prior to punk and hip-hop, you won’t find many LPs as successful at recapturing the diversity of those rich sonic playgrounds as Mangy Love.

Golden Sings both celebrates and transcends ordinary existence, finding revelation in small, perfect turns of song.

This set has definitely been lovingly culled together for fans seeking out a very specific side of Wobble.

It’s a tour de force performance that never revolves around technique--instead Chesley channels her rage, sorrow and acceptance into sometimes soothing, sometimes serrated devotions of pure, unadulterated feeling.

Beautiful stuff, strange and arresting.

The sonics, as you might imagine, vary from one track to the next, coming as they do from multiple sources. In general, though, they’re quite acceptable, so rating them squarely in the middle seems logical enough.

It’s not as bleak as it may sound, though--there is freedom and catharsis in the acceptance of those human traits, a key element in Eve.

Skeleton Tree is a testament to his art, his flaying honesty and his persistence in the wake of devastating loss.

They come back hard and a bit more focused on this terrific sophomore effort.

High Bias is the best Purling Hiss album yet, channeling a tidal wave of noise into songs that you can remember almost immediately and even hum to yourself later when the album’s out of ear shot.

Whether they’re tearing through a raucous house burner (“Buffalo Nickle”) or serenading in quieter moments (“St. Anne’s Parade,” “This Ride”), Shovels & Rope manage to deliver a nearly flawless record. Yet again.

All the Bon Iver albums sound like little self-contained islands, and this is the one that sounds the most like a fire ravaging through the greenery and growth of the previous two. Sit back and let the flames burn bright and beautiful.

Away has some fine moments, but is an LP completists will get the most mileage out of, perhaps as that curio figure in an artist’s evolution to somewhere else.

He’s cut a broad range of material to date, everything from Delta blues to free jazz to blazing psychedelia. All that and more surfaces at various points on Eyes On the Lines, ultimately making the album a culmination and a celebration.

If you like drawling guitars and the springy thud of basslines, if you prefer sunny melodies dredged in fog and dissonance, Cool Ghouls is as good a bet as any.

Examining the duality of our motivations and emotions elevates Parquet Courts above most of their peers. Not only do they avoid the Vinyl-style embalming of their source material, but the songs transcend the romanticized hipster baggage that the city--and Brooklyn in particular--currently carries with it.

The result is a musical summit in which all assembled sound like they’re having a whale of a good time. Indie rock was never so joyous.

Ultimately, True Sadness is a confessional set of songs, revealing in many ways and vulnerable in many others. However, honesty has always been an inherent element in their sound, so in that sense this album’s no different.

His writing has the kind of laconic detail and precision of a Paul Simon or Loudon Wainwright.

Twenty-five years in, how well these two sides of a sung coin fit together and complement each other remains remarkable.

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.

On Lovers, Cline is effective at making re-interpreted songbook selections his own.

A little mellower and a little more introspective, but just as impactful as he was two decades ago when he first started showing up on the radio, Collingwood is proof that growing up and growing older isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Nothing may not be particularly imaginative, but it’s so competent at its craft it’s hard to imagine any fan of the style complaining.

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.

They’re as vital, fresh and relevant as they’ve ever been in 31 years.

Like its MCA spiritual predecessors, Modern Country shows what a great musician can do when he decides his skill is the least important part of the package.

Consolidation more than innovation, The Glowing Man still presents the current incarnation of Swans in its best light, as if this is the record the band has been working toward these past seven years.

Carolina is a gorgeous record, enticing and attractive, giving you its heart to hold and trusting you to treasure the experience.

Being a summer release, the sun really shines down on tunes like “Good Times,” with it’s go-go beat, “She Makes Me Laugh,” “Our Own World,” “Gotta Give It Time,’ and come on get happy with “You Bring the Summer.”

With The Westerner, Doe’s reached another milestone, a rugged, reliable individual who reflects the sturdy independence that characterizes the west at its best.

The production values are practically negligible due to the archival effect. Still, Stoneking’s intents are obviously pure and prone to imperfection. A curious listen, Gon’ Booglaloo goes all out.

There is not a single track on this record that doesn’t belong, each nearly flawless in their own way.

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.

It’s hard to imagine the circumstance that led Low Anthem to assemble this effort. Was it psychedelic substances or a fascination for Faust? Whatever the case, Eyeland marks a trippy transformation.

Raw in places, expansive in others, and rife with Williams’ patented street-corner-talking, pimp-swagger style, I Wanna Go Back to Detroit City is as good a postcard for the Motor City as you’ll likely find all year.

Smith matches oddball narratives with clever, catchy tunes; he’s a really good songwriter. If he were a little happier or a little less prone to baroque eccentricity, he’s probably have a bigger following--but he wouldn’t be Sonny Smith, and that would be a shame.

The songs on Blanco first appeared on Bazan’s monthly 7” series, so it seems clear that using synthesizers was one way of differentiating them from their original versions. (He must like doing this, since his last album was a collaboration with the Passenger String Quartet.) But he seems to be onto something interesting with this electronicized approach.

Steve Earle and Shawn Colvin sound remarkable together, sharing vocals and guitars on all 10 tracks.

If you’ve heard their main/prior bands then the sound of this won’t surprise you, but it’ll still feel like an old friend that you always pick up right where you left off.

Follow Me Home sounds like 1966, but like it’s happening all over again, organically and without premeditation, and it rocks.

These songs are striking in a musical sense. Young, never the most dynamic vocalist, is remarkably expressive here.

Lyrics are hard to fathom, and, apparently, mostly improvised, but snatches of words suggest the same general mindset as the music.

True to its title, Solid States is, again, a solid workman-like affair, flush with resolute integrity, catchy choruses and songs that sound tailor made for instant gratification.