Untethered Moon may lack the shiny object-appeal of the band’s debut, or the epic brilliance of their major label debut, Perfect From Now On. But it showcases Martsch’s strengths and suggests an artist who, despite his qualms about universes micro and macro, has reached a comforting détente with who he is.

This is one of the most beautiful albums you’ll hear this year or any other, speaking softly but resonating deeply and long after the last sounds fade away.

On record, Teen Men come across as your average, edgy modern pop combo, all shimmery, engaging songs with few constraints and even fewer darker designs.

Miller has turned in one of his most satisfying solo efforts to date.

Non-converts won’t miss anything, but psych rock fans will eat this up and belch happily.

With Pan the band has created an album that places them squarely amongst the pantheon of musicians they so obviously adore.

These fourteen songs bob and weave, rise and fall and generally make a first class racket in the best way possible.

Who is the Sender? is a beautiful piece of work from a veteran talent that world has finally woken up to experience.

Doldrums have given voice to the psychology of the outsider, fashioning a work of art whose queasy, warped nature is just too hard to shake.

Having not lost a single step, Failure is as potent a force now as it was when its style of music was king.

Why Make Sense revels in ‘80s dance, R&B, hip hop and pop throughout straddles between sheer musical delight and melancholy as the upbeat music balances earnest lyrics.

The musicianship is so uniformly good that you forget about it and allow yourself to be swept onward by the songs.

Non-Believers slips masterfully between vantage points and emotions.

It’s an impressive show of strength and act of endurance not just in its multi-part structure but also in Gelb’s long term commitment to his craft and his determination to make something endearing out of the downcast canvas that he’s made his own.

Whenever they appear close to becoming unhinged, that rowdy, reckless approach is even further affirmed.

N.E.W. feels more like a victory lap than a new beginning. Nothing inherently wrong with that, and every track is here is at least solid, but it’s best to put expectations of revelation out of your mind before hitting the “play” button.

Look Closer sits in a similar wheelhouse as most Daptone projects, working a familiar vein of late ’60s/early ’70s soul.

Jamie XX has rearticulated dance music once again. This is an album that surfs from one emotional peak to the next. It’s an album I was actually sad to have end.

Bid and his crew are real pros, totally confident.

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

Both rocking and reflective, Small Town Dreams is chock full of the kind of ready for prime time anthems that effectively assert both his acumen and authority.

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.

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.

These days lots of different bands/songs are called noise pop, but these folks are doing it right.

The real problem is that there’s little, if anything, to distinguish any particular track from the one that precedes it, omitting anything of hummable worth for vague, languid repose.

This is a well-crafted album that manages to reach some rare sonic ground save for a few missteps. The band works best when it is allowed to let the songs build and layer over one another.

Closing entries, “Oh Dolores” and “The Walls Have Drunken Ears,” provide the album with its most emphatic impressions, leaving no bridge untethered.

The operative term, then, is explosion, and the JSBX effectively conjure the jittery, edgy, colorful vibe of the city they live in.

While not much new ground is broken on A Forest of Arms, and it fails to surpass 2012’s excellent New Wild Everywhere, something can be said for the additional polish the music gets from heavy string embellishment and rather refined production values.

There is nothing particularly revolutionary about the new record, rather it is a band finding confidence in a sound that’s new to them.

Votolato’s new album, inexplicably titled Hospital Handshakes, offers yet another example of his considerable skills, a collection of songs that fires up an urgency that extends from first song to last.

If this album doesn’t bowl you over, it doesn’t disappoint either and rest assured that their next record will be something different that you didn’t expect either.

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.

Shadow of the Sun sounds like Moon Duo is still working its way out of a corner, trying to find a way to expand its limited-palette sound without leaving it behind entirely.

The contrast between the style and the subject matter is so arresting that you kind of wonder what will happen on the next record when Nelson is, perhaps, not mad anymore.

Policy is actually all over the musical map.

Clearly, Boz is back, and at age 70, he’s never sounded so assured.

The real nuances come out when this music is heard closely on headphones, but even when they blare out of speakers, there is something alluring to grab the ear and pull you in.

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.

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’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.

They ply the same general furrow as American contemporaries like Wooden Shjips, though with a tighter, more consciously limited focus.

Despite the unlikely set-up, there’s a classic archetypical feel to the set as a whole.

You almost can’t grudge Bishop for his globe-hopping, 9-5 shirking, guitar-buying existence when it produces music as wonderful as this.

Working with a cast of Chicago jazz, improv and experimental luminaries and newcomers, Walker casts a most enchanting spell on Primrose Green, and while it may reflect his influences more than spell out his vision, the love he bears for those influences comes through in every plucked and sung note.

As evidenced by the rabid tones of Radium Death, his eighth album and perhaps his most demonstrative, Whitmore is both resolute and resilient.

Some long-time fans may object to Lightning Bolts new legibility, missing the communal chaos and staticky buzz that made listening to previous outings like opening a box of bees. But the maelstrom still looms, the intensity remains, it’s just a bigger, more focused sound.

Carlile has that unique ability to convey sentiments that can be both celebratory and circumspect, and on tracks like “Wherever Is You Heart,” “The Things I Regret” and “Blood Muscle Skin & Bone,” her declarations of devotion are sung with both assertion and affirmation.

Individ challenges its listeners to discover the elusive melodies that reside below the surface, even though the clattering arrangements and oddly oblique atmospherics might prove to be a distraction.

Their self-titled debut was a good record, the follow up is a great one.

A vigorous, emphatic outing that offers little let up in terms of its energy and intensity.

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

There’s a lot here, all of it sounding exquisite.

Though there are portions of We Are Undone which could definitely be considered unhinged, nothing here suggests they’re even close to being undone at this stage.

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.

Citizen Zombie resurrects a band that’s still evolving, rather than a nostalgia act, and is all the better for it.

Staunch and undeterred to the brink of defiance, Complicated Game finds McMurtry’s rugged resilience again setting the tone.

While not nearly as great as seeing the band live, this record does a commendable job of capturing the band at their energetic, playful best.

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

Terraplane, though, is the sound of a man utterly rejuvenated.

Hexadic is a dramatic shift for Six Organs of Admittance, lurching into noise and abstraction with hardly a nod to guitar folk or psychedelic rock.

What he has done here is more than a lark. He really loves what he’s singing, and it shows. And he has a lot still to teach us about the joys of music.

Giddens emulates her forebears with reverence and assurance.

Modern Streets brings the eerie emotional heft of psychedelic soul into the age of the personal electronic device, working on a small scale towards mind-expanding ends. Nicely done.

It’s hypnotic in and of itself, and all impressions are purely in the ears/mind of the listener.

Being almost (there’s that qualifier again) conventional, Take It Like a Man may not hit the same highs for fans as White’s more seminal work, but it’s a solid set of songs given engaging performances.

Downcast, tasteful and frequently quite beautiful, Depersonalization borrows from sonics generated three decades ago, but with a lack of self-consciousness that makes it all sound fresh and new.

Berkeley To Bakersfield is the perfect shotgun rider for any road trip. With the breadth of its variety no other music passengers need be invited along for the ride.

This record isn’t just Worthy--it’s essential.

The songwriting doesn’t quite match the ambitions here, and that gives the LP a transitory feel--that, too, may be fitting, given Huebert’s long season.

Gone are the raucous “Whiskey River”-style jams, but in its place are an albums worth of lazy afternoon porch songs that you can’t help but love.

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

An exceptionally strong debut record, Soul Power will make you believe in the title concept.

While there is nothing particular off about this quiet, solid collection--consisting of little more than Hitchcock’s voice over quite acoustic guitars and the occasional piano and cello--it’s still a pretty muted, low-energy affair that is not immediately memorable.

Half a century later, Look Again to the Wind serves as a stirring homage to an album that remains as daring and defiant now as it was when it was first offered to an indifferent populace.

There’s a Bluebird in My Heart is the sound of a great artist coming back home.

At 29, Winslow-King clearly has a bright future ahead of him, but Everlasting Arms shows he’s come a long way already.

The album is a holiday classic in waiting, even if you don’t own a single pair of skinny jeans and couldn’t grow a beard to save your life.

Mark Kozelek Sings Christmas Carols is a remarkably faithful, utterly transcendent take on what I will humbly submit is the beatific, unadorned side of Christmas music.... This is the holiday release of the year.

With IX, Trail of Dead consolidates its stance as one of the ‘aughties’ most consistently interesting prog bands.

Taken as a whole, Kykeon seems more cohesive, less add-x-to-y, than the self-titled debut.

It’s quite a gift to fans, too. Live in Memphis—which has a corresponding DVD available separately--finds Chilton, particularly, in good voice, his obvious playfulness all the more engaging given that he’s performing before a hometown crowd.

In sum, The Best Day is the Sonic Youth album that Sonic Youth fans feared would never happen in the wake of the band’s split in 2011.

This third full-length, after a slew of singles, fills out his sound, soothing abrasive beats with a floating fog of sustained notes.

Too much space and too little aggro makes for a dull Faust, alas, and by the end of the album attention spans may well drift toward grocery lists or navel lint.

Museum of Love is a nonformulaic, hard to pin down, quirky and danceable album.

That’s maybe what’s so remarkable about Faith in Strangers, its uneasy balance between beauty and menace, calm and roiling intensity.

The Fact Facer is a nuanced, multi-leveled listen that stands with the best things Amos--and anyone covering similarly adventurous terrain--has done.

Listeners are best advised to head directly to disc two and regard the set with strings as a curiosity and an example of eccentric experimentation best left on the shelf.

While there aren’t any revelatory moments of creative growth here, the best songs on Still Life suggest Morby still had plenty left in the NYC tank.

He just hides his eccentricities a little better this time. You have to look for them, but they’re there.

Costello, James, Mumford, Goldsmith and Giddens put their disparate origins aside and pull together as a team. They clearly own these songs, and ply them accordingly. Both credence and comradery play crucial roles here, elevating this effort to that of an essential acquisition.

Prophet can be, by turns, both snarky and sardonic, qualities the aforementioned forebears know all too well. Happily though, he himself is no slacker, especially when it comes to both sentiment and sarcasm.

As a tribute, Dead Man’s Town: A Tribute to Born in the USA is fine enough; just falling short of the material it champions.

The first sketches of songs that would later buttress both Dylan and the Band’s songbook--“Tears of Rage,” “Nothing Was Delivered,” “I Shall Be Released,” You Ain’t Goin’ Nowhere,” Don’t Ya Tell Henry,” “Quinn the Eskimo,” “Million Dollar Bash,” “Lo and Behold!” and the like--offer a treasure trove of revelation, making the anticipation for acquisition well worth the wait.

If anything, Atlas sounds like a fully formed album from another era, complete with woozy harmonies, an assured shimmer and a constant jangle.

On the album’s second half, Foster and her producer/bassist Meshell Ndegeocello steer more towards a softer sound (“Learning To Fly,” “New”) that glosses over some of Foster’s grit. Still highlights are easy to find.

It’s been an odd and unpredictable mix at times, but Mould’s always made a point of indulging his interest with passion and integrity.