The 14th edition brings ambient music's nostalgic longing full circle.

What can at times sound facile in its un-coded repugnance deepens, on repeated listens, into both sophisticated political statement and haunting music.

On Strict Joy, the duo deliver with their most dynamic set yet, with hot Irish soul segueing into energetic folk rock and dream-pop-touched balladry.

As the second album looms, it's exciting to hear them sound so bold and articulate.

Are these tracks "finished" as Hendrix would've intended? Probably not. But as a glimpse of the guitarist extending his reach beyond the Experience trio, it's thrilling.

The woman is mutable, sometimes to a fault: Her cover of the Cure's "Lovesong" is a nice idea lost in bossa nova fluff. But when the grooves are fierce, Adele gives as good as she gets.

The songs seem tossed off and carefully constructed at the exact same moment.

To his credit, he owns every bit of it, and as confessionals, they’re so hooky and well-calibrated, they feel like absolutions even when they don’t sell themselves as such.

With the guitars turned low and the drama high-key, Synthesis amplifies the real Amy Lee, the way she was always meant to be heard.

Capped with a Swedish folk gem, Body Talk shows a dancehall queen with more than just blonde ambition.

Morello's baritone voice is surprisingly expressive.

Recording with members of My Morning Jacket, Showalter sounds re-energized on this dynamic collection of spaced out power pop and dreamy psych-rock that owes a bit to fellow Philadelphians War on Drugs.

Deerhoof vs. Evil breaks no new ground; The Merry Barracks and C'Moon boast the band's signature mix of dissonance and pop tunefulness, with surreal lyrics that can be too self-consciously quirky.

Cox's second solo disc as the Atlas Sound brilliantly channels spaced-out folk balladry through hazy chamber pop à la Panda Bear or Stereolab.

A richly schlocky LP, bleeding neon all over songs that would be worthy side-closers on any Breakfast Club-era breakup tape.

Archy Marshall makes music that's pleasantly out of focus.

Art Angels has a sharper, sleeker sound that sneakily suggests she made the leap to working with big-name producers--when in fact, as always, she did everything herself. And impressively.

After all these years, she can still make pain pleasurable.

My Dear Melancholy, surprisingly provides the clearest, most engaging example yet of the Weeknd's angst. It's the sound of a man kneeling at love's altar still in search of an elusive healing.

Ghostface Killah is so charismatic, he can brag about being an old coot and make it sound badass.

May be the most forward-looking music you hear all year.

Pavement noise scrimmages, warped Pixies surf rock, fresh-faced Weezer tuneage, it's all the same mess to them. But they dress up their guitar-mad escapades in a stadium-echo kick that Nineties indie kids were too grumpy to try.

Their consistently great second disc combines songs you've YouTubed to death ("I Just Had Sex," "Motherlover") with top-shelf new material featuring good sports from Michael Bolton to Snoop Dogg (they also throw in a DVD of their Web shorts).

It's often hard for living legends to make new material that's more than an echo of their most groundbreaking work, but those who hear Hit Reset without knowing Hanna's catalog should find it as charming as any super fan would.

He's often thought of more as an instrumental virtuoso than a singer-songwriter, but here he excels at both.

The Drive-By Truckers’ 12th record is less a creative high peak than a sturdy reminder of the band’s admirable persistence. And like every Truckers record, the plentiful moments of middle American reportage (“21st Century USA”) and fractured underdog beauty (“Armageddon’s Back in Town”) make The Unraveling, at the very least, another sturdy addition to the band’s almost peerless discography.

Who knew that your grandparents' record collection could produce something so sassy?

While some of his writing is of the Fisher-Price variety—one verse in “Met Gala” employs a AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA rhyme scheme—and his lyrics aren’t always well thought out (“Say the wrong word, and I’mma shoot him in his shit”), Wunna remains a transportive listening experience, due in large part to its production, which exists in almost perfect harmony with Gunna’s soothing vocals.