It's airy, synth-heavy and loud, and it moves like a glacier.

Her music-box arrangements have a child-like giddiness about them, but this collection of glittering songs has an emotional and sonic maturity that will keep you listening long past bedtime.

Hurricane Bar sees the group amp up the hand-clapping choruses and delivers a leaner collection that recalls everything from the Animals and the Small Faces to Hanoi Rocks and the Libertines.

Thistled Spring, more nuanced and poised than its much-lauded predecessor, signals the ongoing work of a band far from finished, far from plumbing the depths of which it is capable.

At its core, Mostly No prioritizes songcraft above bare texture, and Cohen's willingness to temper eruption with meditation sets Milk Maid apart from many of its buzzy peers.

The remixes that constitute the second disc are less intriguing than the B-sides, but none of them are horrible.

With NY's Finest, Pete Rock, whose place in hip-hop is alread firmly cememted alongside masters like Premier, may not go beyond expectations, but he certainly meets them comfortably.

If you're over alt-rock, then Brazen Bull is going to do little to bring you around. But if you need a new guitar rock record, one that you can headbang to without irony, then the Cribs have delivered.

There is nothing to dislike about Classics, but I get the feeling they're holding back.

As with Icky Mettle and then with Crooked Fingers, Bachmann once again has provided a taut and startling proper debut; his writing feels completely reenergized.

Thorburn anchors every note, every contribution with a personal outpouring of emotion and heartbreak, the likes of which we've never seen from him before.

Like A$AP Mob and Odd Future before him, Purrp arrives fully formed, with his own unique, fully realized aesthetic vision.

Look, if you’re seeking out the latest flavor of the month or are looking to see where this chillwave shit is going, Love Comes Close is probably not high on your list. But spin this thing once and it’s hard not to become engulfed in the aesthetic gloominess and seedy milieus Cold Cave are delivering here.

Even though not everything Mould tries on Body of Song works, there are enough gems to make the album a worthwhile destination.

Yes, the Sounds' music starts to blur together, but what a blur.

Viewed in a vacuum, Out of Love is one of this year's strongest debuts, a complete album with easy hooks and easy charms.

Even while working inside a style that has changed very little throughout its multiple-century lifespan, with Drone Trailer MV & EE have learned that looking outside tradition and beyond the past is a precious means of progression.

Young and Old may not be of the moment, it may not be sophisticated, it may not be ground-breaking, but it's a record that's hard to turn off once you put it on, and sometimes that's all it takes.

Magnetic Man accomplishes its goal: make pretty for the spotlight.

It's worth listening to with the hope of getting lost in some strange other world where children spew ether ghosts and spirits tap out love in Morse code.

Business Casual will probably slay people at parties, on Urban Outfitters sales floors and as part of the pre-concert entertainment over the P.A. But it'll probably have the same seven-month shelf life as Fancy Footwork did.

The chemistry between them, first displayed on 2005's "Chemistry" and now on The Formula, is consistent from song to song.

Listening to his simple melodies, uncomplicated structures and often disinterested vocals, the cool with which Jay approaches Slow Dance is unmistakable, and it is largely the single element that carries the album.

Parenthetical Girls consists primarily of Zac Pennington's unmistakable vocals, and they are given a musical context that emphasizes their stark beauty on this album. It was well worth the three years of effort on his part.

It's highlighted by an invigorated Kweli who's back to his old sound-bombing ways.

Its muscular confidence and stylistic purity make it a must-listen for the psychedelically inclined, as well as an easy candidate for one of the best records of the year.

Pluto should be appreciated for what it is, an album of impeccably crafted, energetic, original music that is striving above all else to be popular and universal, even if such goals look less likely of being achieved than ever before.

With Freak Puke, they continue to embody the creatively restless heart of independent experimental rock.

A Love Extreme giddily steals from and collides with a kaleidoscope of genres, all without a trace of modern guilt.

The songs on Goodnight Unknown are well crafted and it’s clear that Barlow still has quite a bit of passion for making music, but the spark of genuine creativity is not there.

Weathervanes is a darling, coherent, and certainly radio-friendly (if at times sugary) record. But on their next attempt, Freelance Whales should tone down the maudlin, veer away from Sufjan territory, subtract a few bells and whistles and grow up with the college crowd.

While some songs appear to have a cleaner polish (the pleasantly danceable "XXXO" and the epic "Tell Me Why") than others (the freewheeling "Born Free" and the ultra-compressed "Space"), every song is structured like a concise pop song with just a few rough edges.

A few tracks here sound less like fully developed songs and more like a college-age kid tinkering with a four-track, but overall, Williams hits more than he misses.

There’s an emotional heft here that wasn’t present before.

Listening to New Chain, there's no reason now to think that Small Black can't put that fine touch to making an album with a tight balance between their drowsier sensibilities and their hookier, head-nodding ones.

As good as some of the tracks are, it's just discouraging to think how solid the record could've been if it had been just ten tracks of more fleshed-out material.

Shout Out Louds have long been a case for the positives of going singles-only, and they probably keep that reputation here. But by a minor degree, Work is Shout Out Louds' finest album-length statement.

With nothing wasted, it leaves you wanting nothing more.

Even if almost every song here sounds like something someone else has already done, there's still originality to be found.

Living Thing isn’t easy listening, it functions best on headphones, and it doesn’t contain an obvious single. But music should be challenging.

There’s no telling if Ludacris will ever be given the level of respect he desires, but this help proves that he deserves it.

Like a good mixtape, the Scott Pilgrim soundtrack works less as a primetime rock album and more as an entry point to some great work that those on the margin may have missed. And for what it's worth, it's the best soundtrack Cera has ever been associated with.

As Olivier's lyrical content matures along with the rest of the band's elements, Midnight Movies could be ready to move into primetime.

Born Again Revisited is brimming with catchy choruses, expert song craft, and a few honest-to-goodness fist-pumping anthems. And this time around, your eardrums remain intact.

This album, with all its unmoored, frenetic energy, is a fantastic pop album, even if it doesn't posit anything new.

Roadkill Overcoat is a thorny album, one that doesn't give itself over easy, and definitely not on first listen.

The Fragile Army is the Polyphonic Spree's most consistent album, and it thunders with an assurance that was missing from "Together We're Heavy."

An album that is warm and inviting without being overpowering and rich and varied enough to warrant repeated listening.

Musically and melodically, this is the best work Green has ever done (even counting The Moldy Peaches -- which isn't to suggest for a second that Jacket is the superior record). Lyrically, though, it's the same old Adam Green bullshit.

Fortino's considerable talent for trance-inducing musical honesty could probably use a little bit of editing. It's better in the end for listeners to feel like they're being driven, not just along for the ride.

The self-titled release was dominated more by decaying, almost bleak instrumental meanderings than the half-cocked pop-fuzz that made the group's many singles such hot items. 2010's Nothing Fits, released on In the Red, is a near total about-face, consisting of 11 swift, fierce blasts.

At times, the country air's so strong you can smell the hay/freedom. Far more often, though, Dekker and company find the sweet spot.

They may play noisy guitar rock, but they also wear military uniforms in concert and write songs about Czech history. Man of Aran illustrates both the successes and shortcomings of that dichotomy.

Formulas churn out reliable, consistent results, but "reliable and consistent" art doesn't always inspire a passionate response.

Self-Entitled [is] the most energetic NOFX record in a while, but one that still ends up a bit uneven.

It was all too easy to brush aside Turbo Fruits when the band was doing straightforward, blues-tinged punk. Echo Kid makes that less than possible.

While Driedeger and company still have a ways to go in crafting a distinct sound and generally tightening their writing (especially the lyrics), they're well on their way.

At its best, Kingdom Come is about possibility. At its worst, it pales in comparison to past albums.

In a genre where dullness is constantly being fought off, there's never a moment on Soft Money moment when monotony threatens to take over.

This album works adequately, maybe exclusively, within the folds of Bright Eyes' self-contained space, and that's really not such a bad thing.

Advaitic Songs is Om 2.0's second full-length album, and it is far and away the most entrancing document the band has released.

The songs blur into one another, edited to form a metal-machine grind of music that, while certainly exhausting--there’s even a disclaimer on the album: “Do not attempt to listen to all at once” -- maintains a kind of lurid appeal in its dogged attempts to capture a three-year journey within the constraints of a double LP.

Nobody sounds quite like them, though, and few metal bands balance spiritual and metallic consciousness so well.

Organ Music Not Vibraphone Like I'd Hoped is about as ambitious as 35 minutes of music can get, and Krug gets an awful lot out of one instrument here.

Repo isn’t a great progression from previous Black Dice records. But their willfully amateurish approach, and a continued fascination with the coarse and the crude, make this another welcome addition to their woozy, dog-eared oeuvre.

Fol Chen's debut, Part I: John Shade, Your Fortune's Made, is end-to-end melodrama and that's fine; so far, they're doing it right. Instead of the kind of melodrama that produces sugar and hooks, Fol Chen appears to opt for storybook.

Glitter is a guilt-free collection of mature rock/pop.

Like much of today's synthetic approaches, Splash reaches broadly, but his process is more substantive than his content.

Through its happy welding of superb vocals and tactical percussion, Gold Leaves achieves a timeless quality, with a bright future on the horizon.

What Portastatic is able to achieve on Who Loves the Sun? without using vocal melodies is impressive.

When The Virgins are paying homage to their New York forefathers in terms of their aesthetic and lyrical content, they have trouble distinguishing themselves from the Jets of the world.

[Producer Paul] Epworth's accomplishment is obvious throughout the record. Having remixed some of today's indie-elite, infusing garage rock riffs with electro elements, he knows the importance of dance-floor accessibility and brings out all the shadows and contrasts that make Kick the accomplishment it is.

While not as hybrid as Abe Vigoda nor as melodic as Jay Reatard, these women kick out a place in the musical universe through sheer, happy, blasting audacity.

This is a solid record, at times sparse and moody, at times lush and hopeful, but always chill. Very, very chill.

The best song here, "Chinese Braille," isn't going to top anyone's song of the year list, but when Candy Salad is on, it seems like the only music you'll ever need. And that counts for something.

Upon hearing how masterfully Black Tambourine pull off these covers, it all makes sense. The sound these women helped codify with their music and their writing is inescapable today.

Stronger, more contemplative feelings are at work here; gone are the sugary la-la-la's and superficial lyrics inserted on cue.

Although its completed form has been framed as the most explicit tribute to Fuchs on the album, it is the furthest thing from somber, rocking an insistent downstroke bass part and a series of statement-making, sunsoaked guitar parts.

Inter-Be was good, but this record proves the band can make a sound uniquely theirs. In doing so, they've also made something far more lasting.

Excerpts takes it one step further and expects audiences to linger on the great tidal shifts of memory happening in our minds every day. If we manage to lodge ourselves within his cause, Alary has a whole world behind a world to open up to us.

Taylor doesn't get caught up in making his sounds too big, too large, or too much. He could, but he doesn't. He maintains control, doesn't get lost, and the result are nothing short of terrific.

At the age of 76, the Texas native proves that there is still plenty of stardust left under his cowboy hat.

Aphrodite is everything you expect it to be: inspiring, motivating and celebratory.

Survival Skills is a call to arms, and a poetic, uncompromising one at that.

They manage to make the grandest songs imaginable seem like they were composed with only you in mind.

With this album, Lytle has established himself as a solo artist who does not so much distance himself from his previous band as successfully scratch an itch for sounds that have been missing from the music landscape for quite some time.

While the frequent use of echo and the isolation of each instrument lend the record a spare quality, Strange Weather, Isn't It? is hardly akin to Bowie and Eno's emotionally stark Berlin Trilogy. Instead, the album sounds like a band trying to regain its footing by returning to its fundamentals.

Coming on Strong is one smooth record; even with all the glitch, all the bleeps and bloops, and all of the genre bending, it never leaves any residue behind.

It's clear that Young Magic have all the tools and instincts down pat; even without meaning to, this album delves happily, though briefly, into pop excellence.

It’s this awareness that makes Living on the Other Side--on one level a pretty basic rock album that doesn’t surpass any of its predecessors--seem like something much, much more.

The overall result is pleasant yet hardly exceptional.

For most of I Am Not a Human Being, it seems like Wayne has forgotten how to write a verse. He's all about couplets now.

The music may not always be easily accessible, but it is almost always interesting.

This is a live recording that stays true to the night.

Although Go Go Smear the Poison Ivy has the dizzy invigoration and winning enthusiasm of an excellent first album, it also suffers from a kind of first-disc immaturity, an urge to pack everything in at once and as early as possible, rendering it top-heavy and inconsistent.

The album's midsection gets bogged down in songs that sound too similar: more lovely piano, more soft cooing, too many gimmicky studio effects.... To Espinoza's credit, he gets Mentor Tormentor back on track.

The trouble here is what we know: That they're capable of more. So the question becomes how much we hold our expectations against them, and the way you answer that question will shape how you feel about their latest offering.