He came out the other side with a hard-won wisdom, emotion and sense of craft that, like soul music, never goes out of style.

The album is a good beginning for Will Toledo and crew one on which they’ll hopefully build upon. Some of the tracks though seem too reek of an “indier” than thou attitude that’s best left at the door.

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.

In the end, Pure Comedy isn’t anything close to the laugh fest the title implies, but it does provoke a deeper reaction regardless.

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.

While some tracks prove unradical, it is when Astronautalis fuses heavy bluesy-rock influences with his beats that Science truly shines.

The well crafted moments within Our Love outshines the weaker numbers and makes the album a fun and danceable listen.

The problem is the album starts to wear thin about halfway in and never really gets back the strength of those first few songs.

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.

Seven songs long, it offers the impression of one continuous tirade, despite the moments of sublime tenderness that illuminate tender courting tunes like “Heaven Is Here” and “The Enemy,” each of which bring to mind such heartfelt Harper ballads as “Commune” and “Another Day.”

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.

Hoop’s experimental tack often requires repeated listens, but it’s creativity and not mere quirkiness that ultimately leaves alingering afterglow.

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.

Skying proves a maturing for the band and unveils a new realm of sonic possibilities.

Ultimately, Wine Dark Sea is all about the mystique, making it nothing less than a fascinating ethereal excursion.

Big Star was more than the sum of its parts, and as evidenced here, Chilton was only just beginning to mine his.

Mountains composes the soundtrack to dreams you didn't know you had.

Stokes lacks Barnett’s songwriting diversity, worldliness and clever wordplay; too many of the songs on Future Me Hates Me are interchangeable, built on quiet, jangly verses and fuzz-button sing-along choruses that lament the usual litany of “I” and “me” woes.

Woodland Echoes, his latest solo album, is cohesive and strong and despite being a little more mellow than some of his earlier offerings, would fits nicely alongside his work from the ‘80s and ‘90s.

Opening the door of your mind’s eye to the psychedelic sludge and acid punk hooks of Slave Vows will gain you a lot of decadent pleasure, little insight and even less mercy.

Whitmore may not have the same potential to fill the nation's arenas, but his rugged determination finds him undeterred regardless.

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

Eric’s new album Construction Time & Demolition is all the title implies, an erratic set of songs that’s decidedly left of center but boasting the ebullience and energy that’s so critical to his motif.

Immunity pounds and pulses with pneumatic energy, its rhythmic tracks (“Collider” but also “Open Eye Signal”) gleaming with machine-precise hedonism.

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.

Time Off takes its time getting where it’s going, but deftly reaches its destination.

There are certainly times when a bit more instrumentation (a cello, some percolating percussion, a lyrical guitar solo) would have enhanced the presentation.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Jurado still seems fully intent on liberating his music while evading expectation.

Though there are still plenty of the Fleet Foxes-meets-Beach Boys elements to much of this new record, it also finds the band branching out with new sounds.

Though only nine songs long, Saturn’s Pattern is as close to heavenly as Weller’s ever been.

Lyrically, the album is pretty mediocre, but the band has always seen their playing overshadow the words; Black Beehive is no different.

He's a vibrant and, indeed, impassioned performer and Bad Ingredients is filled with enough passion and conviction to spark an entire orchestra. And a rousing ensemble at that.

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

These nine songs are dusty and determined, stoic ruminations on hard luck and happenstance.

While there are some great intimate moments (especially the beautiful “Wayward”), ultimately that lack of a more consistent balance between upbeat and slow tempo drags the album down a bit.

More studio sympathy and less technical trickery might've made The Bravest Man in the Universe a minor classic.

The album opens, confusingly, with an electro-funk groove that becomes a trippy, multi-vocal chorale. Most of what follows is sprightly power-pop with psychedelic touches, dreamy asides and occasional dance-club thumps.

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

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.

It’s all quite pleasant, nicely played and sung and recorded, but perhaps a little distant. These tunes flow by like sunny afternoons and when they’re done you can’t remember much.

In the best cuts, the dance elements win out over doom-y post-apocalyptics. “AS A.W.O.L.” layers metallic-ringing keyboard notes (like a music box made of tin) over a sinuous, vaguely ominous beat.

The instrumental nuances make for a vibrant whole, but often times, less works best.

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.

With songs as downcast and despondent as “False From True,” “Worthy” and the title track, the steady ache doesn’t abide all that quickly. That said, Trouble & Love does find some cause to break the stranglehold of sadness and despair.

He sounds like an old master these days, crafting material that would sound equally affecting if they came from the pen of Guy Clark, Jimmie Dale Gilmore, Steve Earle, Alejandro Escovedo or any of several weathered and revered troubadours who blazed the path before him.

No matter how synthetic and mechanical things get, the stain of cosmic psychedelia never completely fades.

With heart on his sleeve, Wagner opts for sobriety, but when those strings swell, the effect can be intoxicating.

While the tunefulness of these tracks may not be so obvious--and in many cases, almost entirely elusive--she entices her listeners to peel back the layers and discover the shimmering glow that emanates from within.

For all its shattered circumstance, Carry the Ghost makes the most of its heavy baggage.

It’s merely average, one likely to fade into memory once the buzz dies down and the fire goes out.

Sometimes Django Django's ingredients cohere into an actual song, but a lot of the Scottish quartet's self-titled debut album is frustratingly sketchy.

A musician capable of creating lush if sometimes unlikely arrangements, he uses his particular prowess as a means of fashioning spectacular soundscapes.

Heaven isn't 100% bliss, but the Walkmen have taken themselves and their fans one step closer.

Growing up in the Nottingham projects may have given Bugg enough life experience to get away with penning “Seen It All,” but it’s his sonic aesthetic that give his tales truth.

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

With Sleeper Segall sounds almost, well, mature, and emotionally invested.

All in all, it makes for a rich and resilient brew, and maybe, just maybe, the kind of opus that will propel Jurado towards the greater accolades he so clearly deserves.

While some songs are utterly slow paced, they are obscured by the strength of the aforementioned tracks as well as “The Fall” and “Last Dance.”

Sermon on the Rocks should speak to anyone with an ear for melody and an appreciation for a commanding, compelling delivery. Whether or not this broadens Ritter’s reach remains to be seen, but even if it falls short, be assured that it’s still excellent regardless.

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

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.

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

Elvis at Stax, discreetly packaged, replete with complete credits for musicians, singers, and studio personnel, and excellent (if fawning) Robert Gordon liner notes, is a nice corrective.

The World’s Best American Band is all about cutting loose and having a blast via the method of catchy guitar-based rock & roll tunes--simple, direct and oh so very effective.

Though the band seems to have packed all of its musical interests and abilities into the album’s 11 songs, this is a most likely only a sampling of their capabilities and of the colorful ideas yet to spring from the mind of Jocie Adams.

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.

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.

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

Repetition and simplicity balance the sadly beautiful sounds on Wabi-Sabi; an eccentric album that will find its home with those who seek something creatively different in their music on a mellow, rainy day.

If, after four decades, Terms of My Surrender appears to take a change of tune, in Hiatt’s hands it’s a winning formula regardless.

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

Bid and his crew are real pros, totally confident.

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 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.

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

Local Business represents a new chapter in the band's saga, but it's one you're better off skimming.

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.

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.

The results come off like the soundtrack to an imaginary video game, one where environmental exploration is more important than staying on task.

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

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.

Sadly the momentum's not maintained once DeCicca and company quickly slip back into their plaintive posturing.

Modestly presented but appropriately self-confident in its dedication to craft, Hendra is a low-key but sturdy delight.

Overall, the EP--which would earn a higher grade if there were simply more of it--captures a contemplative Wareham midway between Luna’s driving pulse and the darker fare on Dean & Britta’s 13 Most Beautiful: Songs for Andy Warhol’s Screen Tests.

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

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

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

There are a couple of stumbles here, like on the somber “Easy Love,” but for the most part, Late Riser is crammed with stunning songs strong enough to make you forget what else is going on in the world--at least for 30 minutes or so.

Maandig remains the primary vocalist; yet she is MIA on many of the vast orchestrations that feel like Tattoo leftovers.

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.

The record, produced by John Congleton (St. Vincent, Swans), was pulled together after a year spent on the road, and it shows.

Fossils remains uniformly subdued throughout. Yet, it’s hardly as dry as the album title might imply.

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.

Written while staying in the New Jersey house in which he grew up, the record isn’t so much nostalgic as wistful, as if Jones was surveying the streets he used to walk with good memories but no desire to relive the past.