The album preserves--even perfects--the spirit of its delirious debut, while fashioning something even bigger: brighter, tighter, better, more. [No. 95, p.55]

Freedom ultimately finds cohesion in Refused's continuing mission to punish your ears, move your feet and rage against the Man. [No. 122, p.58]

Most of these 10 songs in 40 minutes are lovely, peaking on one of her sexiest tunes, crunchy wedding toast "Love U 4ever." [No. 111, p.51]

It's Newman's ability to paint such a scene [narrator's wife, on her deathbed, defending him against their concerned and/or churlish offspring] with humor, affection and honest humanity that makes his albums so thoroughly worth the wait. [No. 145, p.60]

Even second-tier tunes (by comparison)--like the silly "I Love Kangaroos"--are indelible. [No. 150, p.54]

His voice wafting in as it from across some great, wide divide, he drapes heavy-lidded seductions and portending cautionary tales over several decades of occultish folk, ritualistic rhythm and acoustic blues, from Bron-Y-Aur stomps to paralyzed lullabies. [No. 101, p.51]

The genre's sonic touchstones are still mostly intact here, but More Faithful is full of unexpected turns. [No. 122, p.59]

More than enough to make this probably the finest dance-party record this summer will have to offer. [No. 121, p.55]

This is a soul singer's album all the way.... And it's a happy throwback in other ways, too. [No. 122, p.57]

Its palette remains expansive. [No. 123, p.61]

It's his best work to date. [No. 109, p.61]

A thoughtful pop aesthetic that few others even shoot for. [No. 101, p.55]

The Wasted Years finds Fish polishing his legacy with work resembling what Syd Barrett might've sounded like if his voice was closer to cross-tops than sugar cubes. Revisiting these years is the sound of some of our undergraduate degrees. [No. 148, p.57]

Historian is another triumph. [No. 150, p.51]

[A] gorgeous concert recording. [No. 111, p.54]

The best cuts here happen to be those hewing closer to Major Lazer's wake-and-bake dancehall origins. [No. 121, p.57]

Morris sounds even more infuriated than he did 34 years ago on Black Flag's Nervous Breakdown. [No.87 p.57]

As potent and timely as anything it released during the Reagan era. [#64, p.83]

A beautiful mess. [No. 120, p.51]

A full-length valentine to the Jesus and Mary Chain. [#60, p.110]

Magnificent Fiend follows up the band’s self-titled 2006 debut in powerful style, fashioning a blend of hard blues, herb-smoke-encrusted rock, country-tinged folk and swinging, blue-eyed soul.

Hard, clear and carefully ornamented, their harmonies feel as ancient as the hills and as immediate as the wind hitting your face. [No. 143, p.57]

Hawthorne's songwriting, crisply appointed arrangements and effortlessly gratifying croon feel more casually confident than ever, making This Door a third straight slam dunk. [No. 101, p.55]

The formula is familiar... but the results can be stranger than recent 'Lab fare. [#71, p.91]

Carried To Dust is definitely Calexico’s best-sounding record: Each voice and instrument has its place, wheeling around Convertino’s graceful drumming like dancers going around the maypole.

This album finds Patton in his glory. [No. 120, p.55]

This is hardcore at its best. [No. 101, p.56]

Each of the tracks--icy, foggy. eerily paced, speedy or unusually slow--move with sinister intention.... Still, the set meanders to include lesser, black-lit essayers of the form such as Dr. Phibes & The House Of Wax Equations. [No. 128, p.58]

Nothing here is throwaway. [No.88, p.53]

They plunge once more into a spontaneously generated maelstrom of corroded noise and spasmodic rock action, letting the music flow like lava oozing destructively through the streets of your town. [No. 134, p.55]

Below The Pink Pony is a fat-free delight, this season's surprise. [No. 114, p.55]

I Can Feel You Creep Into My Private Life is merely very good. [No. 150, p.55]

This soggy, after-hours feel also permeates Is A Woman, although the ensemble sound has been pared to the bone. [#53, p.83]

Musically, it's another melodic goldmine and their most vigorous, least fussy work in ages. [No. 150, p.57]

A spotlessly produced, classic alt-rock album that recalls Garbage's golden age. [No.88 p.58]

Freedom's Goblin has hooks and strong songwriting, and the quality is more consistent than Segall's norm. [No. 150, p.55]

I Can't Imagine might be her strongest release this side of I Am Shelby Lynne. [No. 120, p.57]

It might not get the party started, but it'll sure as hell get the freshly converted pilgrims ambling. [No. 101, p.61]

Sounds like the soundtrack for a post-apocalyptic street carnival. [#71, p.105]

Damaged excels in what Lambchop does best, which is to gather up a dozen-plus musicians and get them to play as little as possible. [#73, p.98]

Serves notice that Molina has discovered some heavy machinery and isn't afraid to use it. [#58, p.106]

The Helio Sequence has pared down its sound and vision without losing a molecule of its well-defined identity. [No. 121, p.52]

It's not as fun as [1999's Play], but the broad outlines comes from a similar Play-book, with Moby talk/sung vocals amid coos and hums of female singers. ... It's an inviting album but it's bleak. [No. 150, p.56]

They create fresh sonic collages that reference past epochs rather than erect shrines to exalt them. [No. 101, p.57]

Full of ripping guitar work and hooks galore. [#74, p.95]

Continues to mine the same sparkling vein of crushed-velvet pop/punk Spoon has perfected as its stock in trade. [#49, p.91]

It feels like the jazz/hip-hop album we've been waiting for. [No. 101, p.59]

The songs all deal with weighty subjects, but the music, a s pleasing hybrid of blues, rock, classical and gospel impulses shines the comforting light of faith onto every time. [No. 120, p.54]

It's as if Steve Miller and the Beach Boys got together, sacked the session players and sang over breakbeats and a thicket of digital clicks and clacks. [#56, p.105]

The melodies are strong, but they have a moody, hopeless character that perfectly fits these tales of missed connections and love gone terribly wrong. [No. 110, p.57]

When they open up and truly let go, they achieve states of near euphoria and joyous magnificence. [No. 150, p.56]

These songs are all stripped-down gems by a great performer who's unselfconsciously brave--and moving from strength to strength. [No. 110, p.55]

Simplicity never sounded so sinister. [#49, p.78]

Alix's absence of missteps or variations could be taken as relentless or monotonous--or a couple of pop perfectionists who found what they've been looking for. [No. 114, p.57]

Carousel One is Sexsmithery at its finest. [No. 119, p.59]

After delivering a classic, Superdrag has returned with something just shy of that, but considering the quality here, no one has any right to spew complaints. [#55, p.91]

N.E.W. proves that Death is still ahead of the curve. [No. 120, p.53]

The whole affair has the energy of a younger band, one just starting on its first album rather than an act 30 years old. [No. 99, p.53]

The blend of old and new Ra Ra Riot feels more organic and less forced. [No. 128, p.61]

11 somber-yet-empathetic songs on Rifles & Rosary Beads. [No. 150, p.56]

Ultimately, Olsen shows she can still be gripping, but with a much greater sense of presence. [No. 106, p.57]

It's all, as you've come to expect from the duo, pretty enough and daydream-inspiring on its own. [No. 120, p.53]

Luluc has indie credentials to spare, but all that really matters is that this music is impossibly delicate and deeply beautiful. [No. 112, p.59]

This shimmery psych-rock collective is back with more wah-wah Woodstock jammolas filtered through cathartic chanting, African rhythms and jittery percussion. [No. 114, p.57]

Semicircle touches on elements of the socially aware and a-woke with old-fashioned message-driven songs. [No. 150, p.56]

A tremendous leap forward. [#55, p.77]

Their first album in five years captures the comfortable joy of falling back into sync with old pals. [No. 112, p.61]

Broken Bells' initial salvos may have set their parameters, but After The Disco expands, transcends and redefines them. [No. 106, p.52]

A shockingly vital, crackling, unencumbered solo instrumental record. [No. 120, p.55]

Overall, Going Way Out is much like Heavy Trash’s self-titled 2005 debut, as the duo continues to find ample inspiration from the past.

On fourth album Saturdays=Youth, the warm synthesizers are still in play and Gonzalez’s propensity for beguiling bombast is undiminished, but by imposing structure and melodic discipline on these sprawling compositions, he’s made them even more elegant and effective.

Cameos from pop princess Kimbra and Bloc Party guitarist Russell Lissack are the delicate icing on Mew's richly satisfying prog/pop cake. [No. 120, p.59]

A must-have addition to already almost perfect catalog. [No. 110, p.55]

A set of first-person songs that are ultimately no less earnest or affecting than those on the aforementioned break-up record, albeit more given to colorful insider jargon and particularly inventive physical violence. [No. 119, p.54]

The 13-song set gurgles and gloops with the surreal intensity of a Morricone score revisted by a Bollywood auteur/mixmaster. [#54, p.91]

The music seems to matter, and for the listener, that's welcome relief from indiedom's groveling. [#52, p.82]

Her playing, while technically impressive, may not have quite Stetson's jaw-dropping virtuosity, but her pieces have a highly comparable mesmeric, minimalist intensity. [No. 101, p.58]

Diehards may crab about these more experimental sounds, but it's hard to find fault with the James gang for not only climbing out of its rut, but also leaving it far behind. [#69, p.104]

As a whole, The Complete Recordings quiets the lingering misconception that after the Pixies, Black's best work was behind him. [No. 119, p.52]

Merging synth orchestration and genuine strings ins't new, but [Marc] bianchi pushes the form toward and organic/technological inevitable. [#52, p.89]

Over the course of 10 albums, Joe Henry’s music has grown increasingly rich, complex and difficult.

By no means is this debut original, but the hooks are sharp enough and the no-Frills, overdub-free presentation shreds hard enough that it doesn't really need to be. [No. 108, p.59]

There is nary a wasted moment on No Control. [No. 120, p.61]

As his politics become more complex, his writing has grown subtler, the melodies more sophisticated and the lyrics more richly detailed. [#53, p.72]

The Scene Between is another breathless, time-collapsing rush of dayglo, retro, lo-fi indie spunk, cutting back on the hip-hop inflections, schoolyard chants and cut-and-paste sample collage to focus squarely on melody. [No. 119, p.55]

It's as crucial and cool as set of eternally intertwined new-wave voices as Cindy Wilson and Kate Pierson, and that's saying a lot. [No. 106, p.54]

Spencer lays down as much hog-calling jive as can fir on the tape. [No. 119, p.59]

Forcefield achieves a sound, which--despite the title--is all allure, no repellant. [No. 108, p.61]

E shunts between naked self-examination and arch character studies. [#59, p.91]

Overall, this is as disarming and wide-eyed a pop record as you’re likely to hear all year.

Ivy Tripp is the sound of promise realized. [No. 119, p.61]

Well worth a listen. [No. 108, p.61]

An unnervingly powerful, cathartic final statement. [#61, p.107]

[Runner] is something more akin to Eliot Smith, but airier, and with more synth. [No.92 p.58]

By drawing from their past and crafting intriguing sonic hybrids rather than self-consciously aiming for some dubious new turf, the Rosebuds have, accidentally or not, wound up with their most satisfying album yet.

It's his best album in years. [No. 108, p.59]

Coomes' vividly imagined, bloodcurdling tales of anger and dreaming are so cleanly produced and layered... that you barely remember how lousy Quasi's other records sound in comparison. [#71, p.110]

Nothing about Sunday Run Me Over should stop fans from flocking to this. [No. 92, p.53]