Wintres Woma, however, is the first full-length LP credited only to Elkington, and it’s a lovely document of not only his top-shelf guitar abilities, but also his sharp songwriting skills and sturdy singing voice.

The slight disappointment of B-Sides and Rarities is that it won’t upend or startle anyone’s perceptions of Beach House. There is nothing remotely bad on here, but there is also nothing that finds the duo lightening up or straying too far from the warm glow of their trademark sound.

With How The West Was Won, Perrett proves that he’s got plenty of rock and roll left to make, a lot of courage left to make it.

Where Pure Heroine was her global, future-forward debut, Melodrama is the red-eyed, no-rules afterparty, where the lost and loveless go for comfort.

These more versatile songs [“Healin’ Slow” and “Still and Quiet”] in Visionland suggest the band is in the middle of an expansion of their sound, one that honors Banditos’ foundation while also challenging them and pushing them beyond that comfort zone. They’re not quite there yet.

A few songs on Together At Last don’t have much to offer if you’re familiar with the album versions, including “Muzzle of Bees” and “In A Future Age.” The former, in particular, misses the noisy burst Tweedy’s band mates provided. But even they are effortlessly listenable, because Tweedy makes them so.

There’s something for everyone on Rozwell Kid’s new album, to be honest: It distills down a good two decades’ worth of guitar solos, pop hooks and wink-nudge lyricism into--well, would you look at that--a delightfully precious piece of art.

All things considered, Andy Warhol’s Dream stands as promising first effort for an aggressively intelligent wunderkind climbing the shoulders of giants, but it’s also a wearyingly wasted one that betrays a troubling self-satisfaction.

With the songs segueing from one to another, neither the mood nor the message are ever in doubt. That’s fortuitous; despite its ample stock of songs--21 to be exact--the album still clocks in at just under 45 minutes.

Comfortably merging politics and humanity, odd genre hybrids and supple playing, Binary finds DiFranco’s 19th solo studio album provocative and thought-provoking.

Renegade’s biggest success is its brevity: At 10 songs and 37 minutes, it’s the shortest record the band has ever made; it’s in and out before you have a chance to tire of this new sound.

Having been an active band for more than four decades, Cheap Trick continues to be a model of freakish consistency with We’re All Alright!.

The album is far from the work of a legend resting on his laurels; instead, its inventive and genuinely fun sound makes a compelling case for why, 20 years after his debut, we should still be paying attention to Big Boi.

Once again, Matthew Sweet’s influences come through clearly--a little Big Star here, a lot of T. Rex there, a dash of Fleetwood Mac everywhere--while the music remains distinctively and charmingly his own.

As the album of record, it does aptly chronicle Portugal. The Man’s unabashed musical evolution/experimentation from album to album. Despite its bucolic, peaceful namesake, it’s a decidedly grimey vivisection of millennial pop expressly positioned to act as revolutionary mouthpiece for a generation of the disillusioned.

Abysmal Thoughts is a fun, lovely record, radiating sunshine in every melody and shadows in the lyrics. It’s whole and complex and captivating, a treasure chest of an album in which you’ll find something different and unique hiding within each listen.

His new record The Nashville Sound, his first with the 400 Unit since 2011’s Here We Rest, is triumphant in its topical resonance, but draws influence from the timelessness of lyrical curiosity. Whether delivering heart-wrenching lines on the crumbling of the American Dream, or the crumbling of a relationship, each is given an equal shake, and that makes his songs unreasonably powerful.

Crack-Up, is at once sumptuous and ambitious, a serpentine journey from the center of harmony-drenched folk-pop out to the edge of Pecknold’s brain and back. It is lovely, strange and generous, and ultimately a very welcome return for the Seattle band.

There is plenty to celebrate and admire about City of No Reply. Coffman’s pristine crooning fans the embers just enough to draw you in closer, and it takes no effort whatsoever to find an immense, relatable comfort in her lyrical coyness. The most frustrating letdown is not the quality of the songs themselves, but how they are unavoidably ensnared by production choices so at odds with their roots.

Fake Sugar picks up where her book left off. It bridges the gap between love and loss and taps into her Southern roots to create a record that fully encompasses the person she’s become.

More than a reclamation, Outlaw suggests the miles traveled imbue a more fluid application of his roots attack and tattered romanticism.

City Music doesn’t hustle and bustle. But it won’t let you miss it, either.

What’s remarkable about it is that she has spun her personal experiences into a soulful, touching R&B record with broad appeal beyond her particular demographic.

Whether the first sign of a late career renaissance or a corrective recourse to their shrugging split in the ‘90s, Bell, Gardener, Queralt and Colbert offer a comeback easily on par with their classic output.

This is a terrific, cohesive album that reconsiders past glories, reaffirms old obsessions and reflects on his waning days.

Lyrically, Buckingham-McVie isn’t nearly as caustic or wistful as the band’s ’70s material, but the songcraft is still there all these years later.

Though he recorded Adiós in the same sessions that yielded See You There, Campbell’s voice sounds better on this record: slightly aged, but still remarkably rich and surprisingly versatile.

For being one of the first big punk albums in post-Trump America, Wolves doesn’t howl nearly enough and rarely shows its fangs.