The Unicorns’ Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Gone? defines indie-pop, laden with hooks boasting a charmingly lo-fi sound devoid of pretensions and true to whatever whimsy their muse has stricken them with.

An indie-release album that shines under lower stakes without sacrificing Monch's complexities or intelligence.

A beautiful and steady album about defying the roles others put you in and pondering what went wrong. It’s a heartbreaking project as well, peppered with upbeat but cutting songs. It may not be Loveless’s best album -- Real is impossible to beat -- but it ideally captures the indescribable greatness of her songwriting.

Yo La Tengo wants us to absorb their calm serenity, and that it's okay to sit down and distance ourselves from the negativity we encounter from time to time.

It's Real is a traditional rock record through and through. But like that secondhand vinyl sitting on your shelf that never got reissued, it contains deep, thick grooves that always sound fresh regardless of its dwindling shelf life.

Glaspy’s voice itself is eccentric and susceptible to emotional metamorphosis, and some of the album’s strongest moments are when her voice is abrasive in its frustration or contrition: for example the first words spat from the chorus of You and I, or the frantic bursts of urgency amongst the affable stream of the title track. Sometimes, the formula for good guitar music is a simple one.

The Waterfall lived up to its lofty ambitions, as the band navigated an enchanting patchwork of enchanting orchestral folk and winding prog rock. And that's just scratching the surface—by comparison, The Waterfall II is a little looser and rough around the edges. It's also a more overt attempt at sending a loving homage to their favorite pop songwriter.

Nothing ground-breaking, but an all-round good proposition.

While he denies us simple solutions, he uses this album to open sounds and atmospheres stranger and more daring than he’s used before. Rather than looking for answers, maybe the questions are what truly matter.

Once you press play on this wonderful record, Josh T. Pearson will take you with him. It might be painful, but you will savour every tear and be thankful for the bruises. Be greatful for this dark pariah.

The Fool rewards at almost every step of the way with its experimental touches.

This record’s strength is its directness. It may lean more towards the mainstream than usual, but that makes it another fresh move in a career full of them. No matter what styles he tries, Wilson excels. In that case, To The Bone is not so different at all.

This is a release of artfully constructed, seamlessly great indie-rock that could get easily passed by. Samia has the presence of someone effortlessly classy and commanding, which makes this project all the more appealing.

Sonic Nurse could be the best guitar rock album since, well, Murray St.

Take Care isn't without one or two missteps: the rapid-fire drums and nondescript chanting that open Trembling Hands come off a little too much like a cheap Arcade Fire pastiche, while the overlong closing track Let Me Back In is something of an anti-climax.

While it can feel like juvenilia, it's in a very endearing way, a catalogue of the catharsis of a high-school misfit.

While a lack of editing and consistency may keep neo from being better than promising, the energized rush of holding the void and hyper-melodic the sickness deliver two of the album’s best moments, the latter being the most successful synthesis of So Pitted’s want of strange and aggro.

Even if Ashes Grammar drifts quite nicely as a whole--best listened to it with eyes closed in a meditative position--it seems most appropriate for the short attention span generation.

The two have crafted an album worthy of their names, stylistically bold and also a whole lot of fun.

There’s still much celebration to be had in Carrier; they just channel it in a way that’s not expected of them.

Considering the vast number of ideas they put forth here, they're still finding new ways to engage with their signature formula after all these years—easily one of their most robust since 2008's Version 2.0.

The phenomenal performances from Cherry and Gustafsson simply blast away any genre preconceptions – by sheer virtue of the musical confidence of this collaboration, they've created something magnificent.

The resulting album feels fresh and contemporary--as much as any new young guitar band around today--and not at all a retro step.

It's laudable that The Decemberists are still prepared to try something different, still prepared to break away from what they're known for. There's a tiny concern that they've lost something which set them apart from the pack, but as long as they're still capable of writing such strong material, they'll retain their deserved reputation.

The swinging electro-pop of Wild Times might sound out of place on a record like this, but when it's executed this infectiously, the change in mood is more than forgiven. Creevy sounds freer than ever, reclaiming her life amidst romantic entanglements that are equal parts vulnerable and resilient.

The result isn't a glorious one, that's not really what The Mountain Goats do, but it is a very strong addition to an already vast canon of work.

Silver Dollar Moment, is a consistently charming affair, veering on the right side of both nostalgic requiescence and syrupy saccharine sweet.

Cheatahs doesn’t make any great claims of originality, and it certainly doesn’t break any new ground. It just succeeds because it is what it is.

Love and Its Opposite is often a careful-sounding album and while that synopsis may not quicken the heart, it gives Thorn’s work an air of professionalism and care.

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

MGMT always excel when they don't try too hard, and on Little Dark Age, they admirably leverage irony with lighthearted merriment.

The Far Field is a cathartic listen, an album that wears its emotions on its sleeve. It's all here, the good times and bad, the hope and despair, laid out for all to see and feel. It's rare that you hear albums that brazenly bear their writers' soul, while remaining this effortlessly enjoyable.

While not his best album, Hesitation Marks shows that he has no intention to fall back on old formulas.

The sheer joy behind each song here is what keeps You Deserve Love from the occasion sameness that you could find on The World’s Best American Band.

Nadler is technically less alone, accompanied by a reliable cast of characters, but their inclusion is a virtue considering a simpler layout might've given the album a more distancing effect. It takes some time to absorb, but once it does the emotion it conveys is stunning.

Flood Network as a whole is spellbinding even when it’s faintly outlandish, marked with a fraught identity that shrouds her creative audacity.

While Meek isn’t fully out of the shadow that Lenker and Big Thief have created, Two Saviors makes a fine argument that he should be taken seriously as his own artist.

The greater the risk, the greater the reward. And I can think of no better reward than this album.

Perhaps the album hits its heights a bit late, but when Youth Lagoon's full confidence is on display, it's hard to turn away.

It’s an album full of aggressive piano, golden rock and roll and warbled, disturbed lyrics.

Loud Planes Fly Low has heart and soul to it, both very familiar with wells of confusion and despair; unfortunately, it's not the first heart and soul to chart these depths.

Sometimes, the results are heavily wrought and obviously worked over (the muddled instrumentation in the chorus of Breakers comes to mind), and some of the skittering grooves (the spastic tribal pounding of Wooly Mammoth) don't quite fit in the album's overarching arc. Nevertheless, the stately elegance of Hummingbird emphasizes how Local Natives are fit for the role of indie rock saviors.

Even if the songs sometimes lack some nuance, as is the many thematic layers the band puts on display, Standell-Preston manages to keep the album afloat when she's at her most open-hearted and assertive.

Musically, it's by far their most rounded and satisfying album to date.

Infra is a pensive and deeply involving achievement, which rewards long after the credits have finished rolling.

This is a record to really fall in love with.

Suckers make this stylistic smorgasbord indisputably their own.

There are some missteps on this album, but the last line on the record, which comes at the end of the seven-minute closer, is a perfect sign-off: “This shouldn’t hurt, but you might feel a slight discomfort”--an ominous warning and a promise of a new awakening.

This album is a grower.

The band stays true to their rhythmic minimalism and bouts of art-infused modernity and Red Barked Tree has a consistency that its predecessor lacked to some extent, though 47 seemed more prone to experimentation and risk.

With The Bride Screamed Murder, The Melvins attempt a refined edge from a songwriting perspective, songs like Pig House boasting some mathematic constructs and the organ bending Iâ??ll Finish You Off acting as some weird Flaming Lips take on grungy psychedelia.

Migration is a sparkling, crisp display of Green’s ability to completely immerse a listener, and it’s strong as it’s ever been.

That's Real Estate. The composition is flawless, but the feel is mellow and meandering, subdued and slight.

The equivalent of changing radio stations in his more youthful days, Kiss Each Other Clean is the result of Beam uncontrollably turning the radio knob until finding the right tune in his head.

If GY!BE is the Tolstoy of the Constellation label, DMST has to be its Chekhov.

An original and fascinating record from three enviably talented musicians, who probably will not spend much longer being so inexplicably overlooked.

She’s made an album for embracing yourself, your past and whatever lies ahead, and having fun while doing so. Her music doesn’t sound like the future. Even better, it sounds like the present.

Three tracks and two genre-shifts in, it’s a wonder how well the pieces fit together. Vu’s voice is a connecting thread, a honeyed contralto as distorted and disconnected as her affect, doubled onto itself and pulsing with uncertainty.

By utilizing a synth-based soundtrack just as organic, emotional, and unadulterated as Welsh’s voice and lyrics, Impersonator successfully matches man with machine and gives each an equally powerful, equally human voice.

Bromst is an excellent followup to a slightly more-excellent debut, and proof that Deacon isn't going anywhere.

In a way, we’re witnessing the rest of the evolution that began on "Son," as Molina experimented with the ways the human voice could be manipulated electronically, as an instrument.

Each track sounds as fresh and as punchy as the last, and it is instantly infectious.

The weaknesses are outweighed by the strengths considerably, and so shouldn’t detract from another impressive collection; how a band can keep producing music of relative significance in such a conveyor belt fashion is truly mystifying.

Everything Ever Written even ends with a pleasant curveball, the gorgeous Utopia, an illuminating reverie that poignantly illustrates the measures people take to adapt to their surroundings in spite of the final outcome.

It’s a summer record if ever there was one--with even the opening track being named Sun’s Out. It’s a great introduction to the record, where a punchy snare, an uncomplicated bassline and a heat-warped guitar lick combine so easily that it takes a few of Drew Auschermann’s lyrics to be delivered before you even realize they’re there.

What It Means To Be Left-Handed is amply adorned with Pierce's distinctive improvisatory drum stylings, with each rim hit and snare taking on a melodic spirit of its own, whilst never intruding. His kit-work is a baffling contradiction of smooth and jagged, providing a solid backdrop whilst playfully interacting with dense acoustic guitar textures or washy post-rock atmospheres.

BBNG have always been fluent and sonically articulate, but enlisting the talents of suitable vocalists to thicken their smokescreen strengthens their suit.

This album is a great one, and proof that the band are able and willing to develop and grow their music.

An unfair degree of skepticism can surround a band like The Hives for firing in all cylinders well into their forties, but there's no denying their commitment and passion to staying in character on and off the stage.

They've never let us down before, and they don't here, as frustrating as it is to hear the band fall just short of crafting something incredible. All the songs stand up, but the album loses steam and focus and begins to drag by the end of its 65 minute running time.

Despite the moments where you feel like you're having a bad trip, there's a deranged brilliance on Castlemania that's difficult to ignore.

The welsh trio have taken their time to reach this point, but with The Big Roar they have taken their opportunity with great style, producing what I think is a mature, clever and exceptionally listenable record from start to finish--and that's a mighty thing.

Most of Ambulance tends to cast a shadow on their most riotous tendencies, but there are still surprises to be found; the more sanguine Blair Dagger almost sounds out of place with its salacious tremolo strains, though it also highlights the band at their most playfully engaged.

While it seemingly ends in the same place it starts (Bognanno singing on loop “I don’t know what I wanted” isn’t really a positive ending), this is Bully’s best project yet, lacing all of their marvelous qualities into a candid and catchy molotov cocktail.

Fullbrook mottles sonic accouterments throughout with graceful finesse, though sometimes at the expense of songs that dissolve into a foggy blur.

The material is strong but rarely achieves greatness.

Its searing synths and chopped vocals can feel unjustified as a whole, but the songcraft is strong and the style supports some of its best moments.

More so than Wounded Rhymes or Youth Novels, I Never Learn is a record for a radio-loving crowd who wouldn’t have a problem with the lack of variety in content matter or the relative sameness in sound and composition.

Object 47 is proof that Wire’s edge remains as sharp as ever.

It’s an arc that she manages to complete with her conceptual solo trilogy, and though the pop chart-minded songs devalue the album’s more adventurous pursuits, Richard is still devoted to push her art in new, unexplored directions.

Not only does Undercard not disappoint--there are more than a couple earworms here and there--but it's brilliant and fresh from two musicians who aren't exactly freshmen to the scene.

Molly Rankin’s vocals throughout the record compliment the soundscapes perfectly, fanning disappointment with hope whilst exercising a great deal of control--and an admirable lack of bias--over her ponderings.

With Jinx, we get to see a promising band push their sound outward and gracefully mature, even if it doesn’t always floor you as immediately as some of Sports’ loudest moment do.

Thought it doesn't make an impression at first glance, The Chaos crosses The Futureheads' entire discography into a wholly satisfying package.

While still featuring the repetition and reverb that embodies much of Lennox's work, Tomboy is more divisible, and more accessible for a downloaded generation, or listeners looking to simply dabble their toes.

Perfect Pussy constantly find new ways to stimulate that teenage bit of your brain that wants to scream and punch things and has a lot of things to say but doesn’t know how to say them.

Where The Volunteers falls down, surprisingly, is in the excessively slick production. Despite the ethos and lyrics, musically this is not the handmade, indie effort you might expect.

To really get the most from Margerine Eclipse, consume it in its entirety in one sitting: songs that appear to be fairly average when dipped into randomly take on new elements when they take their place in the overall sequence.

The band is categorically known for their disciplined uniformity, an approach that gives the band more room to inject more personality into their straightforward rhythm section; seeing as the indie rock landscape has also considerably changed, it’s actually a welcome throwback that’s aged well.

Asleep on the Floodplain is more than an acoustic showcase.

Weirdon is a melodic and enjoyable rock album.

Payola picks off right where their last one left off while completely ignoring that the past decade even happened, which sounds like a harder feat then it might appear.

While Lekman certainly knows how to use a sample, it is his songwriting talent, his storytelling ability, and above all his remarkable emotional honesty that make I Know What Love Isn't the finest achievement of his career.

Rave Tapes is a cohesive piece of work, its perspective blended despite variance in approach.

Her voice single-handedly eliminates all accusations of the sameness that could be shot at the songs, evens the pace of the album, and although it may not make up for the album's flaws entirely, it certainly helps hide them and is reason enough on its own to find enjoyment on this album.

Trouble in Paradise is at once sleek and solid, every track pulsing with a kind of confidence that invites closer listening but is equally pleasant as a collection of mood-heightening jams.

Memoirs at the End of the World, as ambitious as it seems, never seems to overstate it’s welcome.

1,000 Years is an uplifting album, despite some of the painful imagery. Sometimes wallowing in the past isn't such a bad thing, especially when, like it did for Corin Tucker, it moves you forward.