Lambert is an outlaw, and she’s also an album artist, and Wildcard proves she’s one who will be rebelling, experimenting and rocking the hell out for many years to come.

MAGDALENE is the sound of an artist gluing together the million tiny shards in which she found herself after an explosive breakup. ... FKA twigs broadcasts her pain just as vividly on less metaphorical MAGDALENE tracks.

When Le Bon and Cox take traditional approaches, they nail it, just as they did on both their most recent albums. When they venture into less familiar territory, though, they drive a bit too far off the rails, but graciously, the train never quite crashes.

At only 30-minutes long, Omni manages to pack in a vast number of carefully-arranged flourishes. Networker stands on its own, but look carefully and you’ll find the homages the first iterations of post-punk with CBGB at the epicenter.

Cheap Queen is more melancholy than “1950,” more introspective than her ode to “Talia,” less ebullient than the assured bedroom-romping funk of follow-up single “Pussy Is God,” the latter of which was co-written with Stenberg. Cheap Queen is also more vulnerable.

Everything Not Saved Will Be Lost – Part 2 doesn’t quite live up to the lofty benchmarks set by Part 1—or really any Foals record to date—but that doesn’t mean there’s not a lot to enjoy here.

It finds Cronin stretching himself as a songwriter, taking risks in the arrangements and writing the best, most personal lyrics of his career. Just as importantly, Seeker finds him embracing a sort of sonic abandon that was lacking in his earlier work.

Potter’s roar makes every song worth listening to, even if each one more or less preaches the same point—something along the lines of “All you need is love.” But there’s an argument to be made for singing about love frankly.

No Holiday works well as both a Muffs album and also a tribute to Shattuck’s skill, vision and drive.

There’s little to defend from a musical or lyrical perspective here: This is easily Kanye’s worst album to date, an impressive feat following last year’s ye.

To be sure, Juice B Crypts contains many moments of unabashed oddness as well, but in allowing for a sharper contrast between the odd and the beautiful this time, Battles ultimately get further with both.

It typically takes young musicians quite a long time to find their unique sound, but we’re lucky to hear Julien Chang searching for his in real time.

The most sublime moments on Pang match the all-cylinders feeling of falling into new love, each neuron so stimulated by the feeling that they threaten to overload and collapse entirely.

They don’t have to be angry all the time to get their point across, and the vulnerability they show throughout these six new songs showcases a band having a bit more fun than they’d like to let on.

It’s too early to say whether or not it’s better than Retreat from the Sun. But it definitely picks up where That Dog left off, delivering 11 pop-rock songs that are chunky in some places, lush in others and consistently resistant to settling into a tired pop-rock formula.

By expanding their musical palette, Martin and Taylor leave less room for themselves, resulting in songs that are competent but nondescript.

Here, they’ve given their most focused project, all while exploring the darkest corners of humanity over envelope-pushing industrial production. With a carefully constructed chaos, Clipping. throw us into their torturous musical realm and boldly ask us to find the art in fear.

Black Lightning is rife with minimally detailed yet fully rendered character sketches, and Naggar’s deftness at seamlessly weaving dissonant guitar lines into her riveting stories elevates her music well above much of the crowded folk-adjacent field.

The result is an ambitious album overflowing with generosity and empathy, warm in production and rich in theme, even if it largely lacks the punch that made Infinite Worlds so immediately memorable.

High points feel scattered among a patchwork of pillowy piano tunes, conspicuous genre experiments and politically charged trial balloons. There are good things and not-so-good things here, but there is no cohesion in the overall work. Closer Than Together doesn’t hang together as a whole.

Though the atmosphere surrounding Giants of All Sizes is much heavier than on any of the band’s other records this decade, Garvey still finds some hope through it all. The final three songs (“My Trouble,” “On Deronda Road” and “Weightless”) are optimistic as he discovers strength in his loved ones and friends in the reverberation of all of the recent negative events in his life.

While the 12 songs on Hello Exile don’t sonically deviate too much from the rest of The Menzingers’ previous six albums from the past decade or so, it offers a level of introspection relatively unheard in their genre. It’s an honest portrayal of where they are at this point in their life: not ready to settle down and give up the 4 A.M. nights at the dive bar down the street, but also realizing that those around them are in the process of doing so.

Two Hands does not dramatically depart from the mesmerizing folk-rock fusion of U.F.O.F., but its best moments emphasize the band’s gnarled electric energy, particularly on the career highlight “Not.”

A ferocious solo debut. It’s jagged, chaotic and mesmerizing in a way that pulls you inevitably into the thick of it, as if the songs were exerting their own inescapable gravity.

Cave’s decision to deliver this story in a falsetto-laced voice far above his register is somewhat bewildering, but his ultimate conclusion—that “everybody’s losing somebody”—is deeply sound. ... Cave’s radical openness has brought him into conversation and solidarity with this global community of people who have lost and who continue to live. For such people, Ghosteen is a sweeping and remarkable gift.

Closer To Grey feels more polished and shimmering, and with only 12 tracks and a compact 45 minutes, it’s considerably shorter than the expansive, sometimes daunting records it followeds (Kill For Love clocked in at 16 songs over an hour, 17 minutes). As an entryway into the Italians Do It Better universe, it feels enticing, welcoming even.

There’s a subtle, but detectable, undercurrent of joy here—not in the subject matter, but in the music itself, as if each song represents a little burst of gratitude shared among the musicians who made it. That Wilco can still summon that sense of buoyancy on their 11th album should be gratifying to listeners, too. It’s a sign that the band continues to grow and evolve, which makes these songs a fitting ode indeed.

With the range, depth and lyrical class Metronomy brings to Metronomy Forever, it’s quite a fun listen, one that shows how the group has evolved over their lengthy career. The electronic orchestration will leave you bopping through memory lane as you reminisce on old love.

Active Listening: Night on Earth is a both resplendent listen and an acquired taste. Not every listener will take pleasure in the band’s blustery dissonance, but those who do will be rewarded with dense pop riches and deeply poignant, poetic lyrics.

Cole’s experiences in rehab became the inspiration for the group’s latest record, Deceiver, and while the album displays the group’s darkest sound yet, it also ends up being their most earnest.

Most of these songs feel like a collection of unused material from their last two album sessions that really should’ve just been scrapped. It all seems phoned-in and apart from the singles, the rest of the tracks shouldn’t even suffice as b-sides. You’ll find yourself returning to exactly three songs, and in a tracklist of 11, they’re completely outgunned and overshadowed.

The New Pornographers now have coalesced around Carl Newman and his singular vision. Twenty years into their existence, they seem stronger than ever.

Her newfound embrace of violins, violas and cellos elevates her shadowy, often synth-infused rock to extraordinarily goosebump-inducing heights, making All Mirrors her third consecutive (and likely best) masterpiece to date.

Why Me? Why Not. largely succeeds when Gallagher allows himself to dig deep into his past and get a bit personal.

The album’s 11 songs are spontaneous, fluid and entirely indifferent to genre as they pour out of her like the torrential rains of an evening thunderstorm.

On its own, the album is loud, sometimes cranky and also the least essential entry in Simpson’s catalog so far.

At times, the manicured production seems to be actively undermining the emotional fuse of the new-old material. ... Present-day Tegan and Sara are very much grown up, gay and alive. The record, though, could have used more of that grainy adolescent roughness.

The constant push-pull between Read’s expectation (his seedy lounge rock) and the reality behind his lyrics is what makes Air Con Eden such a fascinating listen. And it’s a gorgeous, slow-burning record throughout.

Though it’s his third album, Miami Memory feels like we’re meeting Alex Cameron for the first time. This is the real him, not a perpetuated version masked by character. While unexpected, it’s not jarring in the least bit. It’s a warm introduction, one filled with familiarity with help from Cameron-world mainstays Roy Malloy, Kirin J. Callinan, Holiday Sidewinder and more.

You’ll get more out of the album if you have a minor grasp on Welsh, the same way you’ll get more from certain arcs in Chris Onstad’s Achewood if you know a bit about Wales and Welsh culture. Any little bit helps. But Rhys is such a good songwriter that an audience hailing from anywhere on the globe can tune into Pang!’s curious frequencies and find their own meaning in his sound.

While this may not be their magnum opus, and they aren’t reinventing the wheel—or even trying to—Vivian Girls keep us wanting more than just a Memory, but a bright future full of raucous tunes.

With a dozen new tunes, Gill’s 15th studio LP is a gentle, reflective collection that shows off his skill as a singer, and especially a songwriter. (He’s also an ace guitar player, though that side of him is more subdued here.)

While the album has its moments of musical limitation and monotony, Shapiro’s central voice on Chastity Belt is teeming with insight, even when that insight is born from an identity of dissonance.

With Birth of Violence, she takes a momentous step forward with songs that initially mask their sophistication behind plodding, strummy, dreamy facades. Because of Wolfe’s newfound ability to communicate so much more with less, you could call Birth of Violence a tour de force—only Wolfe has mastered the art of eschewing force altogether.

Lookout Low is 60% run-of-the-mill jamming and 40% pure, scuzzy originality, but it rarely sparkles. Twin Peaks can always bounce back, though. These songs are sure to stun live. Don’t let one mediocre recording session get in the way of your plans to see them next time they’re in town. I for one will be there—I just won’t be pregaming with Lookout Low.

The songs do not proceed through conventional structures—they lock into deceptively simplistic refrains and then mutate and warp like carcasses exposed to sun. ... When the band strays from post-punk aggression, results are mixed.

Mirrorland is a southern hip-hop (specifically Atlanta) record through and through, and some of the references (“I’m flying down 285, but I’m so focused” from “Top Down,” for example) may go over the heads of listeners outside of Georgia. But its eclectic jazz and funk production serves as a great introduction to the new class of rappers on the come up since OutKast.

Charli is a more-than-worthy follow-up to arguably the decade’s best pop release.

Morbid themes aside, Beneath the Eyrie is the most vibrant and alive of the three albums The Pixies have recorded since reemerging in 2004.

The newest record from Alex Giannascoli at times improves on the inscrutable, circuitous experimentation of his Domino debut, Beach Music. At other times, it refines the accessible but still characteristically sauntering country-lite of Rocket, his masterful second album for the British indie label. In other words, House of Sugar sounds like a middle ground between the two albums that preceded it.

The Competition heralds Hunter’s arrival as an artist who is able to communicate implicitly every bit as much as much as explicitly.

While it’s absolutely and unapologetically meant as an addition to the discourse on inequality and lack of diversity that’s been ruling Nashville and country music (country radio in particular) for decades now, it’s also a country classic, no matter which way you spin it. The genre’s best talents, both men and women, have gathered, and they succeeded in creating a multi-generational, monumental music event.

Joan Shelley’s greatest gift is her approach to making music—to create a welcoming refuge from the world’s noise. A balm for our troubled times. A haven for those who need it, if only for an album’s length every couple of years. You’ll want to stay longer.

Sometimes the love-y theme becomes a bit cloying. ... Even on a collection of highly structured songs with little room for improvisation, Banhart remains the distinctive artist he’s always been.

That’s the fundamental issue of Something Like A War: Kindness, in their efforts to cultivate and redistribute softness as a universal tenet, forgot the key rule of living honestly—your vulnerabilities must be specific enough to connect with.

Close It Quietly sees the band take a few steps forward, sideways and back—an aural square dance that’s well worth your time.

Here, she’s working toward something bigger than her own feelings. She doesn’t ask us to weep for her—she captures the drama and despair of a nation, with wit to spare. Lana Del Rey is not just your little Venice bitch. She’s our little Venice bitch.

As a whole, there’s a loose sort of freedom to Lost Girls, as if Khan was able to summon the atmosphere and mystery that so often suffuse her music without sweating over it as much as usual. Her past work has sounded more rooted in the British Isles than Southern California, but she does the L.A. transplant thing with enough confidence that the presence of bloodthirsty vampire bikers doesn’t even sound like that much of a drawback.

The songs may not be as individually memorable this time around, but it’s perhaps the better full album. And boy, will it keep you warm throughout fall into winter.

Before you know it, 87 minutes have gone by and you’re not quite sure what to make of it all, but you’re ready to listen again. For that, Tool are to be commended. If nothing else, the band have given us an album that could very well keep us occupied until its next one arrives sometime around the year 2032.

Each of their albums experiment with genre, but GINGER is all over the place, never really sure what it wants to be. But moving forward, it seems pretty clear the group from that “BOOGIE” performance is a thing of the past, for better or for worse, and they’re attempting to evolve into something else. It’s just unclear if becoming the boy band of their dreams is the best use of their talents.

Even the bright spots in the album’s composition—the off-beat piano cascades in “Death By A Thousand Cuts” and the pulsating synth of “Cruel Summer” (thank you, St. Vincent) are particular standouts—are overshadowed by the musical anticlimax on most tracks, especially on “The Archer.”

Twelve Nudes is loud, sometimes sarcastic, often pointed and invariably entertaining. The album is the work of an artist with a keen sense of his own capabilities, and it’s a fitting soundtrack to a world in turmoil.

Pretty much every song, when listened to individually, is far from lacking emotional impact, indicating that Paul’s sweet spot exists within the realm of midtempo, linear songs. To have nine such hymns packaged into one album is itself a gift—call it a token of friendship.

Saadiq has clearly turned a corner into an unpredictable headspace. His new edge, combined with his prodigious production and instrumental chops, bodes well as far as what might come next. And there’s a certain thrill in not knowing how much more outlandish his next move might be.

On their second album, Sheer Mag keep proving that raging against the system can also be a raging party. Much like Halladay, the band itself is a piece of coal that, under pressure, has emerged in its true form: a glittering diamond.

This is emphatically a headphones listen, especially for picking up the quieter moments of cacophony. It’s in the noisier moments that you’ll really appreciate having a good sound system for the album.

Oh Sees’ most obvious strength has always been their own restlessness and commitment to exploration, and as Face Stabber’s dozen other tracks ricochet between super-potent pysch, punk, noise and funk, they prove that this is still one of the very best and most adventurous rock bands on the planet.

“one sick plan,” an acoustic performance presented through an intentionally lo-fi style that crackles like a demo and feels like a stick-figure drawing dropped into a pile of Picassos. It’s a good song, but an odd production choice. These are minor quibbles, of course, within the context of an otherwise brilliant work. basking in the glow is not only the fulfillment of the promise Lilitri showed on the yunahon mixtape, it’s one of the best pop-rock records of 2019.

Overall, Thrashing Thru The Passion is musically looser than previous offerings—fewer ballads, the big rock numbers less lush and more compact—but it also makes it accessible to new listeners, who can then work their way back through albums like Heaven is Whenever or Separation Sunday.

This Is Not A Safe Place never quite finds its footing. The lyrics are a snapshot of the band’s current frame of mind—those recurring thoughts that fire when you turn in for the night. They’re deeply personal and never self-important, but also not particularly cohesive or thematic on the whole.

On Country Squire, his best release yet, he grapples with masculinity, family and the South in ways that feel entirely new, despite sounding really traditional. I’ll listen to his rocking chair tales any time.

It is both quintessentially Sleater-Kinney and entirely unlike any record they’ve made before—which makes it a thrilling listen even during the rare moments that don’t quite gel.

For the most part, though, Everybody Split finds Possible Humans capably walking a tricky line: They take parts that, when added up, can (and often do) come off as dour, stilted or standoffish, but by infusing them with a strong pop sensibility and a personal touch, they manage to soften these songs’ sharp corners. This is post-punk with a pulse, and not just the kind provided by the drummer.

Despite a few musical shortcomings, How Do You Love is an ambitious project for 18-year-old Night, and one she largely succeeds on. It’s a surprisingly deep understanding of the complexities and contradictions of relationships without ever falling into the clichés of depicting a young romance while those feelings are still extremely present.

Francis Lung’s debut is catchy as hell, the kind of sunny indie rock that could easily soundtrack a backyard BBQ or road trip. It doesn’t do much to distinguish itself from the bevy of other bands that will inevitably come up next on Spotify following the record’s final song, but it’s still a pretty collection, one that makes for a worthwhile listen.

She hones in on her emotional and sexual connections both to herself and others post-breakup. The truths Hackman discovers along the way, illuminated by songs both inventive and entrancing, are enough to make anyone want to be her human friend (or, at least, a rabid fan).

Immunity has just enough unforgettable glimmers to justify Clairo’s buzz. The question is whether listeners who weren’t already head over heels for her previously released music will hop on board too.

Depending on your perspective, then, it is either surprising or it’s expected that Strange Ranger’s new album Remembering the Rockets finds the band settling into a sound and settling down.

Even with all its bright spots—sunshine and Shawn Mendes and summers that “last forever”—The Big Day still doesn’t do all that much, especially in the shadow of classics like Acid Rap and Coloring Book. The Big Day is one neverending dad joke.

The album is overly-produced and as gaudy as a paisley shirt, sure, but it’s also immensely compelling, inventive and fascinatingly unhinged, all while still maintaining a tight control and an understanding of how to reign it all in to create an actual song from the mire of noise.

She writes songs that hover entrancingly, enticing the listener not with tractor-beam beats or huge hooks, but with a persistent and wholehearted interest in reaching your heart and speaking to it in a way that only it can understand.

On the album’s 15 tracks, the band throw their strengths and weaknesses at the wall and see what sticks, oscillating between full-blown Jackson Pollock style chaos and the more carefully calibrated, geometric works of Mark Rothko. Sometimes it’s revelatory; sometimes it’ll leave you scratching your head.

There are some lovely songs on Para Mi, though; you might just have to slog through some unfortunate synths and occasionally cringe-inducing lyrics to get there.

Their lyrics are just as endearing as ever, with delicious moments like England’s confession on the title track that she’s “eating dinner for breakfast because first impressions are always the best.”

Cut Your Teeth is a rare fusion of focused anger and unadulterated dejection; Necking are a punk band, but above all else, they’re convincing and relatable.

Experiments are fun! But they’re only worth their while when the results make sense. Fever Dream doesn’t quite, but it also doesn’t not. More than anything, it’s a head-scratcher, a record that would be more easily evaluated coming from an entirely different artist.

At only 15 minutes, this Bay Area hardcore vet packs a lot in, resulting in one of the most fun and re-listenable records so far in 2019.

Hypnotic and immersive, Modern Mirror pulls the listener deep into its lore while keeping it fresh and contemporary. While the record is not necessarily groundbreaking, it doesn’t need to be. It’s everything we want from Drab Majesty.

For the most part, Cottrell reliably prevents the listener from getting engulfed in the aural haze that has become Hansen’s trademark. That said, with her distinct vocal character, it seems like she could invest her singing with more spiked edges if she chose to—or if the music called for it.

Songs like “180 Days” and “The Party” are stand-outs, but some of the other tracks can blend together unobtrusively enough that they go scrolling by without commanding your full attention, not memorable enough to make a lasting impact. That could be a testament to their subtlety, though it’s more likely a sign of an artist with vast potential who is still growing into her talent.

The way it toggles between the dreamy, the rave-y, the interstellar and the mathematical is what makes it uniquely transcendent. It’s not the kind of raw live album that gives you goosebumps from the roar of a stadium crowd or one where you can feel the sweat dripping off the musicians. It’s much more smooth and meticulously crafted, but it still retains an electricity that makes live albums so enticing.

It’s pleasantly concise—a welcome change from Oczy Mlody and Heady Fwends—and doesn’t rely on excessive guests, 24-hour songs, LPs pressed with menstrual blood, or any other gimmickry to impress you. Now we wait for the Broadway adaptation.

Listening to Automat from start to finish, you could make a case that Edkins and Menzies were wrong. And as the track sequence arrives at more recent material (skipping-over the band’s 2012 cover of Sparklehorse’s “Pig,” for some reason), you can’t help but wonder what would have been had the band continued to explore freer song structures.

Despite the over-production that occasionally takes away from the Clavins’ raw talent, the album itself tells vital truths about the codependence of addicts (“This is hell and I can’t hide / But you’re keeping me alive / Saying such sweet things to me”), the rose-colored glasses worn when remembering the days before being consumed by alcoholism (“Yeah I know how this ends / And I’d watch it again / Every loss and win,”) and the importance of acknowledging sobriety as a continuous journey.

Despite all the tenebrosity, or maybe because of it, Hoop is chasing human connection on this album, which teems with delicate acoustics and sneaky electronic elements. She seems wholly concerned with examining empathy—even for gross internet trolls—in a world deprived of it, and there are few quests as noble.

He’s just as bummed out as ever on Purple Mountains, and he still makes being bummed out sound better than just about anyone else.

Until the Tide Creeps In isn’t that; nor is it a mawkish trip down memory lane. Instead, it’s an album of reconciliation, an opportunity for Jack and Lily to make sense of their youth spanning into their adulthood.