The channel still churns on Swing Lo Magellan, but Longstreth has built sturdy songs with solid foundations here, trapping his confusion in a container.

It is both heart-wrenchingly introspective and jubilant.

APTBS's newest, the relentlessly brilliant Worship, seems designed to drive the listening public violently to their knees.

In all, a dreamy plunge.

It's an interesting curiosity, a peek into a developing band (that would clearly get much, much better and become comfortable rallying around their true heart: Berman).

The only problem is that many of those stylings have already been put to death, so hearing them again can be a little annoying.

Get Lost and stay lost.

This unbalanced album is both the most and least fun you'll have all year.

[Class Clown is] like all GBV releases, a mishmash of melodic, A-side-worthy compositions and half-formed snippets.

Bringing it to a simmer works well for the group.

The Tallest Man on Earth continues his approach; it's both likable and rousing.

The production's click-clack effects and arcade synths often distract and inadvertently undercut the sincerity of Womack's words.

Stunningly bright, impeccably trim and dance-y, the level of song craftsmanship here has garnered Beach Boys comparisons, but Ace of Base might be a more accurate touchstone, with a bit of Christopher Owens' (Girls) deep, bummed-out vocal blur as well.

If only Endless Flowers were as infinite as its sound is blissful.

Lex Hives won't start a revolution, but it's enough to keep the ghost of CBGB mighty happy in her grave.

This record is not out to shatter you; its aim, rather, is to fuel your night drive through the dusky electronic corridors of sun-warmed youth.

Banga finds the artist more robust than ever-ageless, even.

It gives us songs more memorable for their grizzly narrations or the occasional doo-wop harmony than the steady performances of mostly standard-format jams.

The electronic experiments introduced on Little Hells continue to bloom and her character building is peerless.

2:54 falls short of being a truly great album because each song just starts to sound the same.

Much like Begin to Hope and Far, this record generally continues to juggle the same genres Spektor has inhabited up to this point.

Big grooves, smart beats, it's all technically on-point, but it lacks an original pace or narrative-pretty much neutering any melody or songcraft from the get-go.

Sun Kil Moon's Mark Kozelek revels in the succulent melancholy of sad autumn evenings in the backseat, garlanded with the shadow words of life's heaviness, clearly woven by a master of spiritual spelunking.

It's simply one of the best rock records of our so-far shallow year.

While the dotty cant of Mahon's guitar playing skews in Sleater-Kinney's direction, Internal Logic is largely an exhibition of the dramatic power of restraint.

Mesmerizing

Caulfield continues to showcase some seriously well-crafted shifts between proggy meandering movements and pop hooks.

Natural History is an invigorating listen, which may say as much about today as it does about the band.