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.

His lack of nuance from a lyrical standpoint is startling, to the point where it confuses one into thinking that it’s profound since everything else is so carefully considered. It comes from a genuine place, sure, but his overly labored Reagan-era balladry rekindles a musical period that still sounds entirely dated.

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.

The contemporary beats and intermitted uses of techno make this album youthful. For instance, Stupid has a stoic loop that runs through Womack's raspy cries and a sophisticated piano melody. It's a really beautiful blend of new and old.

Sure there's some nice stuff here and no one ever said Stevens lacked ideas. But I'm telling you that despite this, The Age of Adz is a major misfire from an artist of uncommon depth and talent.

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.

If albums could have Nutrition Facts, Quarantine would lack the vitamins and minerals we normally associate with Laurel Halo's production, but it's hard to dislike the album entirely because, after all, she's still quite skillful at making her Metal Gear Solid-esque ambiences seize and enrapture us with their swirling, bubbling drones.

Brilliant Sanity is occasionally brilliant, but it could greatly benefit if it let go some of its sanity.

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.

Icky Thump is an anti-climatic, vaguely appealing record that unfortunately feels like a retreat from the ballsy piano-based pop eccentricity of Get Behind Me Satan. And that's a shame because going back to basics — at least in this case — feels like surrender.

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.

Bloodsports is fine, pleasant even.

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.

The Loves of Your Life was designed with each song intentionally being about a specific person, which makes even the worst songs interesting tales.

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).

Barnes seems to draw from a bottomless well of creativity, and is capable of the most sublimely unexpected melodic phrasing. At the same time, he can come off as a little too intellectual for his own good.

Ultimately, it’s disappointing to see how The Menzingers are continuing an unremarkable plan of action when they should be challenging themselves even further.

You absolutely, positively cannot go wrong buying this one.

Bondy trudges along without much to believe in, but his instilled confidence tells otherwise.

Because it's tediously unassuming, people will listen to it in the background once or twice while skimreading blogs and forget about it within a year.

Mystery has a jazz-fusion inspired structure, complete with waves of distortion, hectic-but-precise drumming, growling guitar accents, and layers upon layers of vocal blankets that push the music to teetering on the edge of chaos.

It's been a pretty solid year for electronic music thus far, and this comfortably sits with the best.

There’s a lot to take in throughout Wed 21’s richly layered and complex matrices, but in no way do they hinder Molina’s streak of keeping things minimal.

Uniform’s American nightmare is relatable and honest, revealing the dangers of dependency, the want of escape, and the problematic effects one can experience while trying to end that bond. One can’t say that there’s hope within the contents of Wake in Fright, (one might even say it’s a tad overwrought), but it’s a story worth telling nonetheless.

Little Fictions is Elbow's weakest album since their second LP, Cast of Thousands. Despite the flaws, several tracks stand out among their strongest work.

I Love You Like a Brother is the type of catchy, kinetic album that’s natural and effortless.

Their attempts at country-folk are less remarkable, causing This is Glue to droop towards its middle half, but Salad Boys do pick themselves up with aplomb rather than surrender to their sullen demeanor.

Mind Hive is middling. Some tracks are engaging and perk up your ears, while others are flat-out dull and uninspired.

On Sideways to New Italy, the five-piece continues their solid methodology of songcraft, even if it may feel a little stale by the album’s end. It’s the cream of the crop when it comes to modern reverbed-out jangle pop, but there’s really only so much one can take when it comes to this midtempo playlist-rock.

It’s the ultimate sample platter for a band who defiantly refuses to meet your expectations, and for everything it lacks in consistency, it more than makes up for in offering a heart-bled moment that will burn bright for someone.

We Cater To Cowards has warranted many listens, our current timeline a wealth of ridiculousness breeding targets meant for Oozing Wound’s shrapnel. Again, if you’re missing the joke, you may want to duck.

The Lady Killer is generic in the best possible sense of the word; put simply: this is music for the soul, and even Mr. Gallagher has one of those.

The performances are muscular and attention-grabbing, and the melodies built around her distress take new and zestful contours.

You may not love it, but you'll probably like it, and that's enough.

Despite the group’s apathetic demeanor, it makes you wonder if each track on You’re Nothing’s sublime dirge is a result of those fleeting moments of carnal ecstasy, as it’s hard not to get lost in the beaten and bruised squalor Iceage expels on their grittiest--and best--album yet.

Marissa Nadler does continue Nadler's impressive track record, and showcases her at her most confident.

The album twisted and turned its already discombobulated songs around and around, never letting anyone get comfortable. It showed a more cerebral Spoon than ever before.

Segall eases you with his unique charm, but he also tricks you, subtly cranking things up to remind you of his frenzied output. The tone remains largely indistinct throughout, but it also feels like he's begun concocting his next witches' brew.

My Maudlin Career is a wonderful set of songs and can deservedly sit alongside Let’s Get Out Of This Country while showcasing how far Camera Obscura have come since their patchy yet charming début, Biggest Bluest Hi-Fi.

To put it simply, it’s a near perfect conclusion to one of the finest records I’ve heard this year.

Even through all the morass, a vague optimism seems to always seep through; he plays with our senses, waiting for that final act to pull a disappearing act that can leave one utterly spellbound.

It shows off a fantastic songwriting talent, if not conveying the live magic.

Wind in the Wires is a beautifully executed album that has everything: pace, panache, and clean sentiment.

In spite of the apparent minimalism, Hookworms deliver a sonic feast for the ears that knows how to capture an all-encompassing whole rather than a moment in time. It wants to be everything at once, brightly exposed even if some of its color is lost.

Earthly Delights shows that they have yet to exhaust their uncanny vision.

Even with a diversity deficiency here, you have to admit that this is album is noteworthy. My suggestion is to gather up his entire catalog and put it on a random shuffle so you don't suffer from the monotony.

Out in the Storm is perennially bright, with its melodies maintaining a serrated edge that ensures the sound remains robust, immersive and hard-hitting.

"Matured" is an overused word in music criticism, but that's what No Age have done. They've evolved in a completely logical direction in ways that are pleasantly surprising but never jarring.

Reflektor hits too many high points to entirely consider it a failure, and despite its convoluted lyrical content and overreaching scope it still crosses the double album finish line with satisfactory results.

It’s not a completely futile exercise--there are some decent tracks--but it falls far short of the quality of its predecessor.

By stripping things back a little, Low have turned in their most confident, consistent record to date (admittedly this might have something to do with the fact that, running to only ten tracks, C'mon is also their shortest), and even, in places, sound like they're actually enjoying themselves.

Sun Coming Down constantly engages and enthralls with an odd sense of humor, cementing Ought as one of the few contemporary post-punk acts that seamlessly merge frantic irreverence with feral intelligence.

Tracks like Nina and Part III give some motion to the album's swaying ebb and flow, while the intricate contours of Ghostride highlight how they craftily maneuver texture and groove. Nevertheless, there's also a hidden complexity behind Jinx's playful variations.

Sadly, the interesting ideas fall at the place on the spectrum where it jives for just a short time, at least for this particular listener.

Glossily produced, the new album is much less thorny than Marshall’s earlier works, showcasing the artist’s songwriting and soul singing talents.