The variations will be more palpable to longtime fans--a bit more chunky, melodic rock, a little less alt-country--than to anyone just discovering this rousing band.

From the languid, early Bowie dreaminess of “Empire Ants’’ to the chilled-out fuzz-funk of “Stylo,’’ featuring a startling eruptive vocal from the legendary Bobby Womack, Plastic Beach captivates.

Like everything else the band has done since it graduated at the top of New York City’s millennial post-punk class, the songs are sometimes off-putting material, requiring patience.

In stretching the '60s-mining acoustic pop of the Shins over a cracked foundation of sonic-world-building, sometimes one plus one equals three. It's just weird enough to work.

Some tunes were “inexplicably excised from the original multitrack master,’’ the liner notes say, but the bottom line is that this is a potent release full of Jimi’s improvisatory guitar mania.

Acoustic ballads, space-rock forays, and splashes of glam bubble up before it’s all over, while a pervasive darkness holds the album together. Happily, it seems BRMC’s odyssey continues.

Ludacris, the ever-underrated Atlanta MC, offers another good-humored album, this one aimed at the vexing relationships between men and women.

This project may be too esoteric for some, but it’s a vital reminder of a history long forgotten.

It’s the type of near-perfect, swooning synth-pop rush that Oakey was riding with the Human League in the ’80s.

His voice, still a dynamic instrument that can leap from meek to menacing, is very much out front, prowling over spare, sometimes lugubrious reworkings. At the album’s best, the results are head-spinning....At its worst, a few songs feel plodding and insular.

The songs are strong, and the music is an engaging mix of smooth, midtempo honky-tonk dolloped with swing and pop.

Deliriously drunk in its own eccentricities, “Dear God’’ is unlikely to win over new fans, and Stewart’s unhinged vocal acrobatics can get grating without former band member Caralee McElroy backing him up.

Much like a riveting movie keeps you in your seat, you’ll want to pay close attention to Joanna Newsom’s astonishing new album for fear of missing too much of the plot.

This collection of 10 instrumentals, recorded live with no overdubs along with a trusted crew of accompanists, captures the late Rose’s limber, relaxed guitar style, and the charm of his low-key songs.

On “Minor Love,’’ Green’s sixth solo record, he proves adept as ever traversing through the American popular songbook and filtering his findings through a hazy stoner’s smog of absurdity.

An unfamiliar listener coming in cold to Yeasayer’s second full-length album probably wouldn’t make it too much further than the opener, “The Children.’’ It’s a choppy, dirge-like downer, the soundtrack to a spooky submarine’s descent into the abyss in cinematic slow motion. But it would be a tragic mistake to abandon ship on this avant-pop Brooklyn trio just before the fun starts.

There is a new energy and focus acting as the perfect foil to Hot Chip’s lyrics, which have always been remarkably clever, particularly in the emotionally stunted realm of dance music.

The album is very much a producer’s piece, all layers, overdubs, and effects. Yet the swirling miasma of sound wholly suits Scott-Heron’s mood, which is angry yet humble, and even more his voice, which is rich and intent as ever.

The result is a record that alternates between fuzzy and crisp; those who like to get lost in their headphones should approve.

Like its predecessors, it mimics the rhythms of a new relationship - it’s up one minute and down the next, loving in places and wounded in others - and it’s a rich and rewarding album, but only after multiple listens.

Covering the likes of Joni Mitchell, Patti Smith, and Nina Simone on last year’s “Mockingbird’’ seems to have rubbed off on her. “Crows’’ is a striking album.

This is a very solid set that places its emphasis on the vocalist’s smooth, rich tone and effortless phrasing.

Or, more contemporaneously, you could say fans of fellow retro beard-rockers Fleet Foxes will find much to appreciate here. Radiohead fans, likewise, will relish “Bring Down,’’ a virtual rewrite of “Exit Music.’’ Everyone else will simply think it’s pretty.

What’s surprising is that when he’s cut loose from the chaff of his brothers, the result is an album that’s all chaff.

This is industrial-strength Beach House with its hallmarks intact, just bigger and better. With co-producer Chris Coady, Legrand and Scally lift some of the haze that has often enveloped their music...now the band has given us this year’s first classic album.

This week the prolific tunesmith’s flagship group, the Magnetic Fields, delivers Realism, the folk-inspired companion piece to 2008’s “Distortion,’’ a fuzzed-out homage to the Jesus and Mary Chain.

The eleven songs on The Sea are richer, much less accessible, and marked by a sense of loss and introspection. Bailey Rae moves closer to capturing the vividness of her live shows as she allows her bluesier and rock sides to emerge with hints of jazz in her vocal phrasings.

The band is playing on the safe side on its less vibrant and surprising sophomore release.