A major label debut filled with the sound of his smoky baritone voice, front and center.

A rare debut, as well crafted as it is likeable.

The geetars are as crisp as 100-dollar bills, vocals more in-your- face than a protester at the height of a rally; it’s a resounding success, at least from an artistic standpoint.

Post Tropical should gain McMorrow plenty of new fans, and it certainly won’t lose him any.

Although it may be too early to tell, if the rest of his future solo albums sound anything like his debut, then this scrappy kid definitely has a bright future in the music biz.

Grace is in-your-face with an aggressively told tale of selfhood (to say nothing of the heartbreak of loss) at its most exposed and anthemic.

This is stately, gentlemanly music--the sound of aging gracefully.

Many of the songs indistinguishably work together to guard from it, making the album as a whole feel like one long, subdued tranquilized state.

As a whole, Eagulls is a refreshing, unrestrained album, a cool drink of insta-nostalgia for the best of the late ’80s, early ’90s rejecters of the mold.

Electric Balloon is top-heavy, however, and the back half of the record drifts out of focus due to some grooves that—rather than sparkle--simply repeat.

The Men have always had the chops to hang, but it’s their emerging maturity that has begun to justify the bravado of the name.

Lyrics form twisted stories as each song becomes more mysterious and sultry than the next, making Holly a fitting soundtrack for creeping the streets at night.

Atlas, the ever-weighty third album, finds this cohesive crew, past and present now in lockstep, considering how best to turn their internal dialogue outward and beyond.

The collection has aged remarkably well.

After the jarring synthetic combo of “Rope Burn” and “Eggs At Night,” Hubba Bubba hits its stride with tracks like “Sic Bay Surprise” and “Photograph,” which contain flashes of Dwyer’s high-pitched breathy signature vocals and a few bars of guitar shredding in between the machine blips.

His intimate voice strikes enough of a balance with the chilly electronics to keep the core of this winter release at room temperature.

St. Vincent is buoyant in the way that the Hindenburg was—it floats along steadily and excitedly, but with a decisive coldness that suggests that something unexpected might happen.

Beck produced Morning Phase himself, and while that makes for a cohesive listen, consulting with another trusted producer could have coaxed out some of the freewheeling unpredictability that once characterized his music.

Not everything on Present Tense is a success, but the highs are truly high, even when they’re sad.

Within the 11 tracks that make up her third full-length, Olsen’s strong and matchless voice pierces through fuzzed out guitars and massive organ riffs, allowing us to burrow into her mind.

While Berglund still seems intent on taking a sideways swipe at pop culture, his sophomore album Wonderland is full of elegant contradictions, bridging the gap between bratty and Balearic.

The result is Past Life, a chilling, straightforward album that is more concerned with soulful riffs, pulsing bass lines and soaring vocal melodies than grandiose, classical-inflected anthems.

Mirroring the lack of linearity in Lanegan’s career is the contrarian approach to this collection.

Producer Jacquire King (Tom Waits, Kings of Leon, Norah Jones) gives each song a poppy slant even when the lyrical content wrestles with the jetsam of life.

There are wonderfully soft moments, too, the vocal counterpoints of “Little Ones Run” are delightful, but ultimately the collective exists for noise, which is demonstrated beautifully and impressively.

The former Split Enz and Crowded House frontman goes for the jugular by taking a chance with a delightfully fresh sound.

It’s a testament to how much Callahan has evolved that an album under his name can exist with his vocals largely absent. The productions have become as much of the imagery as his songwriting.

Emmaar finds the desert-blues group returning to the crackling electric sound that is their trademark, but here the implicit knowledge of conflict lingers like a fog.