They wend through minimalist pinwheeling (“The sun roars into view”) and pared-down funk (“The rest of us”) to reach the title track’s Renaissance-motet epiphany, their odyssey made relatable through the grit, breath, and song that permeate their enchanting chronicle.

For longtime fans of Blur’s alluring blend of pop smarts, rock edge, and electronic flourishes, The Magic Whip is close to a slam dunk, as the quartet conjures the vibe of its ’90s glory days without veering into rehash territory, making it a good ambassador for potential new listeners as well.

This roots-rap hybrid might appall rap purists, but it’s a striking improvement over 2011’s messy, compromised “Radioactive.”

The echoes among unhinged riffs on “Good Neck,” “Raising the Skate” and “My Dead Girl” speak to the unity of Speedy Ortiz’s vision, as well as its limitations; the spikiness that gives the music its appeal also turns it abrasive over the long haul.

Kindred is also the group’s most unsinkable album, barreling through the speakers with muscular, glossy synths and the jittery tension between Angelakos’s tangy falsetto and what he’s actually saying.

Sound & Color makes clear this success was not a fluke. This is the sound of a band that’s in it for the long haul, amplifying what worked the first time, and stretching in new directions to challenge both the performers and their listeners.

Young, sexy, and chic, Dark Red is an album that undeniably is made for this moment, blurring the lines among past, present, and future in a way that could appeal to both EDM neophytes and history-obsessed nerds.

Edge of the Sun, the band’s new album on Anti-, is no less adventurous, but it feels curated in a way that sets it apart from previous releases.

Less overtly than elsewhere, perhaps, Second Hand Heart still demonstrates Yoakam’s peerless ability, album after album, to graft new shoots onto classic forms.

He sometimes sounds like the poet who spent too much time scribbling verses at the end of the bar (“the sleep motes gathered in the dust bowls of her eye”), but when he channels his inner Beat (the grand “Long Strange Golden Road”), he finds transcendence.

You’ll find oblique references [to the departure of producer Chris Walla and frontman Ben Gibbard’s divorce from actress Zooey Deschanel], but it’s just as easy to find yourself in these 11 tracks.

As it stands, Stevens’s words drive these songs, and not always in the most linear fashion. Lyrics that meander in unruly metric on the page are parsed into eloquent couplets that, somehow, sound conversational.

Where “good kid” was a perceptive look at Lamar’s adolescence in a small part of Los Angeles, Butterfly is a weary assessment of his adulthood, and a world that’s bigger, more complex, and more flawed that he knew. If the albums share anything, it’s that they’re both cinematic. But the movie Lamar is shooting now puts the current era into a more fitting frame.

She seldom raises her voice in anger or frustration, but imbues her words with emotional heft.

Lightning Bolt’s subversive sense of songcraft flourishes in these new recording environs, creating their most accessible record yet from tones and concepts as challenging as any in their catalog.

An existential crisis has never sounded like so much fun as it does in Barnett’s songs.

On an album as free of frill as it is of gimmicks, Earl Sweatshirt lets his music stand on its own merits.

For all of the gussy rhythms--which can stop just this side of overly cute--and legit power, there’s real subtlety at work, too, and in unlikely spots.

The strongest tracks are the greasy acoustic boogie of “Checkin’ Out” and the emotional hangover of “You and the Beach,” which finds a breakup lingering like a bad sunburn.

He does what he does best, delivering finely wrought, elegantly arranged songs of subtle depth and rich musicality, many extending past five minutes without overstaying their welcome.

[A] reverent tribute to the late Elliott Smith.

Wasted on the Dream is tight and snarling, an amalgamation of punk brevity, metal riffs, and garage attitude, tailor-made for blaring from parked cars idling while their passengers figure out how to maximize the night’s fast, cheap, and out of control quotients.

It is a strong, welcome detour in the artist’s recent discography. Or just call it a return to form since the album is her most satisfying effort in a decade and nimbly connects the dots between Madonna’s various eras and guises.

Admittedly, Hawthorne’s range is limited and the lyrics flyweight even by pop standards, but the package is so polished and so much fun that listeners will be too busy dancing to notice--Snoop Dogg included

Clarkson can, of course, sell all of this and sounds great doing it. But the cumulative effect of all that bigness can be wearing by album’s end.

Gallagher doesn’t distinguish himself with his cliche-prone lyrics, but as he just told one interviewer, “The words? Who cares about the words?” Well, some of us do, but the melody-rich music here compensates nicely.

With her lovely, expressive voice, she finds the truths at the core of each song, making this one of the early year’s breakthroughs.

A hypnotic collision of cultures and influences, of tradition and innovation.

The album comes across as an adrenaline-filled milestone, filled with whimsical and personal transactions between the past and present.

First Kiss picks up where 2012’s “Rebel Soul” left off, with Rock continuing to mix classic rock, country, pop, and, to a far lesser extent, hip-hop to craft odes to parties and the good old days, as well as to parties in the good old days.

Guitars and Microphones is right in line with Pierson’s penchant for spiky dance pop, but it’s also a more revealing look at the atomically redheaded siren.

At a time when guitars serve more often as props than as centerpieces, this album is a wondrous reminder that the simplest palette can be used to paint the most profound results.

A sudden 69 minutes of Drake binging on hypnotic soundscapes, spitting out gleefully hung-over flows.

Evocations of everyone from Coldplay to Peter Gabriel to Queen remain intact, with that first band’s specter looming largest over the moody, dirge-y, electro-tweaked proceedings. The album hits its most interesting and feverish spike with the furtive yelps and rhythms of “Friction.”

Ultimately, Estelle's fine pop instincts (Time After Time) buoy True Romance through some choppy waters.

His music takes the spare depth of Lorde and Tove Lo as a starting point, adding a sharp precision that--along with a floating tenor alternating between a less-sappy Sam Smith and a steelier Jeff Buckley--fuels the tense urgency of “Riot,” and sells even insubstantial material like “Love You Crazy.”

This is Americana in its purest form, where gospel, folk, blues, soul, and Celtic melodies all make sense on the same album when interpreted by a dexterous vocalist and multi-instrumentalist of Giddens’s caliber.

Overall, a nice effort by these never-say-die Scots.

Like the pianist and composer’s other trio records, it makes for a satisfying, portable Iyer.

While the touchstones are evident--you can hear wisps of everyone from Vince Gill to Steve Earle to Lynyrd Skynyrd--Blackberry Smoke has assuredly carved out its own spot.

Produced by buddy Ryan Adams, and featuring guest shots from Bob Mould and Johnny Depp, Ghosts is a gorgeous, contemplative effort rooted in loss.

Far from an indulgent wallow in saccharine nostalgia--and disproving absurd accusations of a quick-buck dip into a fountain of easygoing oldies a la Rod Stewart--the album is lean and subtle

On its fifth record, the group creates a rich, fully realized work.

Worthy is another finely curated set of songs.

Musically, the band mixes its customary blast beat-driven grindcore maelstroms--the punishing one-two assault of “Smash a Single Digit” and “Metaphorically Screw You,” the layered, complex “Cesspits”--with industrial dolor (“Dear Slum Landlord”) and junk-bin clangor (the title track): caustic nods to influential circa-early ’80s noise-mongers like Public Image Ltd. and Swans.

Sometimes his influences, especially Nas (“On and On”), are transparent, but nothing here feels derivative. The production, filled with scratches, sonic invention, and live instrumentation by DJ Premier and Lawrence’s Statik Selektah, among others, often matches the MC’s audacity.

What a Terrible World, What a Beautiful World is one of the indie-rock band’s most enjoyable and lively efforts in recent memory.

Thrilling and joyous, fierce and focused, the women sound like they’re having the time of their lives sinking their teeth back into the music together.

Evermotion is an airy, winsome release that puts less focus on guitars, dabbling instead in horns and electronic and new wave sounds, to terrific, moody effect.

Uptown Special sounds like a true labor of love; it’s also a sinful amount of fun and unabashed in its pursuit of a good time.

Backed by his new band the Vanguard, to whom the album is jointly credited, his sprawling funk grooves and pointed (if characteristically indecipherable) lyrics are still strikingly timely.

It is not an instant classic, but it is the work that fans who admire Nicki Minaj the rapper, this critic included, have been waiting for her to make.

The story line is not for the squeamish, but the music often has an exhilarating power.

The 12 songs are untamed thrill rides that recall some of New York’s rock innovators, particularly Lou Reed and Television.

The 73 minutes of music on Cracker’s new double album would fit comfortably on a single disc, but Berkeley to Bakersfield is an intentional act of musical centrifuge that separates the band’s rock and country elements into separate containers.

Throughout, he continues to challenge us in ways that demand attention.

She & Him, the duo of Zooey Deschanel and M. Ward, cover a lot of ground here, rendering each song with warmth and radiance.

Despite some padding (an instrumental, unnecessary vocal cover) and ragged musical edges, the most prolific member of the Wu-Tang Clan continues to set the standard.

Richard’s “One Life at a Time” is roots-rock for the barroom, and Linda simply shimmers on the folk lament “Bonny Boys.” Kami’s buoyant “Careful” proves she’s the pop singer of the bunch. Zak gives “Root So Bitter” some pluck and pickup, while Jack’s “At the Feet of the Emperor” is a sumptuous instrumental. Teddy steals the show with the title track.

Too much of The London Sessions is given over to frisky house tracks like “Follow” and “Nobody But You,” which don’t hit nearly as hard as the rest, but Blige has maintained her fierce authority throughout.

Rock or Bust is a solid, if short, sharp shock.

These 14 songs are sun-kissed with playful psychedelia and a sense of stardust.

Some other songs miss the mark, including the clumsy “Concrete and Cherry Blossom” and the annoying “Kill or Cure,” but diehard fans will still find plenty to like.

With the help of producer Marc Shaiman (“Hairspray”), Midler is both reverent and mischievous on It’s the Girls.

The lyrical immediacy of the words serves her best when dealing with passion and hurt, but when she tries to excavate the mysteries of love, complexity eludes her.

A well-curated hits collection.

A sprawling four-CD set of demos, alternate takes, B-sides, live cuts, promo-only tracks, and other miscellany.

This is a euphoric trip to the apocalypse, whether in a dig at social media in “Virtually Real” or a look at daily craziness in “The Way.”

Avonmore is all lush layers and quiet urgency with songs of love won and lost, offering a mesmerizing combination of sophistication, melancholy, and danceability.

The 69-minute opus isn’t always accessible, but inviting, even sentimental, tracks (“Put Your Number in My Phone,” “Picture Me Gone”) balance out the more surreal, irony-laden larks (“Jell-O,” “Sexual Athletics”).

Four does not break or even bend any rules in pop music, and it certainly doesn’t aim to be cutting edge. Its mix of driving power pop, muscular harmonies, and acoustic alchemy is as manicured as the group’s previous bestsellers.

More than once on Allergic to Water, she finds the razor-thin overlap between seemingly incompatible ideas, and claims a position that’s not just clearly stated but tenable.

He makes his points quickly and it feels like a small but potent dose of reality.

While it would be inaccurate to apply the loaded designation maturing to this follow-up, the 12 songs here are more fully realized: the result of a band comfortable pushing against, while still embodying, the touchstones of its form.

Rice’s Fantasy, coproduced by Rick Rubin, is often dark and beautiful, featuring dramatic orchestrations, intricate arrangements, and hushed, swooning vocals.

If it is indeed her swan song, it’s a triumphant sendoff that reiterates what a singular figure she has been in rock music. It’s among her broadest work, spanning intimate ballads (“Love More or Less”), apocalyptic art songs (“Late Victorian Holocaust”), and harrowing blues (“True Lies”).

For an album that’s seemingly been in turnaround for so long, Broke sounds very much of the moment.

His second album is confident and hooky, spanning funk and reggae and psych.

The aptly named album is all killer, no filler.

She and co-producer Mike Stevens keep the production mostly clean and warm, though the song selection is sometimes curious.

The singer-songwriter co-produces with Rick Rubin accentuating immediacy and intimacy. The originals, especially a poppy, introspective “Cat & the Dog Trap” and trenchant “Gold Digger,” are among his finest since resurfacing in 2006.

At age 72, Franklin can still shut down the competition with a breathtaking, gospel-trained grace and power.

On his first album of new material in eight years, the Michigan rocker is in good form.

These radio-ready confections teem with smart hooks and fuller choruses.

Haunting, jarring, and oddly beautiful, Soused defies the idea of “easy listening,” but its singular vision and harnessing of the avant-garde makes it one of the year’s most compelling artistic statements.

While there’s a back-to-basics glee in the album’s geeky power-chord pop tracks, a largely instrumental three-song closing suite is neatly epic, triggering Pink Floyd chills.

Less glitchy and bass-led than FlyLo’s previous work, it enters him in the canon of mystics and psychedelic journeyers who’ve sought to crack the doors of perception.

24 Karat Gold is Stevie at her Nicks-iest: a gold dust woman, caught mid-twirl.

The hooks are restrained, yet Mellencamp never loses sight of melodies and his fine song sense. Unsettled and disconsolate, these songs fittingly reflect their time.

Williams adapted the song from a poem by her father, Miller Williams, and it gives Down Where the Spirit Meets the Bone its emotional compass if not its melodic direction. The rest of this double album, Williams’s first, settles into a deep groove that suggests the singer-songwriter was fired up and couldn’t--and shouldn’t--whittle her latest to a standard 10 songs.

The results are extremely life-affirming.

While the music might be chilled-out, an innate tension invites deeper listening.

This album debuted at No. 1 in her native Ireland, and it has the muscle to catch on here.

Sukierae explores a variety of sonic avenues, but on balance stays in a contemplative, acoustic place with melancholy waltzes, hazy finger-picked ballads, and dreamy remembrances carrying the day.

Their respective styles are occasionally at odds, but to amusing effect.

While there is nothing as giddily enjoyable as the left-field “Mexicoma” or as lovely as “Book of John,” the 13-track Sundown is a solid effort featuring a few stand-out tracks, slightly better than average radio fare, and some pleasant filler.

Aiko’s producers, including No I.D. and Dot Da Genius, create expansive, inventive tracks that mirror the allure of her lithe vocals and intimate phrasing.

“All That We Have Is Now” sets the tone for a casually stately blend of happy-go-lucky tracks that build to the Little Feat-ish “Never Forget to Boogie” and the mock-bravado of “Don’t Be Shy.”