As the group attempts to find their vibe, they test the waters gracefully. Perhaps next time, though, they’ll be slightly more focused.

A dash of otherworldly sounds give the otherwise good album that extra oomph on tracks like “Istanbul Field” and “Philadelphia Raga,” but the album bleeds more indie-punk blood than anything else.

Well into their fourth decade, with the aughts years spent in hibernation, Swans are still making records of brilliance and majesty.

The electronic wizardry is impressive, but it’s the entrancing vocals of this record that will keep you coming back.

“High Road,” “The Motherload,” “Asleep in the Deep” and “Halloween” are keepers, but they don’t quite put Sun in the same solar system as past albums.

No matter how you look at it, tales of love and loss sound better when there’s a voice like Fields guiding you along.

Sometimes going back to what works can be a crutch and creatively stifling, but for Rodrigo y Gabriela, it’s a welcome return.

The result is one of optimistic discontent. Krell’s heart may be perpetually drug through the dirt, but nothing is going to stop him from looking up.

The ghosts of Pavement and Sebadoh flit through these pithy songs with free-range abandon.

The tension between revelation and ambiguity is echoed in the music, which avoids the easy, straightforward release of pop crescendos in favor of alternating textures and rhythms.

The words would be perhaps somewhat unremarkable without the grandiose sweep of sonic majesty that surrounds them.

With 10 blazing tracks averaging about two minutes each, the Vancouver band’s distinct brand of melodic punk might be too much to take, were it not for Mish Way’s cool command of the mic.

The record’s major achievement is in stretching the genre again, this time by contraction: This is meditative hardcore.

Admittedly, these are ideas not groundbreaking except in their delivery, which does have a rare, sobering effect upon the listener--a trademark effect of The Antlers.

Someday World sounds quite like Happy Mondays at times, and rather like King Crimson at others.

While Pleasure and C.U.T.S. evoke the nature of the dream, Angel, obsessive and occasionally trite, tends to tell rather than show.

Tropical, African. Soul, blues. R & B, simplicity. Sylvan Esso blends it all and makes preconceived notions of electronic-driven music parallels to unintelligent dubstep fade away.

The resultant sound is crisp and lovely, and on a clear mission to please its other (the listener, maybe?).

Beauty & Ruin might be the most realized example of the Mouldian aesthetic, and combined with the heartfelt poignancy of the subject matter--the aging rocker acknowledging his years earned and the years left at the wheel--it soars to contention with the rest of Mould’s formidable oeuvre.

Wymond Miles’s imaginative guitar work is often enough to cover a multitude of sins (see the scorching lead on “Hummingbird” and the minimal flourishes on “April Fools”). For some listeners that will be enough, but overall the record feels structured more like a career-spanning live set than a cohesive collection.

Every song on Stay Gold is beautifully crafted to feel like a new and complete soundscape--orchestrated strings, rolling drums and airy flutes enhance the Americana guitar riffs--bringing out the vivid imagery of their lyrics.

Well aware now of what he likes to do with Hot Chip and what he likes to do eponymously, Taylor’s efforts here are enough to sate fans until the next solo project arrives.

Barfod has taken a great debut and made it into a stellar sophomore record that delights the most.

Our six-string savior not only makes his guitar do things that will have you forgetting that Page and Plant are never to take to a stage together again; he is also keen to remind us in just whose hands now rests that Hammer of the Gods.

Without the warm, human touch that made CYHSY’s previous releases so inviting, the ten (or really nine considering “Impossible Request” appears twice) tracks on Only Run feel cold and calculated.

ZABA is a notable first offering that is so tasty you’ll want to lick it off your fingers.

The ever-loquacious monster of folk has a lot to say on his latest record (this one finds him particularly obsessed with time), but it’s his growing mastery of orchestration that muzos might appreciate the most.

The result is a thoroughly cross-cultural album dripping with soul and iconoclasm. It’s fun, too.

Despite some inspired guest contributions from A Sunny Day in Glasgow’s Jen Goma and Beirut’s Kelly Pratt, the raw guitar anthems from Belong are too often replaced by poppy fizz, toothless jangle and twee melancholia on Abandon.

Ultimately, the singer’s delicately harmonious pipes shine above all, thus proving that following in your father’s footsteps isn’t as hard as advertised.

While fun, some of the foursome’s unique sound is sorely absent.

Between their ferocious instrumentation and a razor-sharp understanding of who they are, these New Yorkers hope to usher in a return to the city’s two-finger salute heyday. So far, so good.

It’s an album that wears its weirdness on its sleeve, but it’s the best kind of weird, and a joy to listen to.

This is a record of painful, plaintive soul-searching.

The result is a band that has found their collective groove.

The results sees The Hold Steady with an in-your-face, rapid fire record that’s arena-ready and their most ambitious to date.

Russell brings a touch of the old South to all he surveys. Same here.

The music on this explosive new album is as tightly coiled as early Sabbath, but their terrifyingly detuned guitars, brickbat rhythmic chaos and contributions from Lungfish’s Daniel Higgs imbue the proceedings with an overwhelming air of apocalyptic doom.

Whether making us dance or encouraging us to think, Kelis is always out to fatten us up with her musical menu.

It’s a fresh thrash of emotion from a supremely talented, if dysfunctional, band.

While the lovelorn energy of Mayfield’s country ballads are often obfuscated by guitar fuzz, the new crunch fits her nicely.

The album’s enthralling fusion of electronica and soul proves that Faker’s glass foundation is a prism showing his colorful range.

Fans of Animal Collective may enter the Slasher House and revel in Tare’s fun-sized treats, but others might be too disappointed by the tricks, remaining contented with the Haunted Graffiti next door.

Longtime fans will relish the return as Greg Dulli’s voice--full of longing, sex and anger--has never sounded better; new listeners will marvel at the drama that was so prevalent in bands from the ’90s, and that can be so lacking now.

In 2014, Woods still stand tall, having morphed from a lo-fi weirdo electric folk band on their own fringe label into a veritable lighthouse on the now populous independent coast.

On this fourth full-length, their existential musings are bolder than ever.

The band managed to keep the self-recorded Wasted Years crisp and orderly without editing any of the performances.

Songs like “Cold Sweat” and “Toreador” force overly tweaked, retouched and obviously catchy hooks down our throats. Luckily, that buzzkill dissolves with the thumping psych-blues of “Brothers and Sisters.”

Doom Abuse is a cathartic slap in the face from a band that sounds completely revitalized after its multi-year slumber.

It’s a good look for him and an excellent return of the Mac.

Barbara and Ethan Gruska return with springtime melodies, dreamy folk pop and R & B-influenced dance numbers.

It should establish Willson as not just an artist to watch, but to eagerly want more from.

Cloud Nothings, with teeth clenched tight and feedback flowing aplenty, rock a blue streak without letting a single moment go by hook-free.

Where WIXIW was the intricately ordered product of a hundred thousand small decisions, Mess is a sloppy, outward-turned--and, it has to be said, uneven--quagmire built with the kind of swagger that dares you to use its own title against it.

On Singles, their first for 4AD, the band perfect the persuasive and pervasive nature of pop.

This album has a vibrant crosscut of all GBV’s personalities, and for that they deserve applause.

The band experiments with world music (“Are You What You Want To Be?”) and psychedelia (“Pseudologia Fantastic,” “A Beginner’s Guide To Destroying The Moon”) but falls short.

This is a promising new approach and one that Tycho sounds genuinely thrilled to be exploring.

Darlings is enormously enjoyable but it is also familiar, sometimes overly so--comfortable in a way that implies Drew is content to rest on his impressive laurels.

Underneath the Rainbow shoots for crossover appeal without compromising their tried-and-true aesthetic.

Back to front, Blame Confusion consists of balls-to-the-wall bangers. When the pace slows down, it isn’t by much.

Love Letters may not guarantee that Metronomy are the kings of their sound, but they still have a seat at the table.

The band may have switched the formula, but the solution still adds up.

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.

Out-and-out rockers “A Mirror” and “Tired & Buttered” provide some much-needed lucidity, but as a whole, Held in Splendor may be a bit too tranquil for its own good.

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.

Every instrument, including the vocals, reverberates and interplays with the next in order to create a meandering backbeat that refuses the rhythmic decorum of rock and roll and hip-hop. The girls are onpoint.

Written in part after Dee Dee was put on vocal rest, Too True infuses the band’s eyeliner-heavy songs with moments of quiet reflection that bite almost as hard as those delivered with snarl.

It can be, and often is, dizzying to unpack the poetry, but it’s probably exactly the point from a brilliant, grieving mind full of verses, desperate to release them.

It all combines to form a truly sublime album of heart-wrenching, heart-warming beauty.

Although it perhaps lacks the wasted acrobatics and distracting volume that populates today’s popscape, Give The People What They Want nevertheless reminds us that it’s both range and heart that helps compelling soul music survive both a century of cynics and existential close calls.

This solo outing from Gang Gang Dance’s Brian DeGraw strips away some of the darkness that inhabited his band’s previous records and creates a more blissful, pop-driven place to play.