The Sunset Tree feels like Darnielle's most personal record to date, and it's certainly his most immediately accessible, musically speaking.

A unique indie-prog masterpiece that owes as much to Hendrix as it does to Sonic Youth.

The album, while competent, is thoroughly flawed.

It shakes the foundations of our music-consuming habits and plays with our genre expectations; it fucks with our minds a bit, just for kicks, and, more importantly, liberates us from the pernicious tyranny of monotony.

It's all very sweeping, operatic and inviting.

The absence of memorable hooks and catchy choruses is obvious.

The relentless sweetness may be off-putting to some... but it'll be difficult for all but the most jaded listeners to avoid being charmed by Of Montreal's appealing melodies and whimsical innocence-recaptured lyrics.

Painstakingly crafted, casually baroque music for people who get off a little bit on feeling blue.

Shrill, sharp, twitchy compositions that can be as abrasive as they are compelling.

Let There Be Morning isn't designed to bowl you over with its size and scope; rather, it's a quietly compelling, lushly orchestrated affair that slowly but surely melts its way into your heart.

Elkington's wry, sodden compositions are enlivened with sparse yet crisp instrumentation and steady melodies. Imagine shoegazer tendencies jolted by the cattle prod of Midwestern edgy folk rock.

Don't look to Open Season to get your heart pounding or your blood flowing; it trades in less cathartic experiences.

The songs here are resolutely pop, almost bubblegum, and though they're sometimes buoyant, hyperkinetic, even fun, they have almost no depth or resonance to them.

If you can't get enough Xiu Xiu, this album is definitely for you.

A cracked masterpiece.... it rewards your attention with dreamy, surreal vistas, skewed poetry and flights of unadulterated musical madness.

You'll feel lost and totally submerged in a sublime experience that's timeless, exciting and free from boundaries.

The Australian band's trademark winsome optimism, clever heartbreak and bittersweet cuteness are in classic form here, only lusher and more layered.

For all his skillful sampling and solid lyrics, Blueprint hasn't broken any new ground with 1988, which just underscores the troubling tendency of underground art forms to become more like the mainstream as they age.

At first listen, it's thrilling, but not quite the statement we were made to believe would shift the world's axis by its very existence. The best thing to do is clear your mind of hype and expectations, and listen to this record -- this fun, addictive, thoroughly entertaining record -- again and again.

Unlike so many of their Gang of Four-worshipping peers, Bloc Party are that rare band that can actually transcend their influences and press clippings, crushing the fervor surrounding their arrival in a hail of splintered guitars and sumptuous despondency.

Picaresque is dense and complicated, but only rarely threatens to tip under its own weight.

Let Us Never Speak of It Again is the sticky, panting, sexually deviant album Louden Up Now should have been.

One of the most playful end-of-the-world concept albums ever created.

At nearly two hours long, Church Gone Wild/Chirpin Hard is anything but a precise masterstroke. It is, however, a flawed, majestic account of what can happen when a band splits down the middle to compose on their own terms, with no artistic differences and no coalescing of ideals.

Listening to frontmen Jason Hill and Brian Kareig chop-up every '60s and '70s rock 'n' roll cliché, remorselessly blending Iggy, Mick, Bowie, Marc Bolan and Johnny Rotten into a light, frothy frappé of sex, violence and coked-up come-ons is, at the very least, consistently amusing -- and even better, surprisingly tasty.

These songs are reminders of a time when death wasn't a distant bogeyman but a mundane reality of everyday life. Alasdair Roberts's versions are somewhat modernized, but utterly immediate.

Shrewdly combines peculiar electronics with melody without ever letting either genre gain the upper hand.

An album riddled with unbreathable energy and high-strung despair.

Other People has a serene, thoughtful loveliness that builds with every listen.

The songs on Fallen Leaf Pages are all played at roughly the same glacial pace and share a very mellow, thoughtful and regret-filled vibe. Some listeners will find them repetitive, even tedious.

Blending the real and the imagined, live performance and tape manipulation, traditional instruments and skewed found sounds, Akron/Family carves an eccentrically lovely niche for itself in the ever-expanding psych-folk landscape.

Origin Vol. I rocks pretty hard without asking much of listeners; it's difficult to be disappointed in a record that's so clearly joyful and energetic.

Naturally, this much theatrical -- but never facetious -- pomp and prettiness can be heavy, but it's never overbearing. Surprisingly, given the album's gravitas, it's relatively easy to enjoy in a single sitting. And another after that.

The 90 degree turns between tracks are endearing, like a cool mix-tape -- not cause for head scratching and folded arms.

It is unsettling, starkly beautiful, intricate and minimalist all at once, and if it lacks the immediate impact of Fugazi, its aura lingers long after it's over.

More balls than brains, but it's that swaggering, careless spirit that gives Kasabian its razor-sharp edge.

Sure, Hersh could be your mom, but only if your mom routinely blows out big stacks of Marshall amps.

They've traded amped-up aggression for seething sexuality without losing any of their muscular bite.

Vocalists Torquil Campbell and Amy Millan connect with their audience with the breathy ease of scenester storytellers, sketching out their tales in economical but well-chosen strokes, and the tunes behind them, invariably elegant, are often deceptively cheeerful.

Let Them Drink may not be as accessible to the mainstream as the band might have hoped, but The Capitol Years' updated blend of classic sounds is an addictive and refreshing change.

Making the effort to unravel the tightly packed layers and unconventional (even by 'Lab standards) song structures can seem downright daunting, regardless of how long you've been following Sadier and how many of her EPs you've devoured.

There's enough strong material on The Story of My Life to score Carter time on CMT and get her in good with the Borders crowd, cementing her cross-genre appeal.

While there are plenty of MTV2-ready tunes, the record doesn't bear much repetition.

With Frances the Mute, the Mars Volta have unfurled a big and bold artistic statement... Unfortunately, that bold artistic statement is rife with pomposity and glimpses of prog-rock at its most horrifically self-indulgent.

Dignity and Shame is sparse and vulnerable, showcasing nothing but Bachmann's bittersweet musings and his deep growl of a voice. It is by no means a unique album, but it's an effective one.

The album certainly isn't a waste of your money if you aren't already a fan. This is one band that clearly doesn't save their lesser material for obscure release. Lost Marbles and Exploding Evidence functions very, very well as a weird little LP.

Admittedly, not all of Cloud's most ambitious tracks work ou.... But in the end, it's Garnier's ambition, combined with his talent and professionalism, that make this an album worth seeking out.

Heart Like A River is a full-throated and diverse expression of the songwriting talents of Daniel Littleton and Elizabeth Mitchell, though bassist Karla Schickele's two contributions are nothing to sneeze at, either.

Awake is a distinctly flawed album; much of what's here is precious or forced-sounding.

You won't necessarily encounter anything substantially removed from their prior work, but you will witness the duo allowing new voices to assume a greater role in rocketing each song to some bright red futon in a distant region of the cosmos.

Woman King's songs are decidedly textured, rich with rhythm and reason, myth and melody.

Usually entertaining, often thought-provoking, and occasionally insightful.

Haunting, gorgeously inward-looking, yet laced with memorable melodies, Feathers is Dead Meadow's strongest work ever and an early contender for one of 2005's best records.

Nashville is further proof that Rouse is one of the best songwriters of his generation.

In the end, Tree City's quality makes its carbon-copy nature all the more frustrating.

What could have been an awkward marriage of incompatible styles turned into a vibrant, invigorating blast of musical enthusiasm, free of restrictive genre definitions.

It took ages to arrive, but LCD Soundsystem isn't the album you've been waiting for -- it's far, far better.

Outside Closer is maddeningly indirect, and the diminishing returns of its final minutes might make you wonder why you invested the time in the first place. But honestly, how many albums can claim to have so palpable an effect?

Some moments are exciting, but overall it's a bit cluttered.

A Healthy Distrust is impressively fluid; Francis fuses his experimental leanings and newer mainstream hip-hop allowances with ease.

Unabashedly mellow and reflective, Burn the Maps may not hook mainstream music fans who've been conditioned to expect a tidily rhyming chorus ever thirty seconds.

It's the sound of a man in perfect harmony with himself.

I Am a Bird Now is a sweet, sumptuous brace of noir-laced cabaret pop, distinctly out of step with just about every other album released this year.

Coxon's effortless cool comes to the fore, imbuing each song with a wiry, infectious energy.

Before the Poison is a wonderful disc, the sound of a well-established artist continuing to grow and explore.

The fact that it hides among its excesses a handful of truly excellent rock anthems seems almost like an afterthought, as if, when the band ran out of crazy ideas, they found that there was nothing left to do but write actual songs.

EMOH is a bit rambling, and could stand to lose a song or two so as to not detract from the its power, but considering Barlow's sometimes egregious prolificacy, these 14 songs are about as polished as he gets.

Push the Button isn't wall-to-wall brilliant; it has its share of lulls and, for want of a better term, dubious inspirations. However, when it works, it's so on that you won't want to turn it off.

All of these songs sound like her -- from any era or any album of her career. Her presence is too recognizable to be disguised by production or gimmickry.

The Great Destroyer is a marvel of layered beauty -- the sort of album that makes you call in sick to work so you can spend a day with headphones clamped to your head, charting its every elegant nuance.

It's complex, deeply melodic, carefully arranged and (for the most part) very satisfying.

Though sampling has been done to death, the stealthiness which which Deakin and Franglen incorporate their borrowed material will be required study for wannabe producers and hop-headz; in that regard, it's on a par with the seminal Paul's Boutique.

Effortlessly charming and strangely compelling, despite moments of complete and utter unlistenability.

Inara George's voice is so gorgeous and soothing that you'll immediately believe that you can listen to it forever. Unfortunately, by the fifth or sixth song on All Rise, you'll wonder if you have been listening to her forever.

If you skip the first track and stick mostly to the first two-thirds of the record, A Question of Temperature ranks as one of the most enjoyable albums of this still-young year.

Your senses will be sorely disappointed.

Peopled with starry-eyed lovers and draped in wistful melancholy, it brilliantly captures that lonely netherworld between love and loss.

One offers ten tracks of zipless triple-A folktronica -- bland, edgeless songs like "A Million Ways" that wouldn't even heat up the Ballroom D dancefloor on the final night of a Midwestern Regional Sales Conference.

Nothing's Lost is slick and rich, packed with melody and rhythm.

I wouldn't go so far as to say that White People should never have happened... but Paul and Dan would do well to move on while they're still ahead.

A short but vibrant live album... Tigers captures the boisterous good cheer of Case's live show, proving once and for all that there's more to her music than dead bodies, wounded relationships and creepy, palpable stillness.

The Anomoanon's vibe, despite their sometime sunniness, is more Led than Dead, but they bring it firmly into the twenty-first century.

A welcome blast from the past.

Key ultimately demands direct attention; while some songs seem to call out for the openness of a long car ride, this is a headphone masterpiece.

Abattoir/Orpheus is not as immediate as some of Cave's previous triumphs, but you'll take pleasure in unearthing new sentiments and innuendo within its walls.

Never, Never, Land not only escapes the expectations and pitfalls that dogged Psyence Fiction, but succeeds on a new set of strengths.

Intentionally or not, it creates a sort of natural, autumnal closure -- like a gorgeous, lazy, completely uncommitted fall afternoon delivered in three- to five-minute slices.

They've mostly dropped the songs that traded entirely on their sexuality, replacing them with tunes full of nuance and subtlety.

It's a long, occasionally ponderous listen... but it's an impressive and rewarding journey that moves between prog, space-rock and subdural transmissions in ancient alien tongues.

A strong contender for album of the year, Shaking the Sheets is a masterpiece of fucked-up mod pop: political but not preachy, insistent yet never twitchy, respectful but never blatant.

It sticks with what Jimmy Eat World have always done, but it sounds better than anything that preceded it.

A mostly "hit" but occasionally "miss" effort that showcases both the band's maturation and its residual shortcomings.

His machinegun flow is as cerebral as ever, but too much of the album's production slides by in a dignified haze of twinkling clips and clacks, devoid of real grime or grizzled substance.

It's simply wonderful -- bristling with pop masterpieces large and small, and reassuringly unburdened by Smith's deep-seated malaise.

Far more mysterious and (perhaps not coincidentally) alluring than most Buckner outings, Dents and Shells is a claustrophobic comedown album wrapped in disillusion and sorrow.

Their most musically adventurous yet artistically grounded record to date.

Dangerous Dreams' late arrival was nearly enough to doom it to obscurity, but the disc's lack of new ideas puts the final nail in the coffin.

Even though Mississauga Goddamn isn't completely without flaw -- some of Gibb's lyrical and compositional choices are pretty obvious, for one thing -- it allows you, for a little while, at least, to escape from the everyday world.