The highlight of this collaborative set is "Days/This Time Tomorrow," a medley of Kinks classics.

Some tracks feel like freestyles, with Biblical allusions that veer into babbling chants, snarls and shrieks. Sherwood’s signature sound is crisper and brighter than vintage Perry; the grooves here are mostly taut, whirlpooling gradually, with dub pyrotechnics largely reined in.

The Future and the Past has a glossy, nostalgic sheen, but that only makes Prass' messages about getting past the world's current ills land harder.

Gentle as a breeze, but resoundingly straightforward, Nice As Fuck’s whole album could be a nine-song meditation on Fleetwood Mac’s "Go Your Own Way."

Sound-Dust achieves a new peak in lush, lounge-friendliness for Stereolab.

As on his mixtapes, this lovable throwback evokes his down-home life and day-to-day grind over the playacadillistic grooves of vintage Outkast and UGK.

Blacc Hollywood makes you want to come along for the ride.

Cooder has delivered a remarkable song cycle that tells the story -- a sort of brilliant and flavorful film-noir history lesson that samples the past freely.

Here, Young gives 25-and-bored clichés his own hapless-wanna-be spin... and throughout he's far too hopped up on Strokes-crisp tunes and surf-y guitar snap to come off half as blasé as he wants us to think he is.

He rubs his shadowy croon against electronic gurgles or electric guitar, keeping his tracks spare and unpredictable.

Mostly they deliver a bluesy sprawl full of meaty punk riffs and Stooges-schooled abandon that still outpaces less-inspired slop-rock bands. [9 Mar 2006, p.94]

Even if this stuff is willful, it's dazzling, too.

Her new mixtape may be initially frustrating to those longing for a real album (and real, full songs), but it’s full of rewards for deep listening.

Suede's realest, most human effort yet.

It’s a fine wind-down album, one that can be put on shuffle at the end of a long-summer-night bacchanal, when revelers reach that point where they’re too tired to do anything but bask in the glow of the blowout they just threw.

The album is at its strongest when Madonna shoves everyone to the side and just tells it to us straight.

Only a singer of Osborne's caliber could pull this off; she's in complete control of her powerful pipes.

Per usual there's no flash whatsoever--just seasoned professionals delivering doggedly tuneful, meticulously detailed vignettes that are part Lynyrd Skynyrd and part Raymond Carver.

After a string of excellent low-fi releases, New Alhambra offers the North Carolina act's sturdiest tunes yet.

The latest is lean, hushed and mostly covers.

On Teeth, he abandons the quiet piano diddles of The Fragile for pure aggro. [5 May 2005, p.70]

His weirdest yet.

An album full of characters struggling against dead-end jobs, drug addiction and depression doesn't exactly sound inviting, but in the hands of John Darnielle, it's magic.

The songs, some of which date back decades ("The Neverending Sigh" is 20 years old!), sound surprisingly consistent considering the recording session would be a rush job for any other big-time rocker.

Deschanel's songs are simple, which is a smart move--what a drag if she were trying to sing serious torch songs--but She and Him don't fare so well with covers.

Robert Pollard and Tobin Sprout toss off minute-long power-pop goofs that make intermittent blasts of real-rock transcendence... feel all the more striking.

The combination of quietly gorgeous pop songs and noise bites struggling to become quietly gorgeous pop songs makes for bewitching Sunday-morning listening.

It's the perfect backdrop for the rapper's stoner humor ("Patty cake, patty cake/I'm baked my man") and for quality cameos from the freshly paroled Prodigy and blog darling Freddie Gibbs. Straight edge listeners won't be disappointed, either.

A warts-and-all album; it has grabbers, songs that sink in slowly and a few absolute duds?

On their second record, the spunky quartet pull off Exile-era Stones strut and Velvet Underground guitar poesy with sophistication that's beyond their years, and a sense of humor, too.

So are Greta Van Fleet shameless imitators? Yep. Are they also carrying on a musical tradition that’s now endangered, like the young blues players still adhering to the basics of that genre long after we’ve lost Muddy and B.B.? Yes, that too. For defenders, you best show up with a pretty good broadsword.

Most of the arrangements here keep things simple, generally leaning on unamplified sounds to complement Lynn’s country-as-grits voice. ... Lynn’s journey hasn’t always been an easy one. What’s amazing is that, 60 years into her career, that experience is still feeding her creatively.

Gonzalez's classical guitar and weightless tenor float over soul jazz, Afrobeat, Ethiopian funk and krautrock, and the lyrics touch on spirituality and self-realization.

With Sophie of naifish UK pop collective PC Music producing every track, this quick-hit release unleashes something more visceral than we’re used to from her.

Producer Corin Roddick crafts stark tracks that find a middle ground between lustrous synth pop and the plush, cavernous hip-hop of hot producers like Mike Will Made It.

Free Again finds Chilton, not yet 20, in fast bloom.

Back to back, the songs are somewhat of a heavy-handed introduction to an album that’s at its most interesting not when it’s signaling its depth or using foreboding production as a surrogate for intensity. Instead, the music works best when Halsey follows their natural pop tendencies down new experimental paths.

Unlike many similar projects, this one doesn't seem overly impressed with its own novelty. A good thing.

It rocks harder (and louder) without stinting on the musicianly colors that have always redeemed his sessionman whomp.

For In the Mountain in the Cloud, they piled on the mascara, set the way-back machine for 1972 and turned out 11 tracks full of vintage glam-rock pouting and preening.

Monáe holds it together through sheer force of freakadelic will and a radical feminist's sense of self-exploration.

She perfects [her] approach on this set of elegant synth ballads, confiding hopes and heartbreaks in tones that command attention without ever chewing the scenery.

In the Future has an even bigger kick [than their debut], with a surprising blues edge and Amber Webber's vocals adding a touch of Sandy Denny to the battle-of-Evermore vibe.

Glory is a welcome comeback for a true pop visionary.

What redeems Trice is his workmanlike emphasis of craft over style. It's not flamboyant, but it's impressive.

Past the similarly herky-jerk "Voodoo Doll," the rest of Grey Tickles returns to far more satisfying orchestral opulence and electronic drama.

The results are uneven, but never feel forced or faked. The ultimate stylistic diplomat, Crow makes every twang her own.

Emotional Mugger is a nastier street-punk version of his Manipulator approach, with a touch of Royal Trux sleaze in the low-end guitar sludge, running the conceptual gamut from "Squealer" to "Squealer Two."

The follow-up moves the nostalgia dial to that hair-feathering, creepy tank-top-wearing end-of-the-Seventies moment when AOR rock, Cali soft rock, disco and New Wave melted into the same pot of fool's gold.

Predictably, however, this six-piece are best at backing their boss with a road-seasoned mix of meaty jangle and whirring Sixties-Dylan organ.

A banquet of loop-based production still hits those old-school notes even without the postmodern twist.

Even when the sentiments are more traditional, though, Maddie & Tae sound tough-minded and stout-hearted.

It's hardly rocket science. It is a great ride worth repeating.

This breathtaking EP telescopes the mysticism of 2007's Untrue into two 11-minute suites and a seven minute palate cleanser.

A.C. Newman wanted his band's fifth album to "bridge the gap between Led Zeppelin and [Sixties psych-soul band] the Fifth Dimension." Together doesn't quite pull that off, but it is the Canadian-American group's best since 2000's Mass Romantic.

A great album that sounds like it could have been part of the Eighties British Invasion.

Fighting Demons, his second posthumous album is a tortured but overall grateful memento mori from a talented artist who left us all too soon.

The playing is bright, relaxed and spontaneous. [28 Jul 2005, p.82]

His ambitions are even greater on his third album, which demands attention in a way his quietly heartbreaking music hasn't in the past.

The results are weirdly addictive and enjoyably absurd.

Dusty Notes isn’t without one or two overly screwy misfires, like the Traffic-gone-prog-metal mess “Vampyr’s Winged Fantasy.” But the balance of strangeness and comfort remains the hallmark of their vision.

It's largely indecipherable, totally animalistic and frequently breathtaking.

As pleasant a place as any to while away a spring day.

These Brits are sort of a New Order for the twenty-first century - fitter, happier, more productive.

Just voice and piano, uncluttered by his hallmark orchestral bigness, it's Wainwright's most nakedly emotional music yet.

Birds of Satan is a memorable and often exhilarating listen--but with so much going on in the space of half an hour, you can almost hear Hawkins' life flash before your ears.

Redeemer is proof that Priest can still call themselves metal's defenders of the faith.

An urgent-feeling, musically rich record, one of his most memorable in a while. Whether life has much left to give him is his call to make, but he still has plenty to offer us.

A man of many musical guises, Stewart may finally have learned that sometimes just being yourself will do.

There's a creeping dementia to all of St. Elsewhere. [4 May 2006, p.56]

Gentle Spirit is a set of gorgeously detailed folk-rock ambles, most over six minutes long.

The best songs on The Open Door are the creepiest.

MGMT are back to their roots on Little Dark Age, with concise tunes built from cushy keyboard beats and cute, kiting melodies.

The retro vibe rules, captured with gleaming accuracy by producer Dave Cobb, Nashville’s roots-music it-guy (Chris Stapleton, Jason Isbell). If it sometimes feels a bit calculated, it's still pretty irresistible.

A combination of chilly noises and hot lyrics ("Cold like ice, petrified/Loving what you’re doing to me," she sings in "White Roses"), these robot sex anthems are storming into 2017 like pop music's dirty Blade Runner reboot.

His tracks are dense and dark-tinted, more Wu-steeped trip-hop than Cali-funk.

Covers, then, is a fan's notes: a great singer-songwriter playing DJ, showcasing songs he loves for listeners who love him.

It’s hard not to wish for a few more moments like that on There Is No Other, where old-school songcraft takes precedence over the album’s bravely collaborative spirit. But Gidden’s new album, yet another fine entry in her outstanding current run, is ultimately the most distilled and sui generis display of the unique artistry that defines her still-blossoming career.

There's a tender heart beating beneath the evil distortion and punishing blitz.

Their "1-2-3-go!" rush--built around Cassie Ramone's scratchy guitar and Ali Koehler's insistent drums--is a thrill.

Her most rapturous work in a decade.

There's [not that] much heavy lifting to do: Go! Pop! Bang! is clattery electro hop.

Keep It Together proves that all the touring hasn't hardened Guster's bright folk-pop sound a bit.

Contains his catchiest, most immediate compositions in decades.

This disc is all hi-fi, sonically and emotionally, piling on Phil Spector echo and Go-Go's gloss as singer-guitarist Dee Dee Penny mourns a faraway lover and a fatally sick mom

[A] bigger, better follow-up.

You can't help but ask: Is Brian Wilson the baby-boomer George Gershwin? Or was Gershwin the first Beach Boy?

Even when a sense of agitation seeps in, as on 'Die, Die, Die,' We All Belong sounds truly inviting. Dig it.

The arrangements are elegantly spare: subtle works of guitar, bass, keyboards, percussion, occasional backup singers and, at the center of it all, Morrison's incomparable voice, as expressive as ever.

What lifts Black past merely being a good concept album is an old-school musicality that never takes a backseat to modern-country conventionality.

Greene's best trick: Using those elements of the past while crafting an album that sounds like a beautiful, dreamy future.

It's the perfect soundtrack for a greaser couples' first dance.

With Tinariwen's members effectively refugees thanks to regional conflicts back home in North Africa, their blues are as deep as ever.

Delightfully glitzed-out collection of arena space rock. [Jul/Aug 2021, p.133]

Listeners are advised to ignore the authenticity issues and focus on Moore's catchy tunes and warm voice on Amanda Leigh.

Our Raw Heart is a gushing affirmation of self. ... The feel-good deathbed record of the summer.

It's a bash-up of prog-rock, electronica and funk, in descending order of influence, and Bruner conjoins all of them to create a drifting, happily disorienting otherworld.

Harvey doesn't brandish many new moves here.