With Up in Flames, the sound of post-electronica has arrived.

Not only their crowning achievement to date but also one of the year's finest albums, period.

While it may not be the ultimate symphonic confection nearly four decades of hyperbole have all but guaranteed, Smile is nonetheless an arresting, audacious, unabashedly whimsical slice of junk-drawer Americana and can-do pop craftsmanship.

The most personally felt, universally inclusive record of her career.

The second disc... is the sound of a band at the height of its powers, employing a ten-piece band and backup singers, and exhibiting an absolute mastery of its material.

That Out of Season leaves an imprint, and a powerfully lasting one at that, is a testament to Gibbons’ carefully sculpted lyrics and her vocal interpretation of same, combined with Webb’s unobtrusive but no less vital studio work.

Return to Cookie Mountain validates the promise of TV on the Radio, an outfit that heretofore had displayed more potential than actual returns.

A fascinating, brokenhearted mess of a record.

Blinking Lights is an astonishing mélange of life and sound cycles, as much about the ghosts of the past as it is an optimistic hedge toward a pensioner’s age bracket Everett clearly endeavors to appreciate.

The Crane Wife is an album that nicely fits into the Decemberists' universe and has roots in earlier works, but sounds -- and hangs together -- better than any of them.

The fact that a band spawned over ten years ago is so willing to try new things is refreshing, but with The Woods, Sleater-Kinney has surpassed even its most ardent supporter’s expectations as to the artistic heights the trio can attain.

This most confident debut presents Hope of the States as a band for the future -- a place it'll most likely find very comfortable.

Inspiring and masterful.

It's brilliant.

What could be utterly pedestrian, so-what material in the hands of a lesser talent is instead imbued with cheeky mythic significance by Skinner -- blessed with an uninhibited gift for gab and a willingness to reveal all facets of his character, grotty warts included.

Nashville validates the promise Rouse has exhibited since Dressed Up Like Nebraska, encompassing a gift for emotional detail and a fondness for simple, unadorned lyrics. It's an understated, impeccably played collection of heartfelt tunes about a time and place that can never be returned to.

Musically, the Walkmen are not only tighter, but also more purposeful.

Picaresque features some of Meloy’s most assured songwriting... What makes Picaresque a great album, however, is the snug synthesis between the rest of the bandmates playing in relation to Meloy’s verbose lyrics.

There's an unwavering confidence and muscular focus behind the music that holds from start to finish.

It's a distillation of the singer's subtly different moods and modes, a cohesive and comprehensive work that stands as the most representative look yet at his musical persona.

Emphatically validates just how fresh and alive Kraftwerk’s heavily manipulated compositions sound.

Fiction finds Daniel and Eno exploring the tension between a tight rhythm section and chaotic production techniques (from messy guitar parts to bizarre samples). And that provides an edge to the music that not only makes for an attention-grabbing collection, but also rewards repeated listens.

Hail lacks the overriding musical, thematic or experimental coherence of the band's post-Pablo Honey work. But it is a strong collection of discrete tracks, like an unreleased B-sides collection finally seeing the light of day.

The arrangements are lovely, as always, but it’s Bird’s openness (as opposed to his inscrutability) that pays the greatest dividends on this exquisite, resonant work.

One of the most exciting discs in recent memory.

While The Trials of Van Occupanther may never be more than a cult favorite, those seeking to till peculiarly American musical soil will undoubtedly reap a rewarding and plentiful harvest.

An even stronger collection of songs that builds on it's predecessor's sonic foundations while refusing to get stuck in them.

A vital document of Led Zeppelin's formidable legacy.

Bjork’s great achievement with Medulla is in taking a self-imposed limitation and managing to craft a full-bodied, multilayered work from such a basic toolset.

Yes, it may not hew faithfully to past MMJ records, but its wide-open range perfectly exemplifies the group's adventurous spirit.

The narrative plot of each song retains the best features of Newsom's previous work, and is gloriously wordy. Here might be the album's one weakness, since it's simply hard to understand a line like "Scrap of sassafras, eh Sisyphus?" when it's set to rhythm, to say nothing of back-and-forth dialogue.

This is mature, considered, powerfully expressed stuff, anti-hipster in its refusal to draw explicit attention to itself, commercially questionable in its lack of instant-gratification melodies and structures. What a breath of fresh air that is.

But if the album feels less personally tied to Illinois than Michigan was to Michigan, the cost is worth paying: The style and overall sentiment of the new album are more sophisticated than those of its predecessor.

South undeniably positions the group as a hard-rocking roots act, and further as one of today's most assured rock bands, period.

For the initiated, there’s true primal joy to be heard in this mammoth creation. You’ve just got to be willing to shed those tightly guarded notions and listen.

Whereas Boy In Da Corner was the sound of a young man expressing the fear and frustration of growing up in a dangerous and bleak environment, Showtime reflects the confidence and ebullience of a maturing artist optimistically embracing a bright and hopeful future.

The earthbound, anxious and somewhat pissed-off attitude is what stands out and makes the strongest impression.

Superwolf is the sound of two artists on the same creative page, both bringing unique abilities to the table and elevating the other's talents as a result.

Throughout, Madlib impressively manages to keep the proceedings from slipping into total chaos. Even so, there’s a frustrating sense of intentional subterfuge throughout.

The end result is a first-class effort that will not disappoint die-hard Zevon fans. But it's not just for the faithful: First-time listeners will certainly pick up The Wind out of curiosity, and there's no doubt that they will discover what they have long been missing.

I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass is a delirious jumble, the rare album that holds together because of the sheer audacity of its diversity, rather than being torn asunder by it.

Rejoicing in the Hands is a remarkable album, and Banhart displays a range and gift for melody that belies his twenty-three years.

Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes extends and refines both the lyrical smarts and programmatically adventurous nature of Young Liars.

Its musical adventurousness proves intoxicating.

Monkey House doesn't contain as many excellent songs as Thirteen Tales (which enjoyed more memorable hooks and catchier lyrics), but it is, unquestionably, the group's most thematically grounded and bracing record to date, celebrating and critiquing the messiness of the music world as effectively as any album in recent memory.

There's a newfound depth to the Furries' music, a sense that no matter how hard the band tries to keep things positive, the darkness in the world has managed to encroach on its outlook and musical approach.

Another excellent offering.

The range of styles is impressive, which trumps the lack of logical or elegant transitioning. Snaith may be showing off, but at least he’s backing it up with strong and memorable arrangements.

Though it might not be the most easily digestible subject matter, it melds thought and execution as well as any concept album in recent memory.

Snow Patrol's most direct and aggressive album yet, a clear and decisive bid for the kind of wide mainstream appeal enjoyed by the Coldplays of the world.

An energetic, musically ambitious pop-rock record that employs its expanded vistas in the service of animating punk's well-worn thematic underpinnings.

Easily Leo's best album since The Tyranny of Distance.

Rather than lose control of his programmed loops, Hebden sounds completely in control, the conductor of an invisible digital orchestra, changing gears on a whim.

While there are unmistakable traces of that swampy, sweaty sound, particularly in the three-guitar sturm und twang of the title track, at other points the Truckers openly embrace their rock and punk roots, as if hoping to stomp that nettlesome Southern Rock label into the ground.

It's a deeper, more rewarding listen, rivaling End of Amnesia for Ward's strongest release to date.

She manages to gush with happiness while still maintaining a clear focus on her craft, thanks to the unwavering integrity she brings to her lyrical phrasing and musical arrangements.

The approach Welch and partner David Rawlings bring to the material feels crafted for private enjoyment rather than public consumption, and the end result is not only Welch's most personal work to date but one of her most emotionally satisfying as well.

Largely tosses out the loopy musical excursions and surrealistic pillow fights of past albums for a tighter, sparer approach.

Nino Rojo may not appeal to the "freak-folk" crowd that so heartily embraced Rejoicing and its shambling predecessor Oh Me Oh My..., but Banhart effectively displays a willingness to broaden his musical horizons that will undoubtedly serve him well on subsequent releases.

LCD Soundsystem doesn't quite overcome the high bar set by its bonus disc. That might sound rough, but fortunately, just compiling all of Murphy & Co's singles on one handy CD provides a valuable service for newcomers to his eclectically retro style.

Basically, this is the definitive (if incomplete) version of a landmark release.

One of the most refreshing hip-hop records in quite some time.

Shadow simply holds together better than recent Jurado efforts.

What keeps Nastasia from succumbing to grotesque melodrama is the razor-like incisiveness she brings to her lyrics.

Carter's sulky obsession with proving himself against a field that has all but laid down and acknowledged him as its master detracts from the hard-won grandeur wrought by this nostalgic magnum opus of self-regard (to say nothing of the engaging beats and typically nimble rhymes).

Gentle harmonies and twinkling keys dot most every track, and Conor Deasy's relaxed vocals never get in the way of the band's engaging melodies.

Lost and Safe is an expression of two artists who are neither lost nor playing it safe.

In terms of sheer Freddie Mercury bravado and guitar-shredding, genre-jumping prog-rock pomposity, this stirring record is indeed (forgive me) something of a revelation.

One Plus One Is One may not sparkle with surprising brilliance, as Bewilderbeast did, but it is certainly the most thematically and musically grounded album Gough has yet created.

In sticking close to home, Vanderslice has crafted his finest album yet.

Her Majesty rewards repeated listenings, ultimately revealing itself to be a deeper, subtler work than Castaways.

But if Uh Huh Her doesn't rise to the level of Harvey's best work, it does possess a grim, unvarnished beauty; a beauty that, while it might repel a few of the fans she gained with Stories, capably rewards devotees of her earlier, unburnished and uncompromising works.

At 23 tracks (including two strong bonus cuts at the end), One Word Extinguisher simply tries to say too much, dragging noticeably during the final third, thus weakening the final impact.

Its many high points and its sheer diversity (think of it as the ultimate pre-assembled mix tape) are enough to gloss over any minor transgressions.

Grinderman might actually be Cave’s sappy hopeless romantic testament. That he accomplishes it without orchestral arrangements and mopey strings is truly impressive.

A warm, gently beautiful album that rewards the patient listener.

The butter-drenched vocal harmonies can be overwhelming in spots, but each of the principals involved brings enough of his songwriting savvy to the table to make The Thorns a guilty pleasure of pure California dreamin'.

Crimes is guilty of nothing save exhibiting the sound of a band that clearly isn't finished evolving.

Twin Cinema has the winning distinction of being the most rocking set from the Pornographers to date -- and also the strangest.

May well come to be regarded as Mogwai's graduation from unproven Young Team to mature, veteran rock outfit.

The Grind Date is the sound of a rejuvenated heavyweight who may have lost his belt but has in no way has conceded the fight.

While The Lemon of Pink might not sport individual tracks as strong as [Thought For Food's] "Enjoy Your Worries, You May Never Have Them Again" or "All Bad Ends All," it's nonetheless a stronger effort overall, revealing a band growing in confidence with the application of its ideas.

Despite losing creative momentum down the stretch, it’s still a remarkably affecting and mature record, proof that Chan Marshall kicks off the second act of her career in top form.

The Pernice Brothers' strongest effort yet.

Perhaps the album's most remarkable feat is its utter lack of density: One never gets the sense that anything excessive or unnecessary was utilized in constructing its sonic brickworks.

Atomic Bomb is a reduction of U2's most definable characteristics into a very basic formula: impassioned vocals lent extra gravity by Bono's wavering voice; guitars that chime like bells; thick, meaty rhythm section workouts; slowly seductive hooks that build to triumphant, emotional, endorphin-releasing choruses. And on that level, it succeeds admirably.

The group has lost some of the accessibility of You Forgot it in People, which wore its heart on its sleeve with fewer emotional contradictions, but has maintained the same emotional neediness at the previous album's heart.

Rather than leaning on his appealingly gruff Neil Diamond pipes to articulate personal stories of drunkenness and hardscrabble redemption, Bachmann takes a more imaginative approach here.

The Obliterati's first half makes 2004’s stellar comeback ONoffON seem tentative.

If 2000's The Friends of Rachel Worth was a tentative warm-up and 2002's Bright Yellow, Bright Orange a encouraging but inconsistent workout, Oceans Apart is the sound of two artists hitting a self-assured and motivated stride.

Earthquake Glue nonetheless contains the band's best work since the energized Isolation Drills and edges out last year's Universal Truths And Cycles in the memorable hooks department.

Regardless of his less than subtle studio technique, Bravitz remains one of the most resourceful and bracing artists in his field.

Taken as a whole, Inches is a fantastic collection, achieving what other full-length Les Savy Fav albums have not: Delivering a wholly satisfying listening experience.

Awfully Deep is another strong release for Smith, and while it doesn’t sport the effortless flow of his debut or the rich variety of Run Come Save Me, its considered assessment of where he’s been and where he might be heading helps the album more than live up to its title.

Winter Hymn is one of the year's memorable, noteworthy listens, and DMST's finest effort overall.

Sunset Tree is Darnielle’s finest hour.

They capably cover everything from noisy freakouts ("Turn It Out") to electroclash chillouts ("Sexy Results"), and manage to hold it all together better than bands armed with triple the sonic arsenal.

Even at a svelte 33 minutes, Chain Gang wears into a well-defined groove pretty quickly, and its breathy affectations too often congeal into pastiche, note-perfect homages lacking in depth.