He’s just a great singer, backed by great players he puts to good use on a set of sticky, deceptively inventive songs

The music never seems to come from a place of desire to convey something true or honest from within DeMarco, but instead it paints variations of past emotions, interpret others’ honesty, gives a distorted remembrance of the past for a more entertaining present.

What makes Radical Romantics, like the best of Dreijer’s work, a cut above merely great pop is its subversive streak.

"The enemy is everywhere" is The Monitor's twice-invoked refrain, the central thesis of an album that's both uncompromisingly bleak and impossible to ignore.

A solid collection of songs that show Veirs for what she is: a reliably consistent, sometimes inspired, singer and songwriter.

The album's lyrics don’t always make sense, but then again, English isn’t their first language, and words aren’t the point here, the danceable beats and moody ambience are.

Aytche is a deeply accessible, detail-rich drift that, like most great music in this vein, captivates with delicate layers that unfold further with repeated, careful listens.

The result is her vastest music yet, a cavernous sort of middle ground among orchestral, Gothic, pop, opera and industrial music that feels apt for barreling through obstacles both global and personal.

The Renaissance is the logical extension of this exploratory work, coupled with Q-Tip’s need to, once and for all, step out from behind Tribe’s long, dominant shadow, and in many respects (if not all), it succeeds wildly in both dimensions.

Eagle is the ultimate cohesion of Callahan’s singular storytelling and bewitching delivery.

Every performance on Shadows In The Night expresses a level of vocal maturity and intuition that he’s never quite reached before.

[“Desert Blues” is] a lovely and lightweight ending to an otherwise brooding work by two collaborators who seem just right for each other.

This an indie record for the ages, a wonderful listen where each song is completely essential to the project as a whole. Midnight is an incredible record, owing, but in no way indebted to her pitch perfect partnership with Toledo, one that’s further catapulted by Chura’s distinctive voice and extraordinary songwriting chops.

The band's third and possibly best full-length leans in a bit harder than usual, and dazzles throughout.

Perhaps the most appealing part of the album is that regardless of what sound, style or location these songs came from—British folk, New Orleans soul, Bakersfield country—they sound cohesive and of a piece in the hands of Plant and Krauss. In other words, the singers make these songs sound like their own.

It cements Tillman’s place among the best singer/songwriters around. It’s gorgeous. It’s heartbreaking. It’s timeless. It’s the sound of an artist who really went for it and succeeded wholeheartedly.

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.

Tune-Yards continue to make meaningful and joyful art after the watershed moment of reckoning on their last album.

Fade is just 10 distinctive, beautiful songs in 45 minutes meant to show their languid new peers (Real Estate, Beach House, Grizzly Bear, what have you) who's boss. It shouldn't work. It's to that roaring 20-year streak's goodwill that it does.

Songs like “California” and “Walk Into the Sea,” by far the sunniest, poppiest material Low has ever produced, shatter the mopey mold the band has so carefully cultivated, and to thrilling results.

On The Car, they deploy Fitzgeraldian tendencies, throwing a party with a lingering, enigmatic atmosphere. As long as there’s a mirror ball, you can be assured a fun time.

Even if the Beyoncé-Jay Z marital saga falls short of being a feminist revelation, there are plenty of instances where Jay Z pushes mainstream hip-hop narratives forward: For instance, he sweetly celebrates his mother, an out lesbian, on “Smile.” And while other rappers boast about fast money, he discusses the importance of investing in order to create lasting wealth for generations to come.

It’s the ache of 'Ruby and Carlos' that reveals McMurtry’s sensitive brilliance as a chronicler of quiet desperation (though even here, he can’t resist a jibe about “the Mason-Dumbass Line”).

Catholic Action have broadened their palette far beyond the jumpy guitar pop of their debut. While adding faint touches of synth-pop, post-punk and art rock, they’ve managed to retain the exuberance that sets them apart.

Between the stylistic achievements that feel refreshing without over-referencing, the truly deadpan delivery on a coiled bed of noise, and (at last) some proper sequencing, Versions of Modern Performance is a smart record that prove Horsegirl to be the real deal.

Over the past eight years, they’ve demonstrated their creative ambition, as well as the courage to move away from the sound that made them successful. And on Infinite Granite, they prove they have the chops to follow the path of their choosing, wherever it may lead.

everything is alive, prioritizes progression and refuses to stay stagnant. Sure, Slowdive glance back at their past every now and again, but it’s clear that their focus is fully set on the future.

Shelley’s light is absolutely irrepressible. She is a tremendous talent, poised for a long and productive career in folk music, with a breakthrough into much bigger things very easy to envision.

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.

This cosmopolitan quartet has streamlined ska, post-punk, chamber music and Afropop into a glorious ultramodern groove.

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.

Whereas previous YYYs albums are built on thrills and speed, Cool It Down drives us with its almost manic instrumentation at every corner, subdued and despondent pleas in its lyricism, and an intoxicating, frenetic energy.

They sound like they’ve been singing together all their lives—as if Anderson and Linthicum somehow stumbled upon a third cousin in a faraway land. Here’s hoping the distance doesn’t stop them from doing this again and again and again.

Gaslighter is the best country album of 2020 because it forces empathy onto the listener while reminding us we don’t have to be superheroes to make a difference.

An undeniably hooky record that strays from its grunge-rock roots and finds the band in a place where they’ve found the fun in their craft once again.

The Wild seems to have made good on the band’s original intent. And yet, for all its unhinged energy, ragged refrains and frayed edges (Edenloff’s punk-like ramble on “Dead/Alive”) it’s surprisingly cohesive even in the midst of kinetic compulsion. Consider this both edgy and essential.

His velvet-rich voice is one that’s part lounge smoothie, one part vintage crooner, and one part vampiric Roy Orbison filled to the brim with drama and inherent romance. This ensures that Make Way For Love is more than an album full of weepy torch-songs, but an ode to all the feelings and phases that are the makings of a relationship’s end.

Parallax is Cox's third proper album under the Atlas Sound moniker, possibly his best so far, and certainly the one that contains the band's most straight-laced pop to date.

With Grant’s new Icelandic roots and electronica loyalties as a foundation for the sonic properties of Pale Green Ghosts--likely a far cry from the Midlake-backed organ-roots rock of Queen--the album somehow retains everything that’s made Grant such an anomaly in the underground pop world.

The album is ultimately the most cathartic and uplifting that songwriter Peter Silberman has crafted, indicating the demons he has long wrestled with may be tiring, if not nearing defeat.

Slowdive, the band’s first album in 22 years, is here, and it’s good in that pleasingly familiar way.

It would’ve been nice to have more live material. ... We can look at Terror Twilight as the sound of Pavement coming unglued, but we can also hear the music as the sound of a band holding together—just barely well enough—to transcend their limitations and out-do themselves one last time.

Chris Porterfield has found the sweet spot between masterful attention to details and broad understanding of the breadth of a record.

It may be overstating things to say Duterte and Kempner belong together, but their musical union sure is satisfying. Written and recorded during a pre-pandemic, two-week-long creative outburst in a rented California house, the songs on Doomin’ Sun bring together the two artists’ best qualities.

Like every Pissed Jeans album before it, Honeys is a unique balancing act of dumb and smart, as nimble as it is brash.

The listenability and creativity of Dre’s grand scheme almost save Compton from itself, but it’s the final song of the album that brings down the house.

The new LP is a touch less bombastic than its predecessor, but its freedom and euphoria arrive via beats not all that different from Kay’s past tunes. Given both the emotional growth that often accompanies coming out—and the three-plus-year wait for something new from Kay—this minor amount of perceptible change feels a bit underwhelming. But the similar shuffle delineating the majority of these tracks is never anything less than catchy.

Their vision fits right into the lineage of trailblazers they’ve joined by aligning with Saddle Creek, and their first contribution for the label makes for a most worthy addition to its roster.

For all their obvious musical ability, the band’s real skill here is blending so many unexpected elements into a coherent whole that is at once adventurous and accessible, even if--or maybe because--you have to hustle a little to keep up.

The mood can be a lot to endure for the course of one album, especially in comparison to the lighter, looser touch that Chapman took on his ‘70s albums like Millstone Grit and Rainmaker. But the music that he and Gunn (with some assistance from B.J. Cole and Sarah Smout) designed has an openness and a ramble that befits these songs. It would be dishonest to try and slather these tunes with effects and or electronic intrusions.

The Honduran-American artist proves that raw personal narratives and dance pop can happily coexist, picking up the mantle from forerunners like Robyn.

Like Harris, Andrews’ voice can ring out with force of feeling even at its softest, and relying on nuance instead of vocal pyrotechnics turns the song into an intimate confession. She demonstrates that same good taste, and finely honed skill, throughout Honest Life, resulting in an album at once elegant and deeply moving.

Giannascoli’s work stands on its own, never more so than on Rocket, a 14-track travelogue of the 24-year-old’s varied interests.

For the most part, you also won’t find the simplistic catchiness of their debut, but that’s not the point of their second LP. Shame are in a different, increasingly dejected headspace, and they poured their anxieties into a more considered album. Drunk Tank Pink is more varied in pace and inspiration.

Draws as much from Madness as Joy Division. [Apr/May 2005, p.131]

Shattering the myth of “sophomore slump syndrome,” feeble little horse possess an uncanny bravery. They forge ahead with a fearlessness that is palpable even when the lyrics are sparse.

Adore Life builds on that sound [on 2013's Silence Yourself], and frames it in a contemporary context that is less throwback than thrilling.

The project is much more avant garde than their previous records, with their greater abundance of catchy hooks and hits. They find comfort in psychedelia, ‘70s folk and the simple things in life. Five albums into their career, Grizzly Bear show that they still know how to nail the dichotomy of beauty and tragedy.

Their best since 1991’s Everclear, and a glittering statement of purpose from an institution reinvigorated.

His best impulses he keeps channeling into his music, on seven albums and counting, and the result is a body of work that often feels indispensable. Isbell is a songwriter’s songwriter, but the songs that result are for all of us.

Quaranta is Danny Brown at his finest—and his most personal. It’s one of this year’s best albums: a no-skips project from an artist committed to stepping into the light and putting his best foot forward every day, despite the clouds that sometimes obscure the sun.

She has put in the time to master her instrument of choice, and she combines that mastery with top-shelf compositional skills. As a result, she sounds like no one else.

Shovels & Rope balances a robust blend of electric guitar and a booming kick drum with reflective vocals, and the result is at once triumphant and melancholy.

These sad-sack satirists pepper their fourth album with tracks that quicken the pace to anaerobic levels, as frontman Will Sheff liberally shpritzes his microphone while the band gets lathered up like participants in a grade-school dodgeball game.

Sunshine Rock is bitter and hopeful, full of rage and promise. It’s an album that defines a moment in all its ugliness and the rare moments of beauty that we have to keep fighting for.

Had Blake been inclined to temper critical pressure and career anxiety into raw material, Overgrown may have evolved into something much more compelling. Instead, mistaking the volume knob for an instrument, the album uses louder/softer fades to mask dynamic limitations and muddles through overstuffed mixes.

Silence Yourself evokes very real sensory and emotional connections, leaving it up to you to get something out of it.

It's too early to start drafting up those Best of 2011 lists, but City of Refuge deserves to be shortlisted as one of the stronger folk albums in recent memory.

Bach: Sonatas and Partitas Volume 1 is beautifully played and uplifting to listen to from beginning to end.

Complex yet catchy, lush yet groomed, and organically digital, The Magic Position is how pop radio must sound to the brutally insane. [May 2007, p.63]

At long last, Springsteen has realized that not every album has to be an attempted masterpiece. [Jun/Jul 2006, p.111]

Preacher’s Daughter produces a crater-deep impact that commands respect and attention. Where one may knock some of the power ballads for sameness, one might instead find consistency, an album grounded in the artist’s inspirations and narrative mission that is, above all, tantalizing. It is hard not to crave more.

Despite the heavy-handed intents, the album is surprisingly accessible overall. The arrangements generally maintain a pastoral pastiche, an uptempo feel that’s both compelling and catchy. Indeed, the shimmer that illuminates the vast majority of the material is generally elegiac.

The concept behind the music can only be as moving as the music itself, and, thankfully, Protomartyr delivers. The band’s knack for meaty percussion and jagged guitars continues.

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.

Live In Atlanta is not for newbies. It’s too overwhelming for anyone not already established as a lifelong Lucero fan. But for those who have experienced Lucero live before, Live In Atlanta is a necessary addition to the catalog.

Like the best moments on any Neutral Milk Hotel album—or, frankly, any emo album worth a damn—the whaler excels when it feels like Home Is Where are at its slipperiest as a band, conjuring something capable of breaking beyond a simple genre signifier.

Though it’s true that this is not a “new” record, it’s still a crucial addition to not just Lenderman’s discography, but to the compendium of contemporary live material altogether as we know it.

It’s exciting to see an artist lean into their intuition and embrace their own creative influences—and that shines through on What Happened To The Beach? in a compelling way—but the album as a whole seems to be figuring itself out alongside its listeners.

On Daze, Vile’s amorphous, ambient drones continue to solidify into sharp shapes with defined edges.

Death Cab for Cutie underscore their range and numerous eras on Asphalt Meadows. Uniting the past and the present, it’s the perfect mnemonic for this band’s legacy.

All Spoon albums have some great songs and tasteful production touches, but Hot Thoughts might be the first time they didn’t do another year’s slightly tweaked version of Girls Can Tell. To arrive at such a worthwhile new vista roughly 24 years in is a pretty serious achievement, and all with no more overt fanfare than a humble presentation of one of their best offerings.

Ultimately, Raitt remains utterly herself.

What’s here is an excellent start. This collection gives a sense of the scope of Strummer’s career, and the passion with which he pursued it.

At 23, Dacus has already made a career album with Historian, and she’s really only just getting started.

An experimental, genre-less and extremely noisy sound to exceptional results. Schlagenheim is beyond weird. Schlagenheim is a legitimate one of a kind record. Schlagenheim is a masterpiece.

The result is a nearly flawless, organic LP.

Miraculously, Moin sound like every band they have been influenced by while remaining completely inimitable.

About as accessible and smooth as this band is going to get. [Aug 2006, p.85]

Okkervil River--with frontman Will Sheff as producer--defers to the chief, allowing Erickson's gruff voice to reign over woozy background vocals ("John Lawman"), punchy brass sections ("Think of as One") and Ebow lullabies ("Birds'd Crash").

The trio hasn’t quite put together an album of complete heart-stoppers just yet, but Blitz charts them in the right direction.

Part minimalist dance record, part undulating sound collage, his new album serves as a scrapbook of nearly every idea Hebden has examined and cast aside during his career.

Whether it’s the start of a beautiful musical friendship or just a flash in the cast-iron pan, Crutchfield and Williamson’s I Walked with You a Ways is roomy, real and charming, and it’s one of the best Americana albums of the year and a powerful display of songwriting skills.

The record is arresting and unnerves in a way only possible from personal anecdotes as opposed to Poem’s parables—it doesn’t speak for everyone, like a fable might, but it does speak for a lot of people.

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.

The problem is the songs. Auerbach can sing with feeling (see the cover of Jerry Butler’s “Never Gonna Give You Up,” which features vocals reminiscent of vintage Todd Rundgren), but his lyrics are so banal they hardly seem worth the trouble.

The combination of loose fun and pinpoint accuracy here is bracing, and Califone’s sheer originality is a great counterpoint to the many acts trying desperately to live up to the legacy of their formers.

That seven-year break might have been just what Wolf Parade needed to regroup and come back even stronger than before, and Cry Cry Cry shows that guitar rock is far from dead.