After a two-album stale patch a decade ago, The Hold Steady have rebounded to become more adventurous than they were before, and Finn’s storytelling has never been stronger.

This is the album that finally cements Braids’ role within Montreal’s accomplished indie artists and Raphaelle Standell-Preston as one of the most uniquely artistic forces in music today.

Stables’ impressive singing and highly mulled-over songwriting ensure that her creativity remains front-and-center, no matter who’s in the room with her. That said, her work is so intricate that some listeners might not find Moonshine Freeze under their skin all that quickly.

Death Peak has some brilliantly immersive moments throughout. ... Upon repeat listens, the fine tracks that marked the early part of Death Peak sound tarnished and wanting, the combined weight of the album suddenly appearing uneven and cumbersome.

MIA is so assured here... The critical party line is that MIA’s previous effort ///Y/ was an artistic failure. ... Surely those naysayers will declare this a fine return to form.

LaVere could rest on her lyrics alone, which are witty and feisty enough to stand on their own, but by giving her band boundless license to indulge any whim or eccentricity, she has crafted a well-rounded album that is already among the year's best.

In other world they might be drenched in sorrow, but here they're nice and introspective, like strategic resting points to make the glide that much more beatific.

It’s also a wonderful first product of Angel Deradoorian and Kate NV’s creative union.

At root, the gritty, back-to-the-garage drive of these pop tunes adds a layer of grease that makes them stick. [Apr 2007, p.58]

It’s challenging music, especially for newcomers to their sound. What makes the challenge rewarding is the elasticity of their work, giving the record a sense of scope that underpins the gonzo array of aesthetics they’ve sewn together here. South of Reality, ultimately, is a great album, but more importantly, it’s a great adventure.

Packed with simple, poignant lyrics, the record keeps things awesome without falling prey to its own overindulgent qualities.

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.

Her sound on Sensational is seductive and hushed, and she adopts a poise that can easily draw a cult following. Give into de Casier’s allure, before her enchantment becomes far more than just a whisper.

Frightened Rabbit wrings a winning simplicity from all this august isolation. A cardiac pulse animates many of the songs, a mightily thwacking unison at the core of all the kaleidoscopic embellishment.

While parts of Planet (i) can feel akin to standing out in the sun on a particularly sweltering day, Squirrel Flower’s talent as a chronicler of relationships and memories makes this album worth exploring.

As ambitious as this album is, there's a surprising lack of anguish on display. [Apr 2007, p.54]

While loss, pain and connection have always defined Sleater-Kinney’s work, Little Rope feels especially imbued with an emotional acuity and intensity, one that I don’t think they have captured this potently since “One More Hour.” For all of this, Path of Wellness did set the bar low, and Little Rope has some sloppy writing and one too many lackluster moments. .... Despite these shortcomings, Little Rope shows us that Sleater-Kinney are well worth sticking with.

Ornate but unremarkable headphone listening. [Oct 2006, p.80]

The more I listened, the more beguiling it became. [Dec 2006, p.93]

As a vehicle for Berman’s words, just as much as a follow-up to his 1999 poetry collection "Actual Air" would be, Lookout Mountain is a volume to be consumed in one’s own time, filed on the shelf, and eventually taught in seminars as an example of form and poise.

What emerges from Set ’em Wild, Set ’em Free is the realization that Akron/Family is maddeningly unknowable and, essentially, a product of all these influences rolled up into one gigantic, take-it-or-leave-it stringball.

As far as where Ultramega OK stands in the Soundgarden catalog, it still doesn’t hold up to later records, but it does contain some of their best songs.

The contrast between style and intent has an amusing effect on the listening experience; Gold Past Life’s material spans years, but the record breezes by its 39-minute duration. Time flies when you’re mulling over your life choices.

Leaders Of The Free World would seem by-the-book Brit rock, if it weren't for Guy Garvey. Gruff but generous, with a voice like Peter Gabriel minus the ego, Garvey masters the role of sensitive frontman by staying grounded. [Feb/Mar 2006, p.104]

At 26, Musgraves has kept her wonder, honed her focus and remained true to her core.

For the moment, Justin Townes Earle delivers an update on roots music that fairly glows.

The result is the purest late-night album that Camera Obscura has recorded yet.

The result is Dehd’s best album to date, a significant upgrade on their sound that finds their Windy City DIY scene-honed amalgam of surf rock, shoegaze and dream pop at its most melodic and expressive. The trio demonstrate newfound levels of intensity and focus on Flower of Devotion, leaving minimalism behind in favor of glossier compositions.

Yes, the hellfires still burn, and the hearts are still black, and the end is ever nigh. But this time the songs are infused with a contemporary heartache that sounds far closer to 2011 than to the 1931 Depression-era vibe the band typically evokes.

Even though Young Sick Camellia maintains its old school vibe, it still manages to inject a fresh, vibrant and a vivid reminder that even in an age where the next big deal is based on making a weird, wacky impression, going back to the basics has its merits as well.

Long Time Coming feels refreshingly forward. Ferrell doesn’t tie herself in knots worrying about how her music coheres into a whole, and she doesn’t waste effort trying to make either the record’s pieces or her pieces fit together like a puzzle picture. Bluntly, she tells her listeners what she’s all about by embracing her own untidiness.

Most of the songs on The Golden Casket don’t sound like they’re of a piece, and while the album has its moments, an overall lack of cohesion means they quickly fade.

One can't help but miss the days when his buoyancy sounded less strained. [Dec 2005, p.116]

Cramming what should be an unworkable heap of concepts and sounds into a deliciously volatile 35 minutes, Nothing Valley is a bracing blend of scraping noise and tender melody, not unlike the recipe used by Speedy Ortiz.

If Versus communicates anything--and it communicates a lot, sometimes too much--it’s an examination of the linear relationship between producer and listener, a warning for the artist against the magnetic allure of pontification.

Allison does it all in an honest, uncomplicated, and well-crafted way that Clean is anything but juvenile. You might just forget how old you are for a second, as her bedroom melodies carry you back to when feelings were freely given and many lessons still had to be learned.

Generally less intense and more coy, ponderous and forced [than Keep On Your Mean Side]. [Apr/May 2005, p.132]

There are still irresistible dance grooves here, but also more segments that are likely to call for headphone introspection. It might even be safer than that out-of-control feeling on Budos Band III.

Death Magnetic is more than a paean to all things thrash--it’s the revivification of ambition dormant for nearly two decades.

Several generations removed from the origins of their chosen idiom, the Carolina Chocolate Drops are nonetheless the genuine article.

By adding cleaner production, synth and string flourishes alongside poppier and catchier refrains, De Augustine largely hits the mark on Tomb. With a few curveballs thrown throughout, the warm and comforting lull of Swim Inside the Moon is long gone, replaced by a fascinating record that updates his prior work without losing any of its intimacy.

The record is equal parts spontaneity and calculated charm.

These songs feel immediately familiar and timeless—you could have sworn you heard these melodies on so-and-so’s album from 15 or 25 years ago, but it never feels contrived despite obvious comparisons throughout.

It’s a smoother ride than Delaware, for better or for worse, but not without edges. Drop Nineteens have not lost all of their style; if anything, they’ve gained some finesse. It was never supposed to happen, but we should be glad that it has.

Paul centers the intricacies of home/coming across 12 pristine tracks, each pushing post-rock to its most beautiful extreme.

While The New Pornographers’ appealing quirks abound, their melodic gifts rightfully steal the show.

Rubies was such a well-tooled formula that fans should be glad to have a worthy, likeminded successor: another hearty dose of musical-theater vocals, incandescent guitar solos, long swelling arrangements and jarring enfilades of exploding drums.

The performances were captured and mixed by frequent Rubin collaborator Ryan Hewitt, with the kind of dry and honest clarity both Young and Rubin have chased throughout their careers. But if there are any faults in the final album, it’s simply that this is only a slightly above-average collection of songs from Young at this stage in his career.

Both poppy and heady, intelligent and reckless, and sometimes bordering on absurdist, The Seduction of Kansas calls into question the social landscape of the American heartland and poses Priests as punk’s resident anthropologists. First heralded as post-punk heroes, Priests are now much more than that: They’re post-genre saviors bringing vital discourse and sharp observations to the table, still preaching the punk gospel along the way.

There are truly transcendent moments on Shadow People, they’re just nestled in among the ones that never quite lift off. Add it all up and The Limiñanas remain a very cool band, which is a perfectly fine thing to be.

The Night Sweats are at their best when the music reflects Rateliff’s own distinctive take on a musical style that has saved him, in more ways than one, from a less fortunate life. Tearing at the Seams doesn’t always reach those heights, but the music is exhilarating when it does.

Haunted Painting is a record full of exciting dance bops courtesy of Dupuis. Overall, it contains layers that make it perfect for the Halloween season and aware of the current social and political climates. Dupuis is able to happily immerse listeners into her world—one filled with the thought-provoking lyricism that becomes easily consumed through addictive instrumentation choices, be it synths, larger-than-life orchestrals or punky performances.

While Beatopia is an imperfect record, it is a level up strong enough to show something great on the horizon.

Like it did in 1999, American Football proves its ability to stand out in a sea of contemporaries and imitators, post-aughts emo revival or no.

Most often, Gem Club seems content to wallow in its pretty tones. Sometimes, that's enough.

Artificial Heart is an enjoyable, albeit off-kilter album that is probably better as individual songs rather than as a complete piece.

Each note has a purpose, and every musician playing or singing is doing a magnificent job bringing it to life.

Although Supernova represents the idealistic (and exospheric) possibilities for LaMontagne after 10 years in the industry, what gets lost in the experimentation is the emotional connection previously forged though clear playing and exposed lyricism.

Lately is a much more introspective and muted work compared to the countryfied indie rock sensibility of Walking Proof, the style Hiatt is known for. The change of pace is welcome, though, and reveals much about where she’s been as a person and where she’s going as an artist.

Suffice it to say that Private Life is as socially conscious as albums come. It can also be a slog to get through.

In the end, Bloom isn't a huge progression for Beach House, but rather a lateral step for the group.

Commissioned by Stevens and featuring the arrangements of six composers, Run Rabbit Run re-imagines the conceptual song cycle as a remarkably pliable and surprisingly tangible avant-garde composition, its crackling glitches and imposing synthesizers translated into gorgeous sweeping trills, scratchy bow scrapes and sweetly sighing refrains.

Everything moves in slow motion, as if that lent profundity to the proceedings, and even then the vocals rarely keep time. Perhaps Holland believes that singing off the beat creates tension, but it merely diffuses what little energy these songs possess.

With the vocals more out front than ever before, Several Shades showcases a wounded, fragile weariness that I'd never realized until now was such a huge part of Dinosaur Jr's ragged, heart-wrenching appeal.

This very quick, very pretty album is a good new look for TV on the Radio, and longtime fans will also feel at home with Seeds.

Something so organic it should almost be unrepeatable. [Sep 2006, p.77]

This is either one of 2007’s most refreshing or most grating albums, and there’s a hair’s breadth in between. Swerving but creative, Rise Above may wear on repeated listens but still it connects more than it should.

All of Houck's southern eccentricities remain gloriously intact, from his eloquently hangdog vocals to his minimalist songwriting on "Hej, Me I'm Light."

Left to his own devices without any interference from outside interests, and an astounding album of dark, sultry music like this is what you get in return.

Credit Epworth with eschewing any formula for the sake of instant accommodation. Music this intriguing, this intense, speaks volumes on its own.

Sad, sweet and mature as ever, the Pernice Brothers keep twisting their emotional kaleidoscope to great effect.

Friend and Foe compensates for its occasional melodic malaise with its vigorous, exploratory prosody.

Randell and Hassett are a formidable musical team, certainly, with both skill and vision to spare. They proved that on Passerby. Sculptor, on the other hand, seems like it’s searching for the right path forward, with both glimmers of hope and rough patches.

This isn’t just a great gospel album to hear in 2016; it’s also among the must-hear albums across the musical spectrum.

TOY make a strong case for Happy in the Hollow as their most cohesive and compelling record. The record’s intense, shadowy first half and airy, graceful second half culminates in an mercurial odyssey that unabashedly celebrates TOY’s eccentricities.

Regardless of its wavering intent, though, even a CAVE compilation digs out a reasonably significant trench in underground music--one more deserving of attention than U2’s business practices or some producer’s first release in a decade.

Truth hasn’t aged a day, completely bypassing the tell-tale late ‘90s mope-core veneer in favor of introspection that is musically lush and lyrically harsh. From the Beatles-esque sitar on “Tsunami” to the bitter-candy guitars on “Black Dog On My Shoulder” the album is melancholia for adults. ... The reissue also contains two discs of demos, remixes and b-sides, which are always fun for the collector but may be overwhelming, or, in some cases, repetitive for the casual listener.

Tonally, however, Bish Bosch offers nothing dramatically new, just (a lot more) of what Walker's done before.

Live Laugh Love is a refreshing outing from Chastity Belt, who are no doubt in top form, as the album arrives like the culmination of each member’s lifelong musical evolution taking the collective whole to new heights.

It’s heady and magical stuff.

4Eva N a Day is mostly just the sum of its influences, one can't help but marvel at the tape's economy and endless listenability.

Low’s always been good at making records where it sounds like every note and beat contains some degree of pain and hope you’ve felt. So hopefully it’s compelling when this one stands out even more as one of their best.

Blessing is merely good, solid rock.

While the lush instrumentation on openers “to a Hammer” and “santa cruz” is bright and pleasant, and the playful rockabilly number “the Rascal” is a foot-stomping good time, Hundreds of Lions truly shines as it begins to slow down.

While it won’t fill the void left all those years ago in the mighty Leviathan’s wake and features a few gratingly saccharine moments, Emperor of Sand is full of passionate performances and serves as one of Mastodon’s most surprising and relatable releases yet

Ultimately then, the Mavericks are merely miming the qualities that elevated them to stardom early on, and for that, they can hardly be blamed.

Late Riser, a record that for all its big-hearted energy and infectious songs still can’t escape the temptation to over-produce.

Benton’s follow-up, Lost in the Country, is another pleasantly tuneful listen, but it doesn’t quite deliver on that promise. Its 10 songs sit and simmer in Trace Mountains’ sonic comfort zone, while most of the surprises seem to have been left behind. The result is an album that’s perfectly likable, but not much more.

Packed with plenty of oddly memorable moments. [Apr/May 2006, p.101]

Time on Earth is another batch of Finn’s impeccably crafted pop gems.

Dedicated to Lieske, English Oceans is a triumph for the Drive-By Truckers, one that capitalizes on Hood and Cooley’s strengths as songwriters and also gives them something to sing for that means more than all those colorful characters put together.

Ritual Union is an album that has about as many standouts as skip-overs. The standouts are songs that won't get old, but the skip-overs aren't the type to grow on you, more the type that a significant other might use in the morning to fuck with your fragile early stages of consciousness.

Pierce could still use lessons from Stereolab or Aloha on how to shape textures into songs. [Aug/Sep 2005, p.133]

More weirdness would’ve given the album some welcome variety, though likely at the expense of potency. Given the facts on the ground, that’s a tradeoff our heroes just weren’t willing to make.

They highlight Mogwai's biggest stylistic trademarks, and little else-the ambient drone and the electric guitar crashes that break its spell, and the waves of sound that evolve from carefully crafted crescendos. So while the final cuts are cohesive, they're also tight-lipped-safe.

Melodic post-punk gives way to a wider sonic landscape, yielding to muted tones that dovetail comfortably with Hamilton Leithauser’s now-audible vocals.

Jack and Meg careen from riff to riff, idea to idea, clinging for dear life as they dig their spurs into the mythical rodeo beast of rock ’n’ roll. Their lean guitar-and-drums approach allows them to turn on a dime, following any stormy muse they please.

Unknown Mortal Orchestra can now sit back and smile at the fact they’ve written an album which could just as easily be this year’s Channel Orange as it could be its Lonerism.