He rarely reveals much of his true intent throughout, relying upon platitudes that, while truthful, make Hadsel sound a little thin in places. But Condon knows his audience well, resorting to a heavily cinematic atmosphere that will have his listeners contemplating their own aspirations rather than focusing on his. Just like he intended to do.

It may be Power’s most fatalistic declaration, but also his most engagingly diverse, and his marked exasperations do reflect a not-so-distant dystopia that suitably aligns with today’s societal disconnect.

Rachel's albums are consistently greater than the sum of their parts.

If you hear ten seconds of any given song then you've heard its entirety, yet you haven't experienced the song. It's that sort of an album.

For a debut album from a gal who can’t even legally rent a car by herself, this is very impressive. She attracts to a wide audience, displays restraint and obscurity at appropriate times.

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.

They've deftly struck the balance between breaking new ground and retaining their sound while making a record that has – bold statement alert – NO bad songs on it.

The Money Store might be the very definition of acquired taste, and will most likely alienate the vast majority who attempt to give it a spin, but it's undeniably an extraordinary record.

They play to a more jangle-pop register on the bouncy Public Bodies before bringing back the fuzzy guitars and haunting tones on What We Do It For. The only throughline here is that the songs themselves are interesting indie-rock.

One of her most consistent and wonderful collections of unique, heartfelt, and depressing songs yet, even if it’s somewhat hampered by the need to make it “as cathartic and minimal as possible.” While Andrew Sarlo’s production is occasionally sedate, the writing is still exemplary.

Overall, it’s an improvement over the yawnfest of "Takk," but not nearly as consistent as one would like.

Picking highlights is futile; the record might run for less than twenty minutes but it burns brightly for the whole duration.

Manipulator stands as Segall’s most intricately woven and patiently developed work.

Those looking for a sombre accompaniment for the wintry evenings ahead could do a hell of a lot worse than pick up this superb record.

The creative zeal McCombs displays on Mangy Love, and his willingness to take some chances, even if low stakes, engages both the heart and the mind.

The most striking aspect of Ode to Joy is how weary Tweedy sounds. From upfront political themes (Citizens, which wavers and rumbles with minor harmonies, lines about white lies, and distorted guitars) to thoughts of personal tragedy (White Wooden Cross), there's one clear conclusion: Tweedy is beaten down. But Tweedy is at his best when he's processing that exhaustion.

If APTBS have fallen off your radar in recent years, then this is the one worth reintroducing yourself to their work.

From the thumping, industrial charge of I Exhale to the sublimely hypnotic techno of Low Burn, Underworld are in full form, giving meaning and substance to every single minute with hardly a wasted moment.

It’s not that Diamond has recorded a masterpiece, since quite a good portion of this is decidedly B material. It’s that the good stuff represents Neil at his best, exploiting his considerable knack for melody and structure to the fullest.

While his music has reached new heights of production and depth, his penmanship remains pedestrian.

Keep It Flowers is an edgy, brash, and well put together statement that mostly goes down easy.

Quite eponymously, the album is a grand performance, and one whose stagecraft is the sole work of a brilliant ringmaster in Clark.

But the band is grounded in humility, always playing against each other with a drifting timbre that’s inviting and likable. But tucked within their textural progressions lay deftly written songs that honor their long-lived inclination to remain emotionally and intellectually independent.

Overall, her empowering message points at the daily toxic attitudes that female celebrities deal with. Screen Violence also projects confidence in a musical sense with its grand synth-pop and new wave, resisting and challenging the misogyny that unfortunately reaches far beyond our screens.

The original was Etten taking tentative first steps to collaborate, while this album sees her pass on the songs completely. It’s a fitting legacy for an album that’s about moving on stronger, but not without forgetting about the heartache it took to get there.

Syd hasn’t quite molded herself as a pop luminary, but the self-determined themes on Fin do portray an independent woman who’s fueled by the power of love.

Rather than a credible follow-up, it’s another great album in its own right.

Ultimately, what it all boils down to is that, as much as an album can be, it's pretty damn close to being flawless; not only matching the quality of The Reminder but actually bettering it.

Maybe the lyrics fall a little on the simplistic side, which is frustrating considering the themes here can be pretty bleak despite the sunny and airy sound. But overall, Devastator is a more than enjoyable return for a band that always felt deserved more attention.

Throughout these skeletal observations, Horn turns cryptic when she's about to give out more than she should—stressing ominous implications while using the mundane as a backdrop of her stories à la Raymond Carver, a writer she cites as an influence.

It's a good album, revelatory in that Liars can carry their sound into different realms of possibility, a translation carried out by different instruments.

The album is stacked with jaw-dropping moments, underpinned by seismic emotional shifts.

It's curious how much of the content in here could bring back what is fast becoming an increasingly extinct way of emoting--the fact that it feels this intimate should be something to be thankful for.

Bonfires on the Heath is another shrewd effort for the London based band.

This is probably the hardest Low album I’ve heard to appreciate, but it’s certainly worth it.

Gore is a listen as complex and engrossing as we’ve come to expect from Deftones, and they continue to be a band that matures organically, becoming more and more fluid in their own craft.

Courtney might give the impression that he's aiming for a low-stakes, minor effort to pass the time in Magic Signs, a stopgap until moving on to a relatively more ambitious project. But he couldn't be more in his element, shifting in and out of focus as he recaptures his youthful wonder.

Even with its faults, The Magic Whip is remarkably cohesive; not a single track is superfluous, flippant, or jarring.

It could do with one or two songs being trimmed, but there's enough variety to keep things engaging, if at times it lacks incisiveness. Still, my criticisms are largely comparing the band to their past work, which happens to be exceptional.

Even at his most open, there's still this sense that his character-driven songs wouldn't exist without revealing the backstory of his Canadian roots. His sentiments are more palpable and poignant, but his approach is as casual as always.

You may well have to look elsewhere for music that will one day remind you of 2013, but this is still a great, brief blast of noisy, off-kilter rock; a consistent debut which sounds better each time you hear it.

Bradford Cox has created a work that musically and lyrically will attach itself to your consciousness, reflecting exterior experience and encouraging inner association with the former.

It’s almost as if Pinhas isn’t quite committed to offering this much of himself to anyone, as if, in spite of this written and performed maelstrom of odds and ends, he’s proceeding with caution.

While rallying for a new cycle of nostalgia, Yuck's debut ends with beautifully rendered confirmation that they mean to do more than simply appease the Alterna-boomers: They're asking for attention, so lend them an ear.

It makes a complicated formula sound so effortlessly simple. And that's not something you can do with little effort or care.

Embryonic is a true 21st century freak-out and it's only appropriate to end this decade with such an ambitious, intrepid undertaking.

Compared to Rock and Roll Night Club, 2 is a more polished and refined take on his brand of minimalist rock, structured around his keen songwriting.

This Is How You Smile feels like an exercise in restraint but not in a dull suffocating kind of way. What makes it work is how even as he continues embracing more conventional instruments and structures, Lange still leaves room for himself to tinker and experiment at the same time. For music so understated and gentle, it's almost startling just how powerful it's capable of being.

Loving In Stereo has flashes of talent beyond its most showy jewels. There's a seventies aura that stains each verse, beat, and falsetto, as they channel a post-pandemic, Studio 54 vibe on tracks like What D'You Know About Me?, Bonnie Hill, and Fire. On the latter, bass lines take over and flare with fiery excitement. Loving in Stereo is the first album that Jungle releases through their own independent label Caiola Records. It feels like they're moving forward.

Though [the songs on Transcendental Youth] may not reach the highs of past songs like Damn These Vampires from last year's All Eternals Deck or Family Happiness from The Coroner's Gambit, there is still plenty here for fans of The Mountain Goats to sink their teeth into.

Sleeping Through The War is the embodiment of a gentle giant: huge in presence but unwaveringly accessible.

Goat Girl achieves a new clarity to their dense lyrical content when their murky antics turn more accessible.

That they somehow manage to fit together to seemingly describe an entire world makes Engravings something of a minor (key) marvel.

While it’s not short of irritating periods of pretension, it’s par for the course when beauty, indulgence and complexity are key ingredients in the melting pot.

Micah P. Hinson and the Pioneer Saboteurs see the intensity and stark beauty return in full form.

A Classic Education have created a set that demonstrates proficiency while leaning heavily on an established style.

Overall, Lamb of God is a solid outing featuring a handful of tracks of potency with some genuine disaffection behind them, which shows the group has plenty left to say ten records in.

It would be rash to immediately start writing The National’s obituary, but this really does sounds like the band is preparing to wind down, for a period at least. It seems like we’re really no closer to answering that first question. Where do The National go from here? It could be a while before we find out.

Pierce cloaks these songs in white with a sort of pious ecstasy.

Contains some of his most memorable moments to date.

Ronson’s efforts can sometimes come across as superfluous since Villains does tend to drag during its last stretch without finding a way to refresh some of its tired, fuzzed-out riffs (sans for Villains of Circumstance, a multi-part epic that ends the album with show-stopping confidence). But make no mistake, this is a Queens record that has no pretenses, no false identity. And it provides just the right remedy to refuel rock radio’s loss of identity.

Each and every selection here has loads of character, confidently bringing back the kind of polished guitar dynamics that many contemporary indie rock bands either take for granted or don’t have the capacity to arrange into sharp, rock-sculpted songs.

There's a seamless fluidity to how they're dependent on each others' input, and their contributions seem to suit their interests. It's an unerringly sincere look into a trio who are moving into adulthood, one stumble at a time.

There’s enough raucous obnoxiousness, not to mention effortless expert musicianship, in these eight tracks and thirty-five minutes to mark Melt Yourself Down out be the front-runner for not just that token Mercury nod, but the ironic moustache twiddling party album of the year.

Kveikur is a strong album, one with no low-lights and an intriguing progression of sound.

It may lack some of the avant-garde experimentation and concepts of her full-lengths but after all she’s been through and all that she’s given us, CAPRISONGS feels like a victory lap.

Coming in at 26 minutes, Twelve Nudes doesn’t hang around and, by design, is a much more modest record than Transangelic Exodus. It rarely matches the highs on last year’s effort, but paired together, it suggests Furman is the midst of a prolific period.

The lack of engaging realism has always been one of the major problems for Of Montreal and the new material goes a long way towards solving it.

While not on par with essential solo Pollard fare like Not in My Airforce, Waved Out or From a Compound Eye this cohesive, flowing work motors by and, as always, his stirring songs reveal themselves and their riches through repeated listens.

Put simply, it's lovely.

It's another brilliant album from one of the genre's foremost artists.

Timeless and treasurable.

What is required to create a record which is grown from the compost of the past and still remain original is something close; perhaps not quite; not entirely; but nearly, genius.

Despite the fact that Offend Maggie is, in some ways, a “nothing new” addition to Deerhoof’s canon, it’s also one of their best.

The Ascension bobs along in a meandering sea of drum machine and synth pads, waiting for something to latch on to. It never takes long; Stevens has the ideas and they hit relentlessly, moving on and doubling over before you’ve had half a chance to process them.

Tei Shi has honed a dynamic spectrum of poppy R&B full of dexterity and revelations, and produced a solid debut LP in the process.

Already Forth Wanderers ooze the confidence and candidness to make themselves major players in their indie-pop sphere.

The Crying Light shows us that there is one medium of output that will undoubtedly remain his most naturally beautiful, his most perfect fit.

There’s no use putting The Twilight Sad out of their misery if they continue to deliver such a delightfully morose tapestry of color and vitality.

The Louder I Call... is another step forward for Wye Oak, a duo who still carry plenty of vision to inject some life into a form of indie rock that you don't hear that often anymore.

It's only after several listens that the album's wholeness clarifies. Because the tracks tend to be downtempo, reflective, and downright sleepy, it takes time and patience to realize Bejar is working like a good storyteller.

That’s not to say it’s not a very promising album taken as a whole, and its clear that the two work well together. A little more consistency in their focus and less pointlessly meandering distraction could really see them do justice to their own talents and produce something truly classic.

With the satisfyingly realized and solid Mirror Traffic, Malkmus is at the top of his game, both as a consistent songwriter and guitarist, continuing the upwardly mobile trajectory of an enduring and golden indie-rock solo career in it's second decade, playing and singing better than ever.

Though evocative as they may be, those who are familiar with his discography can occasionally feel an unexplainable sense of deja vu.

Every musical detour she takes on KoKoro sounds carefully plotted, and though it may occasionally wander without a clear center, it hardly lessens her severe case of wanderlust.

Much of April is quite lovely. Sure, it sounds like one long song to me, but it’s a nice song, with subtle variations.

Modestly anthemic and quietly anthemic, ƒIN is worth the time of any music fan that considers themselves in the slightest bit interested in electronic music.

Owen makes it look easy with her articulate songwriting—and though taking many cues from The National's Aaron Dessner (who produced the album) in sonic terms, she deftly controls her somber arrangements with a depth that is wise beyond her years.

As much as High On Fire pride themselves on their recorded brand of relentless brawn, How Dark We Pray, down to its fine solos and overall execution, is the album's best moment.

OK, it’s a depressing mess, needlessly turning the existential dread-ometer up to 11. But hey, it’s got a nice tune and you can dance to it.

The storytelling on display is just as sharp and compelling—even if, from a musical sense, Edwards could've expanded on her radio-friendly arrangements a little bit more.

It's yet another labor of love from The Weeknd, and it does not disappoint.

An album whose imagination is fortified and enlivened by the limitlessness of punk rock and musical experimentation.

It puts you on a kick after soothing you with its pacifying hooks. And really, it’s in making those small variations where The Feelies find their gentle collision of energy and contemplation.

It's a handsome work, but it really could have done with a bit of judicious editing.

The quiet/loud dynamics of Pleasure showcase an artist who’s satiating her capricious appetite, all while keeping her listeners guessing with a knowing wink.

It abounds with fertile musical ideas, which is something that's been missing in our depleted cultural diet. In a world that's gone mad, this mesmerizing confection is like a balm, bewitching the listener with soothing reveries. For now, it stands as The Clientele's best.

A large portion of Always Foreign focuses on building terse melodic post-rock suites (Faker), though their words are necessary and valued, and they emote them with a heartfelt directness that recalls their formative beginnings (Dillon and Her Son, Gram). This balancing act of moods can sometimes lend Always Foreign an air of indecision, though if the intent was to take it as majestic as it can be, then they remove any trace of subtlety on the album’s rousing power ballad as if applying the handkerchief-in-hand progressive elements of Queensryche (Infinite Steve).