With little overlap between his back-to-back acoustic performances recorded last November, we're provided a sterling overview of Adams' impressive catalogue. [No.121, p.53]

Save for the slightly teary 90-second trudge of "The Real Wilderness," it's a rollicking pummel throughout. [No. 121, p.58]

I don't feel moved by Lee's progress toward enlightenment. [No. 121, p.56]

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

Every track here honors the spirit behind her perfromance style first and foremost. [No. 121, p.51]

Underneath it all is a specificity of sound that threads all of the album's tracks together like beads on a string. [No. 121, p.55]

An album that is cinematic in scope and has a harmonic narrative as complex as your favorite TV show. [No. 121, p.55]

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

The whole thing is ghoulishly gorgeous in the most comfortably comfortable way. [No. 121, p.60]

An inventive, truly out-of-time pop record that never registers as nostalgic. [No. 121, p.61]

It's bright and lovely stuff, but I miss the darkness. [No. 121, p.61]

Last Of Our Kind has heavy and abrasive moments that are heavier and more abrasive than anything in The darkness discography. [No. 121, p.53]

What sounds like downcast spaciousness is actually riddled with layers of sound complementing the expected morose and heartfelt topics. [No. 121, p.61]

Mutilator continues Thee Oh Sees' unprecedented, mind-melting hot streak. [No. 121, p.61]

This is about as '80s nostalgic as you can get without voting for Margaret Thatcher and hoovering up a pile of Peruvian flake. [No. 121, p.61]

It refracts light in multiple, appealing ways. [No. 121, p.61]

Miller is a clever, concrete writer, and The Traveler is full of melodies that lock into place with a sense of inevitability. [No. 121, p.58]

It's a treat to hear Cohen so comfortable in both his old and new skins. [No. 121, p.53]

Kinski has probably never rocked this hard. [No. 121, p.57]

The Welsh quintet's second release goes down as easy as a mixtape on a '90s spring day. [No. 121, p.57]

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

Guitar player Martin Belmont and keyboard ace Bob Andrews shine throughout, adding subtle fills and accents that give plenty of sparkle to arrangements that still merge R&B and rock with hints of funk and reggae. [No. 121, p.59]

Wire needs more of the barbed wit and brute anger that has enabled the band's best post-2000 work stand up to its iconic '70s recordings. [No. 120, p.60]

Their combined voices are just so unfathomably, incorrigibly all-devouring. [No. 120, p.61]

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

Jenkins continues his adroitness at transforming disparate juxtapositions of R2-D2 blips and bloops, deep bass drops into sonic sculptures that are futuristically dense and engagingly hip-shaking. [No. 120, p.61]

With Foil Deer, Speedy Ortiz fully owns its style, quirks and neuroses on a level that would have been unimaginable circa 2013's Major Arcana. [No. 120, p.61]

Kindred is fun, but best in small, sugary doses. [No. 120, p.59]

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

Occasionally struggling to balance style with substance, Gardner nonetheless makes Hypnophobia much more than just an exercise in sonic adventurism. [No. 120, p.55]

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

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

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 can proudly stand alongside anything else the band has done. [No. 120, p.52]

It's far and away Fernow's most affecting recorded work to date. [No. 120, p.59]

More restrained and tasteful. [No. 120, p.61]

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

Not every track soars, but you have to admire the band's starry-eyed commitment to exploring the outer reaches of inner space. [No. 120, p.61]

II is looser and fuzzier than its predecessor.... one of 2015's standout records. [No. 120, p.56]

Heartbreak Pass is dusty, gritty and dry in all the right ways. [No. 120, p.55]

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

A bit more expansive and widescreen, a bit more fleshed out and muscular, but essentially a companion piece to their debut. [No. 120, p.55]

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

A full band plays behind Joyner's acoustic guitar and quiet vocals, but they employ the same restraint that marks his singing, making very quiet note resonate with low-key, understated emotion. [No. 119, p.57]

[A] lovingly curated set. [No. 119, p.57]

The whole thing is executed with a sense of starry-eyed bliss. [No. 119, p.61]

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

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

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]

Standout moments exist but the apparent slap across the face of preparedness results in meandering transitions, misplaced sax bleating that's part downtown jazz, part "Careless Whisper," and the feeling that there was a fair amount of sleepwalking through the process. [No. 119, p.55]

Schott's new material retains some of the music-box delicacy of yore, and her breathy singing is as slender as a reed. [No. 119, p.53]

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]

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]

It's hard to imagine reaching for No Pier Pressure when you could choose from all those great(and even not-so-great) Beach Boys albums from 40 or 50 years ago. [No. 119, p.60]

The bona-fide masterpiece that Stevens' career has culminated in, and likely the one that will come to define his career. [No. 119, p.58]

Hunter applies her vampiest vocals yet, and it's a natural match. [No. 119, p.59]

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

A howling, blustery, white-knuckle ride that is nothing less than astounding. [No. 119, p.59]

As an exercise in shimmering, occasionally funky rock, What For? succeeds. [No. 119, p.61]

Stealing Sheep could have easily made another weird art album, and it would have been great; instead, it made a weird pop album, and it's a bold step into a bigger world. [No. 119, p.61]

Second Hand Heart weakest moments are when it's a little too familiar, though.... He more than makes up for it elsewhere. [No. 119, p.61]

They've managed to write one the hookiest, most satisfying albums of their career. [No. 119, p.53]

Calder never strains, never belts it out; she finds her sweet spot and reveals in all album long. [No. 119, p.53]

These new arrangements--mostly piano, trumpet, upright bass and pedal steel--lend the songs a deeper loneliness, a richer tragicomedy, as if they really belonged in a concert hall, and maybe they do. [No. 119, p.55]

Untethered Moon is almost undeniably a classic slice of BTS. [No. 119, p.51]

The whole bloody history of England's greatest cult act unfolds, rendering obscurity ultimately noble and rewarding. [No. 118, p.61]

Nothing here will supplant Smith's own definitive versions, but fans of the Avett Brothers, of Mayfield, and, indeed, of Smith will find plenty to love in this affectionate and unassuming album. [No. 118, p.53]

Bid's disaffected-yet-engaging vocals and slice-of-life lyrics remain compelling as ever. [No. 118, p.59]

Sadly, the first full album of new Swervedriver music since 1997's 99th Dream is 10 loud and thick attempts to recapture the catchiness, energy and all-important mood of timeless classics and exactly that same number fall short of the magic. [No. 118, p.55]

Oddly familiar and familiarly odd, Season Hire is a challenging and progressive counterpoint to staid and fallow takes on folk music that have been crapping the airwaves--and our news feeds--in recent years. [No. 118, p.61]

The back half gets slower, darker and weirder--integral ingredients all. But there isn't one track here that stands out from the rest. [No. 118, p.59]

On this enthralling sophomore effort, Spaltro continues to refine her skill set and approach without sacrificing any of her signature adventurousness or decidedly un-lamb-like power. [No. 118, p.59]

There's something comforting about hearing this stripped-down version of Iron & Wine again. [No. 118, p.54]

The group's self-titled debut smoothly splits the difference between the glassy, grime-inflected production that Nguzunguzu typically trades in and a whole host of contemporary club sounds from around the world. [No. 118, p.57]

The incense hangs thick and hazy, dancing wispily through guitar pickups, keyboards keys and effects processor motherboards. [No. 118, p.55]

Deacon possesses the rare ability to tweak the conventions of his chosen mode of musical expression while expanding them into a distinctive style signature. [No. 118, p.55]

For all the aesthetic hopscotching, Ripe 4 Luv never falls off its sharp, catchy axis. [No. 118, p.61]

The Rezillos have lost little in terms of sweaty, cranky boogie-rock fervor that they and the Cramps helped put on the map. [No. 118, p.61]

It's positively full of life. [No. 118, p.56]

The arrangements here never add anything to the songs that you haven't heard a thousand other bands do just as well, if not better. [No. 118, p.55]

Policy shows that Will is more than capable of getting the kids to wake up. [No. 118, p.53]

The duo [Marc Almond and producer Chris Braide] unspools deliciously theatrical (eerily dark) piano etudes and grand, minor-key mini-epics that are the musical equivalent of an Oscar Wilde work. [No. 118, p.53]

There's a candor here that hasn't always touched the Icelandic singer/composer's electro-dreamscape output. [No. 118, p.52]

The music carries you along, building to a very gradual crescendo that feels like Popol Vuh stretching out one Phil Spector moment for three-quarters of an hour. [No. 118, p.53]

There's still plenty to get excited about here.... But the stinkers here--like would-be Bowling For Soup b-side "Karaoke, TN" and "Coat Check Girl"--nearly soil the whole thing. [No. 118, p.57]

Knopfler inhabits his tunes with an earnest intensity, a slight melancholy and an age-old wisdom. [No. 118, p.57]

Brock and Co. manage to entertain and amuse as often as they don't. [No. 118, p.51]

It's a furious, loud, unbridled, relentless album. [No. 117, p.60]

A treasure trove of unheralded, largely unheard, completely unselfconscious pop music that bravely led post-punk out of the gloom and into its rose-colored romantic future. [No. 117, p.51]

It's far, far better than anyone ever had a right to expect. [No. 117, p.53]

Easy crowd banter and goofy in-the-moment revisions of lyrics make Live not only a fine addition to the band's discography, but an excellent summing-up of the best of its output so far. [No. 117, p.53]

Brave stuff. [No. 117, p.54]

Mansion Songs isn't a great LP, but there's a damn good EP buried in here. [No. 117, p.55]

These tunes would work better if the influences weren't so obvious. [No. 117, p.55]

This is the first time since 2003 that Elverum fully succeeds in casting a meditative spell strong enough to suck everyone listing into its singular IRL riptide. [No. 117, p.57]

Body Pill nods briefly to vintage Detroit techno and no-holds-barred house in between stiffly edging out its own ground on the very crowded floor that is contemporary dance music, often on the same track. [No. 117, p.59]

Best experienced in depressed darkness while contemplating your existence. [No. 117., p.59]