Thanks to the talents of the artists involved, the album is more than a fun glimpse at the past. These beats and rhymes stick to your ribs.

Vampire Weekend's eponymous debut, with its wide range of references rationed across a collection of brief pop morsels, proves the early fascination was no fluke.

Vagabon finds the singer retreating to the comfort of her computer’s Logic program to fashion a world almost entirely around her honeyed vocals. Although you won’t find many ‘90s-infused indie jams like “Minneapolis” or “The Embers” here, Tamko’s voice never sounds strained in ways it once did either.

It’s a formidable statement of purpose, one that sounds unmistakably contemporary without ever veering into flavor-of-the-month pandering. In fact, the band sounds more comfortable in themselves than ever.

Though the album's most overt trait is tenderness, the hetero-waltz 'The Fix' (featuring Richard Hawley on vocals) and the Zeppelin-esque 'Grounds for Divorce' provide a certain masculine muscle, making Kid feel like a male sibling of the Cardigans' equally exquisite 'Long Gone Before Daylight.'

What the rapper lacks in flow experimentation and dexterous rhyme-craft, he makes up for with his knack for sincere storytelling.

By incorporating country signifiers into what is otherwise a terrific, of-the-moment pop album, Antonoff and the Chicks could have come up with a style that’s even more progressive, akin to the production on Kacey Musgraves’s Golden Hour. If nothing else, that highlights how the Chicks still have room to grow, either with or without Antonoff, as they move into this new phase of their career. Gaslighter may not have been the album that country music needed, but it’s clearly the one that the Chicks needed to make.

Though it often finds him treading familiar ground, Parallax is the first record in which Cox fully embraces the role of a magical-realist storyteller, recounting dreamily desolate tales as much to himself as to his audience.

Caution feels like the album Mariah has wanted to make all along: one that literally throws caution to the wind and sees her embracing her inner weirdo. And, ironically, it took her ending up back at Sony Music to do it.

It's this balance between relatable situations and off-color humor that makes Pissed Jeans' songs so dynamic.

Fortunately, throughout the rest of the album, the band writes songs that allow them to excel as they stay well within their limitations. These are tight, economical pop songs actually worthy of Pavement comparisons in terms of not just sound, but melody.

While their lyrics do tell compelling stories, Nickel Creek's selling point remains their technical gifts and, again, Why Should The Fire Die? showcases a phenomenal learning curve.

Girl with Fish, then, is an economical calling card and the sound of a band coming into their own.

Painted Ruins stops short of fearlessly exploring new musical terrain, instead content to approach the familiar from new angles.

At 18 tracks and 58 minutes, Father of the Bride is by far the longest release by a band whose brevity was once one of their best characteristics. This results in a not-insignificant amount of bloat, including at least one or two songs—like the lounge jazz disaster “My Mistake”--that should have been left in the outtakes pile.

Ventura serves as a reminder of the magic that can result from looking to the past to inform the future.

The band's arrangements are still wonderfully unpolished, so while these tunes should please anyone who buys CDs at Starbucks, they still pack some ragged glory of what makes the Austin collective so intoxicating on stage.

Be assured that Sunshine Rock maintains a mostly sharp-edged sound, at least approaching the same prodigious level of guitar fuzz that made Patch the Sky such a bracing kick in the jaw.

Blessed with a strange, ethereal voice, he could easily excel at music that matches its dulcet tones, but the pungent mixtures of high and low he concocts end up being far more thrilling.

The Magic Position is a euphoric listening experience not even being a critic can spoil.

Though Gowns foreshadowed a lot of what Anderson is about (avant-garde noise-folk, elliptical lyrics), going solo has allowed her to make something genuinely personal and almost frighteningly honest.

This is a Deerhunter album, so closer listening reveals much more going on beneath the surface. To be fair, though, Why Hasn’t Everything Already Disappeared? isn’t as viscerally challenging as many of the band’s prior efforts.

The album is almost too neat, given Protomartyr’s newfound use of saxophone, self-conscious touches like the chirping crickets at the beginning and end of a few tracks, and the seamless sequencing of songs. But the restless punk spirit and flippant, downtrodden ethos that prevail over the project render Protomartyr’s painstaking intellectualizations as fuel for a visceral winding up and release of discontent.

Perhaps to some, the lack of a slow, methodical musical structure surrounding these thoughts, or the fact that in spelling his concerns out through conversation instead of veiled insinuation, he notably drops that perilous, outside-of-sane tremolo, might pull the curtains down around his highly cultivated dramaturgy. Only partially.... The rest of the album is more comparatively straightforward.

With so many great songs in one place, a few of them in their definitive forms, it may be that Live from Atlanta is now the most accessible, comprehensive introduction to Lucero available. Just make sure to pair it with a couple of whiskey shots.

He certainly has our attention.

Loveless manages to strike a similarly compelling balance of grit and pop throughout the rest of Real.

Vile's music is inflected with a special kind of magic, which makes it sound grimy while remaining melodically clean, bored and disinterested while granting you its full attention.

A Sunny Day in Glasgow pulls it off, skirting the line between complete anarchy and overwrought tinkering well enough to deliver a compelling, if slightly discombobulated, rock pastiche.

Midnight teems with a genuine disaffect and melancholy. A few more hooks might serve him well down the road, but Midnight confirms that Earle has far more going for him than just his lineage.

It's disappointing that she doesn't raise the bar on her sophomore effort, Love Me Back--but she doesn't crumble under the weight of expectations either.

Love’s Holiday finds Oxbow operating in a slightly different, more restrained register, but that means the album doesn’t quite reach the heights of its towering predecessor.

Pick of the Litter really is just a sampling from a catalogue that begs closer examination.

Rather Ripped is probably one of the best records in Sonic Youth's catalog, and definitely one of the best albums of 2006.

It's hard to tell how much of the success here stems from Sheff's handling of the material or how well Erickson would come across on his own, but the fact remains that he's still capable of producing strong material, a fact that True Love Cast Out All Evil proves, without making a display of this revitalization.

Sure, it's easy to lament how fangless they sound here, with just hints of the skuzzy basement ferocity that has made Fever to Tell one of the decade's most enduring records. But the finesse they display here, on their most mature and stylistically coherent record, may ultimately serve them even better.

Most songs are unfettered, with demo-quality mixes, a bare minimum of instrumentation, and over-exposed live drumming. Split between improvisatory and electronically assisted, the album's 10 songs navigate a raw zone.

Less ambient and more grounded than the preceding tracks, it's the one song on the album you wouldn't want to hear at the party; rather, it's a subtle, evocative slow-burner best saved for the cool air and the long walk home.

The songs click almost immediately, but they’re subtler and pricklier than a first listen would imply, with unexpected twists like faint spoken-word samples and odd bits of distortion on guitar and piano. And the 1975 uses these textures more tastefully than much of the music that inspired them.

An album that works as both a blisteringly smart genre study that combines classic and contemporary perspectives on blues, soul, and R&B and as just one hell of a rock record, Brothers reaffirms that the Black Keys belong in any serious conversation about America's finest bands.

Maybe its sunstroke, but I feel compelled to suggest that two young Canucks trading in sludgy punk-pop tunes may have crafted a rock album that gets closer to perfection than any other album this year so far.

If every Califone album is little more than the continued assurance that they're incapable of releasing music that's not exceptional, then Stitches is just as good, just as wonderfully mature and finely crafted and lyrically sophisticated, as the band's very best.

Wolf Parade captures how complacency allows simmering tensions to metastasize.

That Lonesome Song has the point of view, style and sheer quality of craft to kick off such a movement; even if that doesn't happen, it's one of the best, purest country albums to come out of Nashville in ages.

Help Us Stranger is another compelling exhibit in the band’s continuing quest to prove that there’s still more to be mined from the supposedly anachronistic guitar-rock template. Almost every track here is another example of one that would never have reached the same heights without the contributions of each band member.

A sense of maturity binds the album’s best moments.

There’s also a strong sense of unity in how each song eventually comes together, and the album as a whole cohesively flows from one impressive moment to the next, ebbing and flowing between states of serenity and chaos.

Despite its conceptual underpinnings, Love Remains never sounds overburdened by theory, which is a real danger for Krell, a guy whose day job involves translating books on Kantian philosophy.

Vital, confident, and defiantly alive, Bowie has, with an imperfect but exhilarating album, announced his return to rock's top table. Anything from this point on is a bonus.

Banga itself doesn't exactly break many rules, but it does find Smith rejuvenated, discovering new wisdom in old myths and icons, and in her missives to the young, a renewed sense of purpose.

While the twosome’s rambunctious revelry may appear wholly flippant upon first listen, their music, and 10,000 gecs as a whole, is far more sophisticated than it seems.

The focus is therefore narrower, and while Stetson doesn't reach the same heights of grandiose menace as on his previous album, the results are roundly impressive, rooted to the continuing spectacle of two discrete approaches melting into one another, each disrupting and perverting the effect of the other.

If the original Speak Now highlighted what Swift needed to do to refine her artistry, Taylor’s Version proves that she’s actually done it.

Though it may be her second consecutive album to lean heavily on metal, Hiss Spun deftly incorporates a diverse range of sounds.

Her lyrics have always been gut-wrenching, but what sets Spellling & the Mystery School apart from her past work is how seamlessly and vividly those words have been reinterpreted. With a vibrant kaleidoscope of sounds and ethereal ambiance, Cabral brings both her fantasy world and reality to life.

Despite music that can come off as overly precious, though, Cut Worms is a tight set of songs that display Clarke’s facility for songcraft.

Each of these stylistic decisions work equally well, and what impresses most about Fever Ray is that none of the choices are obvious.

Almost a decade into their career, the Arctic Monkeys have aged gracefully into their precociously world-weary image with a mature album about immaturity, a carefully written and produced effort about the desultory careen of youth.

While Koenig rarely shies away from scholastic lyricizing, Contra succeeds apart from its cultural asides and college textbook hat-tips.

The Mouse and the Mask, while it may not be answering life's questions, is an enjoyable and highly original achievement.

The most emotionally direct and revealing album she’s to released to date.

Gorgeously rendered but still ponderous, the album boasts a quiet strength that ultimately derives from the remarkable ability of its creator to deliver his grim sobriety with vibrancy and elegance.

What makes Life Is Good stand out is what also made his celebrated debut, Illmatic, so compelling. There's a sense of narrative unity here, a wide-angle look of the artist as a grown man.

Traveller proved, more than anything else, that Stapleton has the gravitas to pull off big ballads, and there are a few more of them here. From A Room: Volume 1, however, is most rewarding when he tackles stylistic detours, showing how capable he is of handling songs that are light-hearted, upbeat, or simply more stylistically varied.

They Want My Soul is both mournful and confessional, its best moments coming when the band members allow themselves to be vulnerable.

Though Club Future Nostalgia lacks the joyous, adrenaline-fueled arc of the best DJ sets, it honors both Future Nostalgia’s original spirit and that album’s unintentional service as a gateway to a virtual dance floor.

Stylistically, Shamir is a hodgepodge of the different approaches the artist has employed in the past, synthesized into a mostly satisfying pop-rock sound.

illustrates how slight the distinctions between country, blues, and folk genre labels are, and it adds to Elliott's legacy as one of popular music's finest storytellers.

The songs on Down in the Weeds reprises the sheen and clarity of Bright Eyes’s later records, like Cassadaga and The People’s Key, and mostly eschews the rawer qualities of their early recordings. But the band also continues to pick up influences and incorporate new sounds into their foundation.

As it turns out, Burst Apart finds the Antlers undergoing the best kind of reinvention, one in which a willingness to seek out newer sonic frontiers helps the band access a more nuanced emotional palette.

The one knock against Avatar is that it includes just seven songs, six of which amble well past the six-minute mark, making the album seem bloated.

The country legend mainlines one greeting-card sentiment after another, singing about angels, rainbows, moons, and fishing holes with reckless abandon. But the vividness and genuine conviction in that timeless, still-powerful voice finds the humanity in all of it.

They've been relentlessly untypical and consistently awesome, and Your Future might be their best effort of the last decade.

All Day Gentle Hold is rife with expressive touches that point to Maine’s growing confidence, and the feeling of access to his innermost thoughts accentuates the album’s tenderness.

In Push the Sky Away, an album of thrilling darkness pierced by moments of brilliant light, Cave may have crafted his defining statement.

They work fully as standalone tracks, but feel even more substantial when taken within the overall structure of this beguiling, addictive album, which finally turns this strange duo's intellectual eccentricity into their greatest asset.

Bat for Lashes' music feels like some lost specter that has fortuitously wandered into your home and can't help but haunt you.

Wet Tennis stages a 35-minute dance party that’s tempered, as well as bolstered, by notes of reflective melancholy.

As memorable as the lyrics are on Moms, its biggest strength is the way Harris and Seim's already quite similar vocals and contrasting worldviews effectively intertwine.

The opaqueness of Bird's lyrics doesn't exactly jibe with this more mainstream musical approach.

Working again in close collaboration with composer and producer Jack Antonoff, the album is gorgeously, if a bit too tastefully, arranged, prizing pared-back piano and light-handed acoustic guitar.

After 18 years, the revered nonconformists have compiled an album that feels like a career-spanning retrospective.

The basic mastery of these songs, the way they skip between styles and voices, while maintaining a strict level of lyrical and vocal quality, is a great accomplishment in itself, especially on a debut.

What I do know is that at the center of the deafening hype is a fascinating debut, and having spent the last week immersed in it, I suppose I too am willing to invest a bit of hyperbole in James Blake, particularly if it helps convince you to invest a few hours with this uncommonly powerful album.

I Don't Like Shit may be a master class in ominous mood-setting and a cutting excavation of a wounded psyche, but it also reveals that Earl is at his best when he engages the outside world rather than getting mired in his own emotional claustrophobia.

With leftfield collaborations with Slick Rick on one side and the reedy-feely Georgia Anne Muldrow on the other, The Ecstatic isn't the concentrated wonder that is "Black on Both Sides," but it's a refreshing bounce back from the precipice of the Land of Sellout.

Without Ek's second opinion, the results of You In Reverse are mixed; some tracks rule and some tracks drool.

The arrangements and production are all stunning--like with "Master and Everyone," the performances are so intimate and recorded so well you can hear floorboard creaking in spots--but the tunes are a touch uneven.

Refined attention to detail gives Magnificent City the kind of structural awareness that distinguishes exceptional records from merely great ones.

It's an inventive, sharp delight of a record, and possibly one of the year's best.

Med Sud is less polished than the band's previous outings; it's still lush and finely tuned, but creaky acoustic guitars lend tracks like "Góðan Daginn" and "Illgresi" an intimate quality previously unheard.

Ultimately, Ruff Draft is a curiosity—an offshoot rather than example of Dilla's genius.

Despite the occasional lapse in songwriting, Bad Ingredients still impresses for what Biram accomplishes within the confines of a DIY aesthetic.

Prior to this album, Segall was most notable for his music's exciting collision of manic energy and technical skill. Here he retains those basics while demonstrating a keener focus on song construction and mechanics, the work of an artist who's still intent on tearing things up, but possesses a newly lucid understanding of how to shape interesting music out of the remnants.

Why Make Sense? is the electronic fivesome's characteristically polished, generously tuneful tribute to wearing your heart on your sleeve.

The album is intimate, tuneful, and exciting. You don't even have to know who Bradford Cox is to get a lot of enjoyment out of Logos, and that's saying something indeed.

Tthe album is a bit monochromatic, lacking the classic guitar heroism that has, in the past, allowed Wilco to buck the dad-rock label. Twelve years on from Sky Blue Sky, the band would benefit from opening up their sound again—and getting a little bit weird.

One of the most indisputably interesting pop albums of the year.