Acousmatic Sorcery is an occasionally iridescent collection of songs, but at the end of the day it feels too tasteful, too self-consciously curated.

Instead of making the more personal record that he intended by telling his side of the tour story, Owens has created his most detached album yet.

Some tracks are wildly successful on an individual basis, but they're cut short or steamrolled right over as Riggins whips through what seems like every sonic concept he's had in the last two decades.

Smoothing an epochal shift with a sonic mix of new and old isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Arguably, the band did the same thing when it cast aside the spacey sounds of Leave Home for the alt-leaning Open Your Heart. But on New Moon, the transition is rocky, more of a cop-out than a compromise.

Perfect Darkness becomes half a dip in lukewarm water, when it should be a moody walk on a cloudy day.

Smilewound traipses all over the place, sometimes tripping as it finds it’s path. But when it does, it surges with moments of delicate finesse and threatening omnission.

Neon Icon is the weight the internet has left us with. It’s a much-delayed product of Tumblr art, Big Brother reality TV, corporate worship and urban fetishism. Or, maybe it’s pushing against these things. I dunno, whatever, at least it’s pretty fun.

Over the course of 14 songs, when the emotional range is the difference between singing, "I just wanna get really high" and "I feel like shooting up," the content [getting wasted and having a good time] can wear on you--or, much like Andrew W.K.'s party music before it, it can fuel you.

The band aims for epic heights but all too often goes with the assumption that grandness is necessitated solely by noise. That said, there are glimmers of great things to come all over this record.

The back half meanders through woozy loungers like "Chemtrails" and "Sunday Morning" before wrapping up with the spindly, tom-heavy "Neon Dove," which breathes just enough life into the pacing to make you feel like you've listened to something complete by the time the percussion's abrupt exit signals the record's resolution.

The album lacks one basic fundamental of general pop music: lyrical hooks. The primary reason why they’re lacking though is because Wasner’s voice blends so well with Ehrens’ synth hooks that she is at times barely distinguishable from them.

The hype experienced by budding artists like Scott can be unsettling. Generally, it elicits polarizing reactions: listeners are either staunch supporters or fervent detractors. Seldom is there an in-between. In spite of that, after digesting Scott’s debut LP, in-between is exactly where I feel.

With a mixture of electronic guitars, field recordings and slight percussion, the album is extremely peaceful--maybe a little too peaceful.

The unpredictable mix incites some strange transitions, occasionally cutting off promising grooves to the album's detriment ("Groundskeeper Rag," especially, peaks prematurely). But what Family Perfume lacks in momentum it makes up for in brevity.

Tropics Of Love is an experiment in inertia. When it’s good, it stays good, and when it’s not, it’ll be over by the time you swallow your pina colada.

With Love is by no means a terrible album, but the bar that Dedication set was in no way reached. It’s worth giving a listen, but be prepared to edit it into a condensed and sensical format.

Too much of the album feels as if she’s chosen the comfort of being back home, retreating from the brief spotlight she’d been slowing stepping toward since 2008.

Not good, bad or disappointing, but frustrating.

Painted Palms’ strength is in their balmy, unhurried melodies. But even such melodic virtues are no match for the sexless nothingness that permeates this record.

Sleeper will probably be viewed in hindsight as "That kinda boring Ty Segall album."

While the songs on Lights Out would certainly suit a fine live atmosphere, their simplicity, repetition and generic nature create a rather weak album that fails to hold its own in today’s complicated indie rock landscape.

The album a treasure, yes, but unarguably generic too.

When it works, the noises are strange and exciting, like discovering a dead animal as a child, all over a danceable groove. When it doesn't, it just sounds like a drunken jam sesh over fucked up Casio drum loops.

Like the previous three Crocodile outputs, Crimes of Passion is forgettable like a party might be. Some may get sick of it and leave early, and others may find the album similar to a one night stand who says all the right things.

It’s a darker, angrier album and it shows that the duo is adventurous, but the experiments don’t quite cohere.

Where Tim Cohen’s vocals should soar, scream or sink low, they remain at a consistent monotone, rendering his occasionally poetic lyrics into lukewarm sentiments that do not invite further investigation.

Despite its upbeat personality and general happiness, the album doesn’t have a distinct personality or identity.

Derivative without bringing anything new, Not Nothing is lo-fi at a mediocre level.