Ferreira’s artfully trashy synthpop is a little bit Ladytron austerity, a greater bit Blondie ferocity, and her songcraft is, well, rather astonishing.

Brian Oblivion’s knack for delivering ’60s and ’70s guitar riffs and singer Madeline Follin’s slender voice shine through the dissonance at the most unexpected and welcome moments.

They never fully submerge themselves into new territory with this album, which becomes both the band’s main strength and weakness.

Big Wheel and Others represents McCombs’ most transient yet memorable volume of song-carved verse yet.

The most compelling moments (“I Am Dust” and the title track) are like mechanized, sci-fi mini-operas, awesomely grandiose and yet disturbingly proximate enough to breathe all that fear right down your neck through your spine.

With Siberia, their first effort in four years, they’ve reversed their polarity, finally hardened into simple, elemental rock goodness.

Morrison turns his ever-honest eyes towards fatherhood and commitment, while the band balance his emotional vulnerability on thin lines of guitar, dangling the whole thing over a churning ocean of rhythm.

Glacier is a journey.

The self-titled album is Maricich’s wobbly reboot after a seven-year absence, and if nothing else, she’s certainly learned the power of the bass.

The record feels experimental and alive because of it. That unpredictability breeds some missteps but for the most part the album is peppered with pleasant, sometimes unsettling surprises.

Hunters isn’t a perfect album, reliant as it is on Almeida’s chirpy, slurry tendencies to bring the joys, but it’s a nice start.

It’s 11 songs of nonstop, downright raunchy blues with lyrics that ooze malcontent and feminism.

Joshua Epstein and Daniel Zott’s latest effort fires on all cylinders throughout (pun intended), continuing their successful blend of modern electronics and a Beach Boys approach to melody and vocal harmony.

Sylvianbriar brings a sunny openness to of Montreal’s ever-evolving cache with its sweeping changes in styles and instrumentation and adherence to more traditional song structures.

Two songs from the EP made the cut for the album (“Ready For the Weekend” and, predictably, “I Love It”) and though the latter--a Charli XCX co-written club banger--still stands out high above the rest of the album’s tracks, the songs that comprise This Is...Icona Pop are even larger and louder than their predecessors.

Ambitiously creative though that may be, the results are mixed; while some tracks glisten with Eno-esque ambience, the forced wordplay on others (even delivered stunningly by Mesirow’s Björk-like voice) shatters the mood.

The fearsome, intellectual vitality of her funk-metal-electro freak-outs would surely put any teenager to shame.

Chvrches and Mayberry have a weirdly mannered way with smartly penned romanticism.

Dr. Dog is a fun, energetic and entertaining crew, but it speaks volumes that fish tacos still come to mind.

R Plus Seven isn’t the masterpiece of technical error that its predecessor was; it’s the dissection of a heart.

Event II is a satisfactory sequel, if not quite a gem on its own merit.

The results are expectedly familiar, fantastic and welcome.

FUZZ is commanding and infectious--this could be the project Segall was born for.

Not the best Quasi introduction for first-time listeners, but there’s plenty for the band’s fans to love.

Hung on the haunting vocals of frontwoman Sarah P, At Home is no mere retread, but a full-fledged genre renaissance.

Though they may have felt immense pressure to replicate the monster hits that have come to be expected of them, the band have struck proper middle ground between the jaggedy, bluesy Southern rock of their early years with more polished commercial anthems.

While this carefully choreographed dance of feedback and vox is what made the post-punk wave so influential in the first place, Glow & Behold just misses the mark.

It’s the aural equivalent of sweet syrup—slow, molasses-y and utterly satisfying.