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.