It distills what has made Trupa Trupa a must-see in past years at music conferences such as South by Southwest in Austin, Texas.

Erickson's voice transparent and vulnerable, the lyrics direct yet poetic, sifting through years of pain for signs of hope. With the exception of the howling "John Lawman," the music is contemplative and atmospheric, a mix of field recordings from the past and unfussy, live-in-the-studio interactions.

It in many ways is the most danceable LCD album yet, a celebration of losing yourself in semi-darkness and a sea of undulating bodies between the speaker cabinets.

Hunt's refusal to be pigeonholed killed his major-label career, but without bean-counters looking over his shoulder, he sounds frisky and playful.

There are a couple of less-inspired contributions, notably the glossy country-pop “You’re My Love,” which Kenny Rogers recorded in 1986. But the overriding impression is wonderment: Prince was on such a roll that he was giving away tracks that could’ve provided the backbone for at least another terrific album of his own during this era, music that ranges from the funk mischief of “Jungle Love” to the falsetto tenderness of “Baby, You’re a Trip.”

Her solo debut, “Jaime” (ATO), breaks ground sonically and lyrically. It’s both more personal and daring, steeped in ‘60s and ‘70s soul-funk-R&B but with a rules-are-meant-to-be-broken twist.

The first half of the Roots' ninth studio album, How I Got Over, sounds like a hangover, a brooding meditation on a world teetering toward anarchy.

On this quiet beauty of an album, she once again makes a virtue of her modesty.

His fourth solo release, The Ecstatic (Downtown), reaffirms why hip-hop aficionados cared about him in the first place.

Nasty riffs and sticky melodies are everywhere, buttered over by the androgynous harmonies that have made Homme a hard-rock anti-hero, but verse-chorus arrangements hold little interest. Instead, there are fascinating digressions, packed with surprises.

That sense of surprise, the risk-taking of an artist daring to dig for truth, no matter how inconvenient or uncomfortable it might be, isn’t something to be taken for granted. That it informs every song suggests that “Crushing” is likely to become one of the year’s enduring albums.

Just like these artists [poet Nikki Giovanni, singer Eartha Kitt, blues legend Muddy Waters, funk rebel Betty Davis, jazz greats Miles Davis and Sun Ra, literary icons James Baldwin, Zora Neale Hurston and Octavia Butler, poet Sonia Sanchez, iconoclastic painter Basquiat] resisted being boxed in, so does Woods’ music. These are songs that elude genre--a blend of trip-hop, rap/spoken word, R&B, gospel.

It’ll take a while to absorb everything that Beyonce has poured into her sixth studio album--a dozen songs plus a 60-minute movie that is more than just a mere advertisement for the music, but an essential companion that provides context and deepens understanding. But it’s apparent already that Lemonade is the artist’s most accomplished and cohesive work yet.

The music casts long shadows, packed with foreboding. But Cash's voice isn't particularly morbid or self-pitying. Instead, it's tinged by longing--not for what he's leaving behind, but for what's next.

The legendary pianist sounds reinvigorated on "Locked Down" (Nonesuch), in part because he's not plugging into a formula, but animating it with some feisty new sidemen.

As the songwriter and coproducer (primarily working with Venezuelan-U.K. DJ Arca, who has teamed with FKA Twigs and Kanye West), Bjork is in peak form, creating a thematic and sonically linked work that flows seamlessly from track to track.

“Dream Attic” was looser and rougher than the guitarist had been in quite some time, a timely reminder that Thompson could still let it rip, and Electric follows suit.

It makes for a raw, unsettling listen, tempered by shots of dark humor.

As self-effacing and understated as Noname can appear, the weight of her songs and words eventually can’t be denied.

"Is it too late to do it again?" Clearly not.

Recording over five days with his hand-picked band of California-based conspirators (including ace drummer Jay Bellerose and guitarist Greg Leisz), Henry puts the jazz great in a limber, small-group setting well-suited to Allison’s no-frills style and laconic tone.

With Reign of Terror Sleigh Bells proves they've got more than one formula they can tear apart.

Several of those tracks anchor Oceania, which adds up to Corgan's best work since the '90s.

Interpol has never wallowed in happiness, but yet the songs sound not only splendid but strangely triumphant.

She conveys toughness, tenderness and humor with off-handed conviction.

New Jersey trio Screaming Females plays with more ferocity and confidence then ever.

It’s his most consistent and rewarding work since “Scary Monsters and Super Creeps” in 1980.

Producer Peter Katis (who has worked with The National and Interpol) ornaments the duo’s foundation--Hansard’s battered acoustic guitar, Irglova’s piano, co-ed harmonies--with nuanced orchestration and a spacious mix that flatters the singers’ interplay.