That sense of musical evolution makes Around the Well a particularly compelling listening, and Beam’s sensitive readings of songs by Stereolab, the Flaming Lips, the Postal Service, and New Order show how sturdy his sound can be, as he translates them to quieter settings without losing their heraldic sentiments.

A synthetic/organic melting pot where experimental electronics meet birdsong and wind, Tracks and Traces is a Krautrock classic with a heavily mediated release history that renders it ultimately mysterious--the more music we hear, the further we get from what actually happened in that room.

The energy level is up; the production is clanky and raw; the guitars ring louder, and the drums hit harder. For the first time, Peter Bjorn and John actually sound like--dare we say--a rock band.

On Mountaintops, the band flaunts the dynamics of their past recordings while sneaking in layers of growth.

Violens is able to float between atmospheric and in-your-face, giving the album a swirling feeling instead of putting power hits up front and letting the album slide into the background as the songs pass.

Get There, is a thoughtful, interesting record (about what it means to be thoughtful and interesting).

At times, even on its better tracks, Infinity suffers from the weight of its own ambitions, obscuring great ideas in a wash of obstinate noise wrought by too many instruments in the mix.

It’s a dirty-sounding album, full of scuzzy red-line guitars and overdriven vocals, but even all that speaker-busting grit doesn’t hide the alluring melodies Bains threads among the mayhem.

If the album does anything right (and it does a lot right), it is capturing the contradicting emotions of a life and trying to reconcile them, so that the listener doesn’t have to do the same.

While the album’s primary appeal may come from the rich storytelling in Earle’s songs, the musicality on display is nothing to balk at either.

Whether all our efforts on this dying world will be for naught is an open question, but Silverbacks bear witness nonetheless on Archive Material, advancing their craft even as the ship sinks beneath their feet.

Widowspeak's Almanac strikes as a true original, as a natural evolution from the band's original concept.

There’s still no substitute for the adrenalizing power of the Hold Steady at its best, but the nuance of Finn’s solo songwriting, and the subtler sense of musical adventurism he has come to embrace on his own work, make these songs essential, too.

While there are fewer barbs and the atmosphere is less filigreed, as with Belle & Sebastian , you’re either down with the twee or not. Tuneful as this is, it’s hard to write it off without feeling like a rockist grinch.

Hardwired… To Self-Destruct is the best Metallica record in 25 years, but it’s not going to blow minds.

Throughout the disc, a dream band backs him up... providing rich atmosphere and detail to his songs. [#16, p.129]

Supergrass is shedding even more of its goofiness, but the music--while more straight-faced--still sounds energized as ever.

If it sounds like Thee Oh Sees have matured, you'd be right.

Songs that make up the rest of the album showcase interesting hooks and tasteful instrumentation, but it's definitely the case of the whole being less than the sum of its parts.

Låpsley is nothing if not diverse, but she manages to retain a bespoke, trademark sound throughout Long Way Home.

Given the album’s August release date, this is one of the nearly perfect LPs for the last few hazy weeks of a brilliant summer.

The quality is indisputable, although one might question why the Chems need another best-of. The answer is disc two of Brotherhood, an invaluable collection of their “Electronic Battle Weapons” (promo tracks released to DJs for field testing).

Veracity makes Django and Jimmie a marvel, mixing novelty, pathos and classics. What emerges is a core sample of what made these men endure for half a century.

'Cause I Sez So is true to the album's title--cocky, purposefully cretinous and rude as hell.

Often hushed and challenging, his greatest device remains the tactical use of open space, delineated sharply by skeletal guitars and the loose insinuation of movement.

The duo definitely hit the nail on the head when it comes to injecting their youth into the tracks.

The smiling-through-tears undercurrent of ’60s pop is lost in Deschanel’s taffy-like vocals, and though the album evokes memories of a more pleasant time, they seem far too sweet to be real.

Keeping the raw emotion of a war that killed an estimated 40 million people out of the equation likely helped Field Music get their job done, but a touch more sentiment would have gone a long way toward taking this album beyond its research project roots.

If you’re looking for experiments with song structure or eclectic instrumentation, this probably isn’t the album for you. If you want something you can crank up at backyard barbecues or in the car with the windows down, well, The Black Keys have two words for you, and they’re in the album title.

Their new record Blue Lights On The Runway has the potential to turn X1 into a stateside #1.

They made a wholesome record without embarrassing themselves or their fans.

Much like "T.O.R.N.A.D.O.," Rolling Blackouts is a natural disaster in musical form-a messy, lo-fi garbage bag full of genres and cultures, overflowing with left-field sonic trickery: corny turntable scratching, shit garage drums, twinkling glockenspiels, and enough spunky cheerleader bravado from frontgirl/rapper Ninja to start a whole squad.

The fortunate result for the listener is an album that gives back what you put in, with the melodies all holding firm and digging in their claws over time.

Parcels feels miraculously out-of-place, conjuring ghosts of music movements past. But, with its perpetuation of millennial angst and ability to offer release through dance, it does so in a way that feels both necessary and relevant to our present day.

Sleigh Bells’ heady flashbang of an album.

Cloud Nothings plays like the sonic equivalent of a merry-go-round ride-all momentum and boundless energy. This ride is fun, of course, but only in small doses.

The wonderfully overdramatic Spell inspires imagery of the house band in a borderland casino. [Sep 2006, p.81]

Not many bands in recent memory have been able to combine noise and otherworldly sonics with the sweat and hot breath of punk rock. The Skull Defekts have mastered it, boiled it down and resurrected it.

Offers is a delectable batch of baked goods, and an improvement upon their comparatively undercooked debut.

It’s their best album since The Suburbs.

As a treat for the most passionate fans, it’s a winner, but by focusing on only one aspect of the band’s identity it doesn’t register as much as almost every other record they’ve ever released.

So why is his new album so underwhelming? Because Petty has gotten away from his strength--whipping pop hooks into an emotional frenzy of harmonies--and has focused on his weakness: overly ambitious lyrics.

Depending on where you fall on a scale from one to hardcore fan, this creates either a masterful, cohesive soundscape--or a monotonous departure from the frenzied, fuzzed-out energy of Dwyer’s most well-known songs.

For the most part, it’s the dirty or profane that plays the best.

Superorganism loses momentum in its final third, but not before offering its two best tracks: “Reflections on the Screen” and “SPRORGNSM.”

Filled with dreamy pop gems. [#14, p.105]

“Pontiak” and “ballad” were probably never supposed to be in the same sentence together, but the band’s insistence on its soft side for even a few songs is an exciting prospect that makes Innocence a diamond in the rough.

There are plenty of seeds sewn throughout Simple Math that could likely blossom into Manchester Orchestra's first real breakthrough, but here, we're stuck in the growing pains phase.

Magic doesn’t break any new sonic ground for Springsteen, but no one was calling for a reinvention. Magic offers what Bruce Springsteen does best: a handful of honest, hard-working tracks about life and how we live it.

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.

Currents is probably Eisley’s most calculated and complete full-length album to date, and one that takes the band’s obvious desire to experiment and expand on their sound (which was already quite evident in their 2011 album The Valley) to the next level.

It’s a great album with depth and intelligence, and possibly the best punk album released in a year of many great punk albums, outshining the band’s contemporaries by not seeing the genre as limiting, and changing the boundaries to suit their own abilities.

It’s less garage, more cacti forest. Less “borrowing” money from your parents, more working odd jobs to afford your bottom-shelf tequila. It’s heart, and it’s good.

It shred and stomps ably, but it doesn’t feel special. Instead, it roars by for a half-hour and then it’s gone, and whatever thrills it delivers dissipate quickly.

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.

Occasionally his voice gets lost in the cathedral of sound, but Personality remains a joyful noise. [Sep 2006, p.78]

The controversy nearly obscured the resounding triumph of the album itself; written and produced by Burton and Linkous, it's a breathtaking set of atmospheric ballads (plus a few rockers) that explore cosmic concerns, from the self-destructive trap of revenge to the possibility of spiritual renewal.

We Were Promised Jetpacks may have found their style for now, but this album still hints that nothing's settled yet.

Perhaps Blumberg didn’t know at the start that the Hebronix release would lead to a split from his band, but most of the six songs on Unreal catch him in the mood to say goodbye.

While the familiar ache still haunts Single Mothers, Earle treats it with new wisdom, choosing instead to ramble forward, rather than perseverate and drift waywardly back.

It's encouraging to know both that Portugal. The Man has not lost sight of themselves despite their successes and that their new home at Atlantic will be one that fosters the creative vision the band has become known for.

Unfortunately, What We Saw is heavy on overlong ballads, and when she adds that trademark whimsy to the mix, it's nearly unbearable.

The album does not aim to recreate arrangements from a half-century prior; the emphasis is on radical reinterpretation, and that mission succeeds.

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.)

When There Is No Year abandons the synthwave influences and embraces Fisher’s clear admiration for Foucault and other critical theorists, it’s easy to remember Algiers’ unique appeal.

After the breakthrough of their incredible 2016 album Cardinal, Hall and Pinegrove faced the tall task of trying to match or surpass it. They haven’t quite done that, but they have built an impressive catalog of albums that spill over with compelling songs and affecting performances. From that perspective, 11:11 fits in perfectly.

All that hard work has culminated into a gorgeous, career-long debut. Chanel Beads’ day is finally here, now.

Upon a first listen, Where Does This Door Go may be a lot to take in, as it covers a wide range of sounds and styles in its 52-minute runtime, but it also packs an immediate punch, and Hawthorne’s growth as a composer is evident by the end of the first song, making this easily his best album to date.

For Now I Am Winter plays like a cultural stereotype, conjuring all the obvious adjectives but none of the emotions. But Arnalds has a gift for making boredom sound beautiful.

Newman’s second solo outing, Get Guilty, is a baroque-pop gem, on which he displays remarkable tonal control via crafty arrangement.

Blame It On Gravity is a welcome return to form.

DiFranco always throws her heart into her songs, and Knuckledown gives her a chance to reflect on it.

'Think Tonight' is only one of several strong numbers on This is Not the World. In fact, it’s easy to imagine the Futureheads as just a classic tune or two away from breakthrough status.

Miami shows an inventive collective in the act of reinvention, their recorded output transitioning from concepts to compositions to living breathing body-moving songs.

They opt to confound their listeners with reams of noise and feedback, making for a series of soundscapes that have songs and static constantly competing for attention.

Again addressing themes of geographical and emotional isolation, Threadbare sounds like a band trying to find its place in the world, whether on land or at sea.

Nothing is what it seems, and Lost coheres in this disorienting netherworld of drastic tempo changes, pachinko synths and 8-bit blips.

Quietly brimming with lonesome, countrified folk-rock catharsis. [Dec 2005, p.104]

The stories are brilliantly disconnected but often uninspired, evoking the stunning introspection inspired by sun and sand without ever quite accepting its challenge.

The Black Dirt Sessions is this band's "After the Goldrush," stuffed with devastating songs laid bare by weathered, redemption-seeking renegades.

There’s no mistaking her passion. And with Life, Love, Flesh, Blood, May makes every intention clear.

It's more than just the counterpoint to electronic instrumental buzz-bands like Ratatat and Animal Collective; it's 68 minutes of intricate tension-building and release, with a keen eye towards the redemptive powers of contemplation--and nature sounds.

Ronson’s Uptown Special is his best work yet and one of the best funk albums you’ll come across in recent memory.

Despite its metaphysical optimism, Sundowner resonates not because it has the answers, but because it proves willing to hunt for them or, in their apparent absence, to create them.

The lines are often not so clearly drawn, and there are shades of 13, the 1999 post breakup album that Albarn made with his band Blur throughout, but the dark, foreboding clouds that hover over everything here will feel familiar to anyone who has picked up a newspaper or opened their Twitter accounts at any point in the last 18 months or so.

All in all, Sunflower Bean stripped away more than was necessary. The blunt truth is that the refreshing and energizing band that birthed “Tame Impala” and “Rock & Roll Heathen” just didn’t show up to the Human Ceremony recording sessions.

Despite its flaws, Vol. 2 is the second-best thing the Olds have done in a decade.

The simple fact that Aimee Mann continues writing songs around these distressing observations and putting them out on such achingly beautiful records seems proof that-despite all the twisted, cutting truths she's spied under the lens of her artistic microscope--she still somehow clings to the sable cloud's silver flash.

Pondering the loss of innocence, rise of awareness and acceptance over 12 songs and 45 minutes, Lissie demonstrates resilience in the wake of California/stardom’s illusionary appeal.

While this album is overall a winner, it’s not revolutionary.

Man Alive!’s biggest strength lies in its sequencing. There’s no narrative throughline to the record, but there’s certainly still an emotional journey to it, elegantly flowing from optimistic synths to self-imploding percussion, from visions of his daughter’s life to the apocalyptic end of Marshall’s own. Like The Passion of Joan of Arc’s spiritual cinematography, each track plays like an extreme close-up in service of a uniquely coherent whole.

Radical Optimism appears more as a series of vignettes than a fully fleshed-out record.

However you decipher the 1s and 0s, the songs comprising La Di Da Di are timeless vestiges of sound, and by that virtue alone are going to be around for a long time.

A series of spry, spirited pop meditations on love and lust and discovery, KT Tunstall's third album sounds like the soundtrack for a film in which the successful, single protagonist finds herself by losing everything and falling in love.

It’s a bold direction that’s not always easy to pursue successfully in the world of music, but Jim James is sure off to a good start.

While the singer and his band are drawing on a classic form, their interpretation makes for an exciting and contemporary sound.

Her dexterity in juxtaposing genres, infusing her swooping jazz-singing with near-gospel fervor, kittenish moans and shameless spoken exhortations is commanding.