The problem of carving a new brand of sprawling music that feels carefully hand-crafted at every nook while not letting those nooks fly by too easily, or unappreciated, is not one that Palms has a great solution towards.

It’s still engaging in places, but it never comes close to reaching the level of its predecessor.

It's full of moving parts and the type of effortless transitions between songs that makes the album much more than the sum of its parts.

At his best, Calder channels a disaffected claustrophobia, bearing down on twentysomethings lost and disaffected in their parents’ basements. It’s a bummer listen, but sometimes that’s warranted.

Geographer managed to show how well they clean up.

The album sounds like it was written and recorded one lazy day on someone's back porch, and could perfectly soundtrack such a day.

Shut Down the Streets is a strange beast and one that will fall victim to that option that destroys the album sequence as we know it: shuffle. Fortunately, the high points are so high that they warrant a listen, even a purchase of the record as a whole.

EmptyMansions plays like a well-crafted diversion, an artist’s escape to play in his own corner of the musical playground, if just for a short spell.

Disappears have created a dark, at times dancey, record that very rarely lets up.

While Green’s sleepy pop-punk songwriting is the stuff of afternoon nap dreams, it’s too bad that the vinyl single isn’t a more viable option, as the longer, slower tracks that fill the spaces between those little gems dissipate the album’s buzz.

Nothing can be accomplished if someone doesn't stand up and act as the new gold standard. Kanye West and Jay-Z have proven themselves to be, at the very least, kings of just that notion.

The album proves worthy enough for the wait, namely due to its shining moments that outweigh the surrounding pitfalls.

While captivatingly evil at points, the absence of the hooks that made It's Frightening so exceptional can make Milk Famous a difficult match.

The problem is, Wale isn’t at the top, he’s simply borrowing that swagger from the A-list guests that decorate The Gifted.

The sense of unbridled joy on Carnivale Electricos is infectious. It defies you not to dance.

Perhaps Heidecker & Wood are creating an album that is meant to be somewhat obtuse and open. Perhaps it's part of the joke. I don't know, but I do know that, like after watching an episode of Tim & Eric, I just feel sort of confused.

So far, he's kept a high quality to go along with the high volume of his releases, and Weekend at Burnie's is no exception. It won't be his breakout into the mainstream, but if he continues at this rate he'll be there soon enough.

Union's production and technical minutiae are immaculate, but as always, those are checks that bounce without the song ideas to cash them.

Cobra Juicy is the most technically focused that Black Moth Super Rainbow have ever been, but it also lacks an important degree of their trademark self-contradiction.

All in all, this soundtrack is a solid collection of B-level material from a varied selection of artists.

Rich Forever doesn't boast any potential mega-hits. But that's actually a good reason to give this a spin; the songs here are strong without shooting for the stars.

Although the overall plot of the album is sparse, it's hard to deny the enjoyment it can bring to you. If you know what to expect when you hear it, you can take The Beginning for what it is: a feel good album.

It's rewarding if given the occasional spin but tiresome if spun too often.

The album isn't wildly new, which could either please or possibly dismay dedicated DCD fans.

Though the compositions at times straddle the line between detailed and busy, on the whole, The Speed of Things is a seamless, competent, and lighthearted pop release.

His raspy voice still aches and arches over the songs and caries his wandering soul and eager heart, but near every other facet of There's No Leaving Now is compressed, leaving a much smaller impression than his previous albums.

Tempest delivers yet another collection of the ramblers that have populated Dylan's records since Time Out of Mind.

While every cover on The Love may not be exceptional, Corinne Bailey Rae once again exhibits remarkable vocal and musical range.

We attempt to find a pattern in the nonsense (both in the vocals and in the music itself), to figure out what this is supposed to be saying. But Copeland is there at the knobs, twisting things just out of our reach.

With its chilling soundscapes and cryptic feel, Deadbeat plays as much as a piece of twisted musical theatre as it does a proper studio record.

The resulting effort, Long Slow Dance, is a perfect example of time's true, unpredictable power, a collection of 12 songs that demonstrate true focus and dedication while displaying telltale signs of over-analysis and stagnation.

Be it from an as-yet-uncertain lineup or a sign of life and things to come from this ensemble, the unknown and the unheard may be the most fulfilling aspects Content has to offer.

Although the majority of the album is indeed predictable, the band did take some risks.

Overall, the few great tracks balance out the filler, and Gold Fields manages to forge a hodgepodge of weathered songs into something wholly emotional.

While nothing on this record comes close to rivaling any of his past material, you can't deny the urge to indulge yourself in something labeled, "new Michael Jackson," and that's where Michael succeeds.

Dead Son Rising is neither terrible nor extraordinary.

Too Young to Be in Love may be a lot of things, but kitschy is not one of them, as Hunx and His Punx yet again provide a fresh take on the first generations of rock and roll, executed with tact and sparkle.

With a handful of infectious hooks and a gem of a vocalist, Royal Headache has the tools to capture an arena audience by the ears.

If Brazos can focus on their strengths, they have the potential to make a pleasant, summery mark on pop music.

In the end, you love this album. Of course you do. But not as much as you could have, and when you have this much potential and youthful energy on your hands, that sin is almost unforgivable.

Take a spin through Denison Witmer’s 11 songs, and whether listening to an album stream or consciously and individually clicking through the individual tracks, distinguishing song-to-song shifts proves difficult, as Witmer chooses an acoustic guitar as his primary partner and additional instruments (hear: light percussion, occasional keys, and drowsy bass) are reduced to mellowing sleep-aids.

It can be said that this is the best recently released shoegaze record, or perhaps that it best recapitulates the classic sounds of a genre largely past.

Raven in the Grave is a step in the right direction, to be sure, but the melodies aren't quite as fresh on this album and the songs often lack the soundtrack-y emotional wallop that older albums relied on.

If, like me, your hillbilly musical tastes lean toward bluegrass, you're likely to forget this one.

It’s uncertain music from an uncertain man, an artifact that will continue to influence growing pains from the many Lynchian dreamers.

Hunx has returned with a reduced lineup of Punx (formerly the Punkettes) and a sophomore full length, Street Punk, which is a far more aggressive endeavor than its predecessor.

It's an improvement, and it reveals a band with plenty room to grow. In the meantime, these Jackpacks will continue coasting.

The album might be a brooding thought battle, but with the support of dreamy, female sopranos, the burdens become bearable.

Crocodiles try so much that it can be an exhausting listen, but still there is enough here to keep this outing from San Diego's noise pop outfit from wilting.

It ends with a glorious resolution of two notes teased from Northumbrian pipes, so perfect and final that the reprise of “The Last Ship” seems redundant. Such honest moments make this album a worthwhile, if not fully rounded experience.

Their sound yearns for those Pacific nights, with a hazy moon illuminating San Francisco Bay. It's going to take a bit more than sparkles and glitter, though, to propel their intelligently crafted dream-pop a bit further.

Mount Moriah is ultimately a refreshing debut whose flaws can easily be excused as growing pains.

Aiko’s presence produces an easy, lived-in experience. Sail Out never quite excels, though, because those big moments are all too few.

While All You Need is Now won't bring flocks of teenagers over to Duran Duran's side, it's certainly a commendable effort if for no reason other than it's the band's most relevant and listenable record in almost two decades.

It all ends too soon. OneTwoThreeFour is a 10-minute sprint, fitting of a band that's never released more than four songs at any one time.

It's too often a shell without a filling to serve as a ride from front to back, on drugs or otherwise.

Killing Time brandishes an entertaining personality that breathes fresh life into a tried and true trend.

Green shows a new depth and further proves the jump from shaking walls in a post-hardcore group to melting hearts with his current project was the right move.

Bandleader Adrian Pillado and the rest of the group work their way through their retro surf-influenced blasts of pop with ease.

With the jazz-flute-driven “Walking In Your Footsteps” rounding out the highlights, it’s these tracks that radiate the most, but the whole LP serves as a welcome illumination of the otherwise abandoned dance floor we call February.

Middle Brother is nothing revolutionary, but it is an enjoyable throwback to the good ol' days of classic Southern living.

It’s by no means Rogue Wave’s seminal work, but it manages to come off as an honest and hard-earned statement from a band that’s been dealt more than their fair shares of blows these past few years.

The masks are still up on Free Reign, and the hints at human emotion lying behind them aren't strong enough to attempt to pry in.

Dr Dee is more of a musical fog made for sipping tea while blankly gazing onto a desolate street.

The key word for this album is pretty.

My Damnation serves as minor evidence that Chelsea Grin might not become a throwaway copycat. Fans can only hope polish doesn't push these Utah rockers away from their current path and towards the poppier territory of their more famous neighbors.

Elsie begs for the late-night meanderings, sometime after the party, when your mind needs a personal escape.

The album is more a loving revival than a modernization of some of the Everly Brothers’ lesser-known songs. But when the duo’s influence can still be heard trickling into everything from Fleet Foxes to Animal Collective, it’s hard to claim that What the Brothers Sang does much more than reminisce.

She's a wreck and she's out of her element, but she's flesh and blood, and that's something to love about her. It's just a shame there's not enough of it here.

The success of the album is ultimately dependent on the listener's familiarity with the original songs.

Valhalla Dancehall is more of the same from British Sea Power, which is not necessarily a bad thing, but the band has done most of it before in a more memorable fashion. Nevertheless, fans of British Sea Power will likely find their visit to Valhalla Dancehall an enjoyable one.

He might lack a sense of direction personally (at least right now), but it's this lack of clarity that has produced a very focused record.

It's a changeup from the group's traditionally untraditional post-rock, which is exactly what it's supposed to be, and perhaps that's a success in itself.

Girls Names reproduce favorite sounds admirably, and they’ve chosen an extremely popular era to recall, but perhaps a little maturation in this New Life will get them to an exciting place equal to the one they’d already reached.

Light Asylum is intimidating, but the band's goth pop comes with an undeniable groove that's still easy to enjoy.

There’s nothing particularly weak about the record, but it sacrifices the band’s singularity in service of a punk sound that, while plenty amped, ultimately feels a bit by the numbers.

If you're willing to dig around a little bit, you'll unearth a small handful of moments showing Hiatt at his very best. You just have to get your jeans a little dirty.

A more or less identical tempo on all songs and very little variation in the synth timbres aid and abet the disco vibe, yet they also come off as a bit monochromatic.

Night Beds offer a fine experience to listeners who are looking to hear saccharine pop with limited twang.

Given enough time, these experienced musicians should be able to pare things down to these more focused moments, finding the right songs to drape with their ultra stylized vision.

Overall, McAndrews’ solo endeavor is a strong first impression that explores post-dubstep twists and turns in awe-inspiring fashion, though over saturation in places makes the record difficult to completely comprehend.

Alberta Cross sticks to its Atlantic Ocean-spanning guns on Songs of Patience, and more often than not, it hits the target dead on.

Between Abi Fry’s lilting viola and Wilkinson’s cogent, sentimentalist vocals, BSP sails through Machineries of Joy without any fatal blunders.

Far from capturing their kinetic live energy, AMOK feels as isolated, distraught, and feeble as the characters littered about in Donwood’s tragic portrait.

While the former saw some structural variety, most of Babel is content to follow in its older brother's footsteps, delivering a slow build from nothing to eruption on practically every track.

Not all listeners are likely to enjoy the moments of instrumental experiments, but the varying forms of psych rock that pack the 53 minutes of Beard, Wives, Denim are enough to please both fans of Pond and those waiting for a Tame Impala follow up.

DRC Music may save the world after all, but they haven't done enough to make this a truly lasting effort.

While more or less a collection of bastardized leftovers from the False Priest sessions, longtime fans should rejoice as the band finally rekindles their longtime relationship with unpredictability.

The glossy pop songs will disappoint fans who liked her more unusual aspects, while the weird bits may put off the more casual listener.

The Carpenter, like many pieces of art, is a record that becomes more relatable with age and, most frighteningly, loss. For those of us that have been lucky thus far, we'll have to wait and see.

The songs just don't stick long enough to make more than an impression in the pillow.

Although punchy, vindictive standouts “First Shot” and “Faithbreaker” do manage to elucidate some tender scar tissue, The Love Language would be wise to look back to their earlier offerings, lest they fall victim to superfluity and excess.

Production issues aside, this record proves that Soundgarden still have their muscle but also hints that they are in the process of figuring out how to flex it again.

First-time listeners might find the record a tough initiation. But for diehard fans, Meat + Bone is a long-awaited return to the wild side, with the Blues Explosion offering up all the mutated musical goodness as you can stomach.

Slow Summits sees the band producing less shadowy than their peers and fellow Scotsmen Belle & Sebastian.

Unfortunately, Scott is more often than not lyrically uninteresting.

Unfortunately, there are as many lows as there are highs on this debut.

The 10 tracks of Elephant Stone are concise, pop song-length statements that more clearly reflect Dhir’s vision--one he’s learning how to bring to life.