It's a startlingly vivid picture of the artist as a young man.

Far From Over might lack an obvious mainstream hook, but the sturdiness of its design and the passion of its execution make it 2017's jazz album to beat.

Sailor's Guide is classic album length--nine songs, 39 minutes--and best heard in one sitting; this is Nashville craft less as pop science than as expansive headphone storytelling.

Give Mirrored a handful of listens and you might just enjoy having your brains splattered against your speakers.

Her magnificent fourth LP grows her trademark examinations of romantic decay to cathedral-like scale.

Bon Iver isn't quite a crossover move. Big-pop synths appear, but more in the way a radio hit sounds leaking out of your lover's earbuds.

When they come back to Roy Ayers-style funk ("Radio Daze"), they prove nobody does it better. Let's hear it for steady employment.

The biggest feat here, though, is how Afrique Victime feels upbeat and hopeful from start to finish. There’s no real sense of worry or anxiety in the love songs, and Moctar’s calls for unity are set to a loose soundtrack of unpredictable guitar. This is how free rock & roll should sound.

Graying snobs once called this "intelligent dance music." Even now, few do it better.

His most consistent set since his debut, Urban Hang Suite, in 1996. Maxwell anchors the cloud-eating sweep of these tracks with solid guitar and bass hooks.

With or without artfully-cribbed melodies, the music is undeniable.

Its dizzying counterpoints, seductive crooning and orgasmic yelps will definitely heat up your next cocktail party.

Sexy without being pandering, arty without being pretentious, Robyn is a public service: a record that can make indie-minded geeks dance without shame.

His wordy narratives get hazy at times, but Sunday succeeds as a whirlwind tour through an overstuffed brain.

He's hook man to pop's most advanced megastars – see Solange's "Don't Touch My Hair," Kanye West's "Saint Pablo," Frank Ocean's "Alabama," Drake's "Too Much"--but his debut LP proves him their peer.

A widescreen musical masterpiece with a knowing wink. [28 Mar 2002, p.68]

The overwhelming amount of material — 54 unreleased songs total — proves that even at Dylan’s lowest point, he was still capable of writing great music, even if the best songs often didn’t wind up on his albums.

It’s the cheekiness and humor of Deacon that really shines, without sacrificing the complex theatricality that has made Serpentwithfeet such a standout project.

The vibe is somewhere between the coherence of an album and the casual flow of a mixtape.

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

Her voice is the headliner: Miked so close you can smell the cigarettes on her breath, it's sultry, wise, rueful and unapologetic, connecting a 1960s singer-songwriter tradition to the ache of the now.

Thunder, Lightning, Strike was hailed as a pop masterpiece when it came out in the U.K. late last year, but clearing all the samples held up its U.S. release until now. Wait no longer.

Its refusal to take the easy route around grief makes its drum fills (played by Grohl in his first return behind the kit on a Foos album since 2005) land with more intensity and its guitar slashes, some of which recall Nineties left-of-the-dial darlings, hit harder. Even the more subdued tracks like the swirling “Show Me How,” which is leavened by Grohl’s daughter Violet’s lilt, have an urgency to them that makes But Here We Are an immersive listen.

Eighty-year-old sax great Sanders pushes his sound to its most heavenly extreme. [Apr 2021, p.73]

he rich, albeit brief, collection of songs on to hell with it feels like the kind of genuine and heartfelt openness that the internet once promised.

The organic, delightfully earnest tracks blend Miss Colombia‘s avant-Latin sonic palette with revered cross-generational traditions, forging a new world of musical borderlessness that Pimienta is glad to call home.

The songs are more laid-back than the band's earlier work, but they're still catchy enough to rattle around your brain for days. [12 Jun 2003, p.94]

By the time Price sings about losing a first-born and crying out to God, bruised stoicism muting the sound of her knees hitting the floorboards, you're reminded of the incredible power that lies in tradition well-used. It's a power the rest of this record makes plain.