Easily the band's most engrossing and dense album yet, Veckatimest subsumes the listener in dreamy washes of colliding instrumentation and symphonic crescendos.

Phosphorescent’s Muchacho is the kind of album that will take two listens to decide you hate it and then another three to realize how much you actually love it.

Even now, more than four decades after being recorded, it still catches your ear as one of the most wholly original sounds in pop music.

Revolution is the sound of Miranda Lambert coming into her own.

Tomorrow’s Harvest is as strong a return to form as it is stunning an update, with the Scottish duo refining their blend of nostalgic sonics and futuristic sheen.

What’s surprising isn’t that the band takes such leaps, but that it nails its landings so surely.

Welch and Rawlings weren't in a hurry to make this album, and you hear their patience in its unhurried grace. As usual, the beauty lies in the fluid interplay between the duo.

The results might qualify Live From Alabama as something more than a way station between Isbell's last studio record and his next one.

The National continues to impress as songwriters of specificity, too, telling tales that feel granular in detail, whether they're about romances dashed or paranoid minds blown.

Even better is “Round and Round,’’ with its jagged interludes and echoes of Arthur Russell. A metaphor for life as a merry-go-round, the song eventually comes into focus and ramps up into a wild roller-coaster ride. The same could be said of this exhilarating album.

The band does not so much make this record as keep it from flying apart. The intoxicating sound is matched with incisive word play, with the Felices using quirky laments and dark, urban poetry to bridge hillbilly and hipster.

Like a lot of current R&B, there is a sense of anonymity in some of the tracks. Any one of the above singers [James "Jimmy Jam" Harris, Terry Lewis, and Kenny "Babyface" Edmonds] could be subbed in to achieve the same result. But given his place as a forebear, DeBarge definitely deserves these redemption songs.

An album rooted in the low end of the emotional spectrum is a risk, but through fastidious instrumental detailing and lyrics that evince sympathy even when they’re at their most cutting, Mann crafts a melancholic atmosphere that is worth repeated listens, whether as a means for catharsis or as a well-crafted cloud to ease the punishing brightness of a too-sunny day.

If you’re looking for alternatives to mainstream country, Clark is still providing one with Big Day in a Small Town--you just have to keep listening beyond the first two tracks to find it.

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.

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.

Helm blends the secular and gospel worlds with an almost seamless precision. Fans of the Band will love this.

That feeling of perpetual potential is apparent in even the bleakest of Bush’s years-old songs, which are shot through with clear devotion to constant development of her craft.

A well-curated hits collection.

Despite comparisons to Bon Iver and Sufjan Stevens, Lee creates folky, orchestral, synth-pop soundscapes that are uniquely his own. Where similar music can sound overproduced, Mutual Benefit has an organic, intuitive quality, more like a hearth-side jam session with friends in a woodsy cabin.

Her new album builds on that idea [multi-hyphenate] in a thrilling way, taking the experimental ideals that she learned as a student of jazz into new directions--heady funk, tongue-twisting soul, sparsely arranged confessional --that consistently surprise.

A set of 12 songs overflowing with bile and sonic invention.

The songs that take their time developing are the ones that demonstrate Murphy’s talent for building simple beats and riffs into audio addictions.

Sleigh Bells tends to emphasize sonic construction over the songs themselves, but it usually works.

Trouble Will Find Me is the Brooklyn, N.Y., indie-rock band’s sixth and most deft album yet, a haunted and lugubrious meditation on loss and despair.

Through 13 glorious tracks spanning back-porch hootenanny sessions to countrypolitan elegance, Lynn proves that at 83 she’s a national treasure who still exudes the earthiness of her rural roots.

It's untamed, topsy-turvy, elliptical - and one of the most exciting albums I've heard all year.

Church had already set the bar high for himself with his watershed 2011 release, “Chief,” and more disparate 2014 album, “The Outsiders.” He vaults over that bar with “Mr. Misunderstood,” in some ways a love letter to music itself and to the ways it can save a soul, a heart, a sense of self.

The band is clearly comfortable with the medium that it occupies between aggressive and technical post-hardcore yet is beginning to tread new territory.

Simple and understated, Pinegrove grafts unassuming banjo and pedal-steel textures to classic slacker indie rock, making each moment as engaging as the next.

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

“Western Stars” finds Springsteen in character study mode with finely detailed storytelling about broken (sometimes literally) men on a quest to find meaning, renewal, or maybe just a bit of love. At their core and stripped of their orchestral flourishes and diverse musical dynamic, most of the songs here would not be out of place on his dark, acoustic efforts, “Nebraska,” “The Ghost of Tom Joad,” or “Devils and Dust.”

Parker's compositions are not played as he intended (speedily, with torrents of notes); Lovano upends them, infusing them with modern sensibilities

If there are no obvious radio-ready hits on par with “Adorn,” his massive hit from 2012’s “Kaleidoscope Dream,” there is something more potent in their place: a stone-cold classic not tethered to time, genre, or expectations.

From the terrific pulsing opener, "Don't Make Me a Target," to the curt horn and acoustic-guitar stomp of "The Underdog," these wonderfully produced and arranged songs brim with optimism and are pounded out purposefully.

Younge rarely puts a note wrong in his arrangements; his stripped-down approach echoes the Delfonics’ influence on artists like RZA and El Michels Affair without sounding derivative.

New elements like keyboards and lap steel guitar are deployed carefully, filling out the sound rather than leading it astray.

This is the unusual album that’s beautiful and ugly, tender but tough, and that much more rewarding because of it.

["Windows"] sort of upends the rest of Burn Your Fire, an otherwise intensely focused record that sounds like it was written and sung through clenched teeth.

Jamey Johnson's sterling tribute to the late, great country music tunesmith Hank Cochran will either provide solace or send you to Costco to buy Kleenex in bulk.

The Breeders have never sounded so determined to make a great record, and with All Nerve their efforts have paid off.

With nothing particularly unusual to recommend, non-fans will miss out on yet another in a long string of superb collections.

You can feel the giddy fun Parker was clearly having in the studio.

The wisdom she imparts across the songs that follow is profound in its simplicity, but it still needs to be heard: McKenna’s omniscient narrators are simultaneously understanding toward their subjects and interrogating toward themselves, a generosity of spirit that, when paired with Cobb’s thoughtful, subtle arrangements, is a quiet yet welcome tonic to the current landscape.

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

[Producer] Stuart Price coaxes the best out of the Boys here for some of their finest dancefloor work since 1993's limited edition "Relentless."

Now there’s an expansiveness in the music, borne out of a confidence that allows the songs to unfurl rather than rebound like pinballs.

Almost every song is a gem, the lyrics thoughtful and melodies memorable.

With eight songs that unfurl to 40 minutes, it’s impeccably crafted and plays off a mercurial tension between Callahan’s voice--a parched yet resonant baritone--and the lush arrangements that envelop it.

It’s a tour de force. The work’s relentless, odd-accented, propulsive rhythms are a perfect fit for this band.

That said, it's not an instant classic, but it is the best rap album since Kanye West dropped "Graduation" last year.

Fields showcases a burnished voice that quakes and quivers with the wisdom only age and experience can afford.

Freedom’s Goblin gives Segall room to play with a dizzying array of styles and genres, yet his excellent taste and melodic sensibility ensure that the whole wild endeavor stays firmly on the rails.

He enjoys modern arrangements and judicious cross-genre excursions that edge up on reggae and rock, and when he lets go, his guitar lines possess the playful muscularity of a tussle among rambunctious friends.

Anyone who rues the scarcity of smart, serious pop music for grown-ups should snap up the entire Sam Phillips catalog. On second thought, skip "Omnipop." But don't miss Phillips's splendid new effort, Don't Do Anything, a collection that dances in her signature mystery space between darkness and light with strange grace, emotional candor, and winsome hooks.

It's strong, supple stuff by a strong bunch of women.

Here she flirts with going full-bore on "Rise Again," but otherwise simply continues her ascendance as contemporary pop's most expressive and astonishing singer this side of Adele.

All told, the LP stands as a convincing counterargument against those who claim hip-hop’s ’90s golden era can’t come back again.

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

The knotty, gleaming structures often have hooky pop appeal (bassist Reid Anderson’s “Dirty Blonde,”), and the band can deliver an affecting ballad with brushes.

"My Love" are the first two words you hear on Erykah Badu’s beguiling new album, and they set the tone for the entire set. Unlike the politically charged mix of funk and hip-hop of New Amerykah Part One (Third World War), this chapter is a warmer, more sensuous blend of organic R&B and jazzy pop.

Patch the Sky might not be saying much, but Mould’s putting his all into saying it.

Aching, vulnerable, and unsparing in detail, her creations invite you to listen with your whole self and feel along.

The results are coolly sophisticated, an unfussy, mostly instrumental set of slink-and-slide joints shot through with a harmonic imagination that turns even a traditional hymn into an after-hours swing.

Taken as a whole, Real Animal shows a man content with the life he has lived, even as the rest of us hope that his final statement is still some ways off.

What unifies the album is the superb production, which marries indie-rock values to street-rap style.

The 11 tracks, all co-written by the Osbornes, expertly capture TJ’s beguiling baritone and John’s nimble fretwork, with fewer concessions to pop-country trends than might be expected from a major-label act.

His most recent albums, however, have been uniformly excellent, and that includes Tempest.

At 67, Streisand’s gorgeous tones and powers of interpretation are utterly intact, and also front-and-center thanks to producer Diana Krall’s class-conscious pairing of her own understated quartet with Johnny Mandel’s velvety orchestrations.

The album is brimming with fabulously skewed turns of phrase that make sense from different angles, as White's protagonists wrestle with what it means to be alternately besotted and gutted.

The number of guests (including Matthew Dear, Apparat, and Caribou’s Dan Snaith) and the songs’ lengths, depths, and varying textures make it easy to get spun.

The aptly named album is all killer, no filler.

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.

Here, it’s less about what Y.G. does than how he does it; digging deeper into vintage G-funk flavors with a blend of personal, party, and political tracks, the young Compton rapper takes a sizzling step forward.

Rapping about how well you rap is both stubbornly old school and totally meta. It's also a form of hip-hop Darwinism, as the Beastie Boys, now in their mid-40s and still one step ahead of trash-talking competitors, demonstrate to the fullest on their eighth studio album.

Lisbon is the New York quintet's sixth album, and it hinges on a precision that wasn't there previously.

This is Holland in full bloom: singular and wild-eyed.

An unusual but rewarding album.

Profane, lecherous, loaded with head-trip tape loops and guitars that sound like power tools melting in the sun, this is late-night, howl-at-the-moon-outside-the-punk-club stuff.

From the wild, ominous hard-bop of 'The Cell' to space-age chaos of 'Twinkle' to shimmying, shimmering 'Me,' there's never a dull moment--but more than a few bewildering ones.

The sonically arresting album, which couches Li's girl-group aspirations in a sheen of industrial grime, creates tension when the lyrics call for it.

Tillman had released solo records before joining Fleet Foxes in 2008, but none of them was as vivid as his latest.

The volleying guitars of "My Gap Feels Weird" and friendly ferocity of "Rope Light" signal a group with the same playful spirit that made its best work roar (see: 1994's "Foolish"), but with refreshed energy from a nine-year nap.

It is vintage Truckers for the stories it tells: portrayals, in the first person or the third, of lives far too achingly real and imprinted by such forces as crystal meth, the manufacturing recession, and the Iraq war to warrant the distancing moniker Gothic.

This confident new album is among his finest works, a terrific showcase for his finely honed, deeply humane songcraft.

Unlike his spotty debut, this is a seamless, brilliantly produced affair featuring his unmatched contemporary pop technique and songwriting craftsmanship.

Unlike the haunting ambiguities that comprised the Johnsons oeuvre, Anohni doesn’t traffic in subtlety here; boldface subversiveness makes Hopelessness lethal.

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 group’s sound has progressed to include ethereal synths, suited to the spiritual subject matter. Deheza’s soothing, breathy voice sits atop this sound as if she’s trying to comfort Curtis about their relationship in songs like “Open Your Eyes” and “On My Heart,” and about his cancer diagnosis in “Confusion.” This album highlights a connection between the two that goes beyond death.

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.

On a rock solid and expansive set of songs, Lambert mixes backbeats, production styles, fuzzed-out vocals, slinky slide guitars, and other offbeat elements into a cohesive whole.

The 1975’s frequently dazzling exploration of life in the iOS era, frontman Matty Healy turns the mic over to--who else?--Siri. Narrating a strangely touching fable about a man in love with the Internet, the bot contributes one of a great many moments on the album.

Another great Superchunk record. What a Time to Be Alive bristles with anxious energy; even by Superchunk’s over-caffeinated standards, it keeps an unrelenting pace.

After his 2005 debut, DeVaughn ups the ante with a sprawling effort that works as a showcase for his lush vocals.

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.

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

In keeping with the New England Conservatory alums’ track record, its peaks are so high and so satisfying (and come frequently enough) that the band isn’t sunk by the competent if uninspired jazzy lounge-funk that it falls back on when it runs out of ideas for its songs for grown-ups raised on thinking-person’s pop music from the ’70s, ’80s and beyond.

"23" furthers the group's recent fascination with a sleeker presentation that favors sheen over squall.