If Silver Wilkinson is supposed to be a journey, it sounds like Mr. Wilkinson got a little lost along the way.

Although the songs carry recurring tropes of eagles, devils and the sea, as well as her signature intricate guitar picking, the most haunting aspect is--considering this accomplishment--realizing the potential that is yet to come.

These instruments layer in complex, hypnotic patterns that drone in and over themselves, forged together to create less an emotional outcry than the hazy anguish of recalled emotion.

A somewhat random but enjoyable and welcome compilation.

The standout beats have some old-school crackle and POC is most interesting when Kweli can relax and just, you know, be brilliant.

If you’re not bothered by the doom and gloom, Obsidian is just over 43 minutes of imaginative and spacious electro art--at times a bit jarring, but mostly beautiful.

Not content to simply cop post-punk aesthetics, these East London dread merchants are steeped in the sort dystopianism and apocalyptic anxiety that drove the likes of Killing Joke and The Banshees to such dizzying heights of foreboding.

Jim Eno wound them up and let them go to conjure the showy (“One Girl/One Boy”), the chatty (“Fine Fine Fine”), the high hippie-ish (“Californiyeah”) and mostly the buoyantly oddball without losing track of the band’s tense rhythms, nervous songcraft and all around raw silken soul.

3 shows a slightly darker side of the squeaky-clean She.

Despite a pronounced lean towards the gritty in all its finer trappings, Deerhunter’s fifth longplayer is riddled with some of Cox’s most structurally sound songwriting.

The record does sound like the soundtrack to a bad dream--but you won’t want to wake from it.

Welsh and Otto reach those who can find self-fulfillment in unearthing complexities, especially ones that lie underneath a surface subtlety.

It’s a demanding, damn good and rewarding listen, one that squeezes your heart and head through shaking fingers.

Though their name may seem like a mouthful, the quintet’s efforts equal an album that should be added to your playlist of summer hits immediately.

Zinzi Edmundson and Jesse Kivel’s follow-up, Kids in L.A., really jump-starts the DeLorean ride.

All is quite slick. It’s a touch proggy and bitter, but not without the piquancy of sauerkraut.

Curiosity is satisfyingly eerie without appearing forced, a sign of some songwriting talents on the rise.

They’ve moved beyond that convenient pigeonhole from when that Blue CD-R first made the rounds, but they’re, well, a much more modern affair now.

The Terror is simply the latest (and darkest) report from those reaches, one that generates holographic intensities of the dire straits this band has seen throughout its 30-year career.

Limits of Desire is more romantic, calling on aural cues from nostalgic ’80s movies but with some modern tricks.

Apt at harnessing the power of the pout, songs are left in the shadows, no minor key left unexplored. Theatrical, yes. But not without restraint.

While Cronin’s musical expertise belies his age, the existential struggles about which he sings--fear of the world, distrust of love, lack of self-confidence--do not.

Hands play the instruments that induce you to dance and hear those sounds that make you want to feel it all.

Head in The Dirt, the SF native’s sophomore offering, shows a delightfully vast range of influences.

There won’t be many more solid albums than this in 2013.

Tillman’s silken, Otis Redding–reminiscent vocals anchor funky, horn-driven R & B beats that match the swagger of Motown.

Textured as it comes, the album drips with heady shoegaze, and meaty bass lines prevail in a melodic, rewarding sonic endeavor.

José González’s smooth, honeyed vocals and nylon-string plucking are more timbres than lead presences, and to great success.