His clever quips, wonky wordplay, raunchy voice and oddball timing combine into something beyond reproduction by anybody, not that any other MC is daring enough to try doing this type of grimy, soulful crunk-hop

Not surprising, then, that his newest leap into club-inspired techno and house feels just as substantial and weighty as his previous forays into experimental pop.

With this single self-produced masterstroke, Alela Diane has effectively shaken off all the ill-fitting labels of “new weird America” and “freak folk” and given notice that a warmly expressive and unique voice has arrived with stories to tell.

To this day, Dylan regards the studio as an artifact-making machine and not a magical chamber freezing definitive versions of his songs. The Bootleg Series has bolstered this opinion before but never presented his creative process so nakedly. For any music fan, this is pure treasure.

Fallen Angels is a hazy, laid-back history lesson with as many enigmatic twists and turns as a classic double-cross caper. It subverts archetypes of romance, heroism and interpersonal connection to reveal something more sinister about human intent, all packaged in beautiful musicianship of the highest order.

The revelatory stuff is contextual.... One of the greatest rock records ever.

They're the kinds of songs that make you want to run into the street and scream to the universe that life is beautiful and magical, which is a pretty nice feeling as long as you can stop worrying about whether people think you're crazy.

Together is the flawless execution of can't-shake-loose melodies, genius arrangements (oh, those group harmonies!) and production that leaves you energized.

While sometimes dreamy and ethereal, South are able to bridge quieter moments with danceable, gloomy pop – simply speaking, a great achievement.

The album is absurd, confusing (the random sequencing can be a bitch if you're trying to follow individual plots), hilarious (only Merritt could pen a libretto titled What A Fucking Lovely Day!) and bloody brilliant.

That the music of Beyond rocks so righteously in a way that sounds like a conscious progression from where they left off with Bug, rather than a misguided attempt to recreate the past, makes this unlikely recording comeback all the more incredible.

A densely tangled masterpiece that floods and floors by straddling swaggering grooves and boggling cacophony.

One of the more interesting – and fun – cover albums out there.

At times, Cash nails the knife-edge of hurt and love so adeptly, you feel like you're intruding on too-personal confessions.

The writing here is sharp and stunning, but the real difference between this and other Cat Power discs is that The Greatest has room to breathe.

These are explosive epics that don't get tired, tied together in an album that's both instantly accessible and grows on you over time.

The record is rife with brow-raising darts and the mindblowing beats to match, outstripping the last two Dilated records and threatening the alignment of your neck vertebrae in the process.

Amazingly, though Elan Vital easily could've become their resounding Sandinista flop, Zollo's clean vocals, knife-sharp melodies and subtle politically charged songwriting help secure its nomination as Pretty Girls' London Calling.

A huge improvement over Alligator, and likely to launch the band into a new phase.

Miguel's second album delivers on the L.A.-based musician's early promise, taking the best ideas from the debut--slow, lilting grooves, layered electric guitars, darkly squelching bass lines, meandering falsetto--into a more expansive, emotionally varied and personal sound.

It's Toussaint's soulful songs and naturally funky grooves that make this unlikely pairing work almost in spite of Costello's overbearing presence.

Rare Chandeliers is both soft-lensed yacht rap and roughneck hip-hop that's as New York as pastrami and Waldorf salads.

It's a slow, über-democratic process that, on the band's fourth album, results in sputtering post-rock à la early Flaming Lips that varies wildly from song to song.

Yes, the angsty lyrics are occasionally comprehensible and the songs, which sometimes push past the three-minute mark, have slightly more breathing room, but the chilly, irritated scrape is just as potent.

In a voice so fragile a strong breeze might overpower it, he offers sober ruminations on loneliness, life, love, longing, and artfully infuses each song with just the right amount of banjo, light drumming, acoustic guitar and vocal harmonies (often courtesy of the stellar Julie Fader).

Regrets take on new meaning knowing the background, but they're also just plain fun, and no amount of misfortune can change that.

They might be unreliable performers, but their studio work is forward-thinking and beautiful in an oddly satisfying, downtrodden way.

Bondy's third record isn't drastically different from its two predecessors, 2007's American Hearts and 2009's grossly overlooked When The Devil's Loose.