A nuanced, ever-shifting masterwork that reveals its biggest rewards to the listener who's got 53 minutes to experience the whole thing, start to finish, and who's willing to do this several times.

It's an album's worth of smart, solid pop music that lingers in the memory.

The devotion to setting such teetering to song is the album's strength. No matter the tune, Germano's pipes and strings swoon strong, hovering ominous and knowing like her floating magician's assistant body on the album's cover.

Reveals Yo La Tengo's understanding of stasis without stagnation.

The fusion of rhythm with textural washes of sound is near perfect in its seamless euphoria.

Sunlight doesn't boast great pop songs so much as deliver an unbroken string of good ones.

Two or three too many songs dilute the impact of the album, dragging it from the lofty heights of masterwork to a level of mere disturbed brilliance.

How I Learned to Write Backwards isn't the kind of album that's going to turn up new rewards. Its marginal utility tops off after about 10 listens.

A slow-motion slice of rock brilliance.

Weller takes a small step forward artistically, building ever so slightly on his sturdy foundation at a time when he's on a songwriting winning streak.

Regardless of whether Cash completes another album, this chapter of the American Recordings can fill the role of masterful final episode or precursor to the stunning conclusion.

This is where Scarlet's Walk falters: Its concept is unfathomable.

Any imperfections Miller has on this album were already there in Old 97's and shouldn't deter fans. The chances he takes are slight but bold -- a little more sincerity, a little more musically risky.