Swimming under the four-on-the-floors and blaring horns, the haunting vulnerability that defined The xx’s beginnings is as potent as ever on I See You. This time, it’s effortless.

Perhaps what makes this record so impressive is how, despite the elaborate layering of elements, it never feels muddied or overwrought. It knows exactly when to peel each layer back to isolate every drum kick and synth chord, like a miraculous sonic onion, so that every element is exposed.

Gorguts are no strangers to ambition, always pushing themselves to find beauty in the darkest, most sinister tales of our checkered evolution. What’s most surprising, though, is that we finally get to witness a cast of players who can actually give the ever-shifting Gorguts name the treatment that it deserves.

Bloom is a little over 21-minutes of relentless noise pool of percussion and clatter that’s somehow relaxed by the gently pressed piano keys that methodically pierce its surface, a contrast that rests the mind over the length of this track when it might otherwise induce anxiety.

Common problems and half-assed moneymaker tracks aside, Shaolin vs. Wu-Tang serves as another monument to the effortless style and cool of Rae, and establishes the Chef as the marquee member of the Clan.

On Hell-On, Case once again spins the roulette with a treasury of surprises, stimulating lessons that are complex, thoughtful and articulate.

Woods uses the strength of her vibrant band to mask her reedy vocals, a minor drawback in an otherwise enlightening offering that positions her as one of neo-soul's essential new voices.

Some of the naggier aspects of her music remain, especially her strained, prickly inflection, still somewhat forced and certainly an acquired taste. But all told, there's no denying that Valentine is a singular statement that is profoundly genuine at every turn.

Where Chapman excels where others fail is that he's endearing about his self-deprecation, often conveying truths that read as casual as his relaxed arrangements. He also likes intertwining astronomical reasoning and science into his contemplating, because why wouldn't he.

If Anything was good, but this is the work of a band who are well on their way to establishing themselves as key cogs in their category.

Over time, Morby should outgrow his occasional Dylanesque vocal quirks and redundant baroque embellishments. Still, Singing Saw will be remembered as a breakthrough moment from an artist who’s now more comfortable articulating his own visual language.

Faking the Books... is to Tridecoder and Scary World Theory as OK Computer was to The Bends – a quantum evolutionary leap that, taken consecutively, quite takes your breath away.

Sucker is a one-two punch of wit and grit, as irreverently bratty as the lollipop Charli holds on the cover yet never impersonal, perfunctory, or insincere.

Reminiscent without sounding derivative, this is another fine effort from Tan.

Where before, sounds could often exist along similar planes, he's now added a multi-dimensional aspect, with Exoskeleton in particular.

With Fed, Liam Hayes seems to know that he has made an overly ambitious, maybe even hubristic album. He also doesn’t seem to care much about that, making it that much more appealing.

He has found his musical voice on Watch Me Fall, and while it may not be the best album of 2009, but it’s certainly one of the most enjoyable.

What's most striking is how effortlessly Bundick seems to construct each groove without compromising the complexity of his hybrid style.

Tramp isn't as seizing as Epic, its songs aren't as dense and unalike, its textures don't diverge in the same methods, but it breathes more, it quivers more, it shakes, it overturns itself, it rusts.

Conor Oberst's latest project has demonstrated his unmistakable ability to maintain continuity across an album while managing to quell any potential boredom before it begins to detract from the listening experience.

The result is a convoluted but accessible record that is perhaps Wilkinson’s best to date.

These remarkably self-assured ten tracks stand on their own with joyful inventiveness, as McGreevy tries to make sense of his past mistakes (Old Times) and alcohol-induced pseudo-intellectual babbling (Fit to Burst) through their joyous outbursts.

Salad Days is a testament to love at its most selfless and pure as much as it is the fear of holding on to it.

Sleep Cycle represents, and unintentionally so, a creative rebirth that goes against Animal Collective’s increasingly evanescent creativity. It took long enough, but the investment was worth it.

As much as The Deep Field concerns itself with Joan Wasser's considerable emotional needs, this is not a self-absorbed record. It's a big, open-hearted statement on the best way love in a world where "good living requires smiling at strangers."

What it loses in irreverence it gains in solemnity and seriousness, but this is still the Zahner-Isenberg of before, ruminating on his past with a conflicted conscience that threatens his every thought.

Ekstasis abounds with originality and depth; soars and sinks; expands and implodes; evolves and dissipates; crackles and breaks all within one cohesive sound.

What Freedom reveals is McMahon's ever-evolving tapestry, as it affectionally chronicles the human condition with candor and open-hearted curiosity.