Addicted, Magic, Priceless and Fool No Mo are as sharply written and realized as they are unapologetically indulgent of heady atmospherics, each song its own exaltation of the understated power of Tweet's singular voice.

Trouble, while not a huge departure from the Woodpigeon canon, proves Hamilton's songwriting is always growing. Here's hoping his audience will be, too.

Harvey sings with unshakeable poise, and her melodies are as sticky as ever--to the point where you can imagine some songs working as barroom singalongs.

The album is full of the group's signature dreamy arpeggios, massive drum rolls, epic builds and breaks--expertly produced with Stuart Price. But it's the push and pull between the sociopolitical reality and urge to escape into nightlife, where dressing up, social cliques and the pounding beat of pop music can feel life-saving, that fuels the drama.

He may not be reinventing himself with each album, but his songs are so rife with double meanings and flourishes, there's always a lot to unpack.

He [bandleader Anthony Gonzalez] masterfully weaves myriad sounds and structures--mainly late 70s- and early 80s-influenced--into a remarkably strong, cohesive unit.

Blue Wave fails to clarify what kind of band Operators truly is. Are they post-punk rabble-rousers? A modern pop band hiding behind retro synths? A gritty indie rock trio? Of course, they're all of the above, with Boeckner happily shape-shifting in between.

The complexity of some of the arrangements and the bouncy danceability of most of the songs make it easy to overlook the lyrics initially, but with repeated listens they start sinking in.

The production is unpolished, warm and organic. It had to be. When you hear the pained fury in his rendition of Black Sabbath's Changes, it's clear it would be an affront to modernize Bradley's unvarnished howls.

Their fourth album reveals the breadth of the genre.

The album repeatedly teases you with glimpses of the unhinged, earnest urgency that made the Violent Femmes semi-famous, and then flips into an annoying faux naive whimsy just as you’re starting to enjoy it.

Glitterbust is the sound of someone coming out on the other side of that moment, armed with heightened instincts and unfaltering confidence.

He seems caught in a place between wizened wild child and something kookier, but he’s apparently too content to go whole hog in either direction.

Although the album pushes the envelope lyrically, the music doesn't always elevate the ideas as much as it could. Mount Moriah's deftly woven, loose Americana is more a vessel for McEntire's poetry than anything else.

His singing, an acquired taste, could have been used more sparingly. Nevertheless, his odd chants keep the weirdness levels appropriately high, and we wouldn't want it any other way.

Occasionally, songs sound a little too derivative of older Scream, but Gillespie's desire to look inward feels genuine.

Eraser Stargazer is full of ideas, a lot of them half-baked. But for the band, it's a courageous, wholehearted lunge into a more danceable form of convulsive mayhem, and into more elliptical and impressionistic narratives.

The weakest tracks--the hackneyed anthem Love Is Blind, the dreary Hurt Me--are the most radio-friendly and interrupt the album's flow. But that's not a major drawback. In fact, for many new artists, either track would be a high-water mark.

In this current moment, when the us vs them of identity politics is at a sharp pitch, it's an enlightened view for an artist to put forth.

Only about half of the songs captivate; the others could be used as sleep aids. This is frustrating, because the strong songs are fantastic. The lesser ones suffer from too much washed-out dreaminess.

Lamar is as cutting as ever in his rhymes, and adjusts his flow to great effect.

Her signature hollowed-out minimalism nicely suits the subject matter, sometimes rising in urgency before falling into a deceptive calm.

As accessible as most of it is, though, the band can’t seem to resist throwing strange electronic sounds and off-kilter ideas into the mix, which helps offset some of their blander tendencies.

Aside from flailing a bit at the end, the London group’s third full-length hits its mark.

On indie pop cut One True Love and the rollicking I Need An Angel, Wisenbaker’s gritty voice scuffs up Goodman’s buoyant one – a good thing, since she can sound static at times. That said, she’s sorely missed on the jangling track Nineties, in which Wisenbaker takes sole vocal duties but lacks the charisma to pull it off.

It’s initially fun to play spot-the-references, but in the best moments the sounds are harder to pin down.

On his first solo album under his own name, the songwriting is just as sharp and hooky and the emotions sometimes just as plaintive, sad and angsty as on past projects. But this time Bogart hits upon the most fully realized pop idol version of himself by embracing the demented, neon-coloured camp aesthetic he's always loved.

Turns out the relentless ferocity, while a riot live, ends up making the Dirty Nil more enjoyable in small doses on record.