III is a masterpiece of modern indie folk. Bad Books have in every way lived up to the potential of a so-called “supergroup”, combining the best aspects of Andy Hull’s and Kevin Devine’s artistry, with help in no small part from Robert McDowell’s atmospheric guitar wizardry. The songs themselves are rich, lush, and flourishing – yet totally simplistic.

Even with an eight-year gap between, it's easy to think of Final Transmission as a sister album to White Silence. The facts of each album's creation are remarkably similar, down to being nine-song hitters largely recorded in practice spaces rather than a recording studio proper. The difference, of course, is that Final Transmission is short and raw by necessity rather than choice.

Silversun Pickups’ fifth full-length sees the band craft another very enjoyable alt-rock album, but it’s one that is full of holes. For every catchy melody, they seem to abandon their creative spirit. When they aspire for the stars artistically, they can’t seem to locate their tune sense.

Regardless of its intention, whether vapid or passive-aggresively referrential, SHE IS COMING is really, really fun. It bounces from eye-roll-inducing to warmly dazzling without asking whether or not it should.

Jambinai have crafted a beast of an album with the perfect length to maintain its punch. Besides this, there are many idiosyncratic elements here which are hard to forget and easy to recognize once listened to. Though their music isn’t for everyone, once you get to the gist of it, it’s very rewarding.

This album is the first work by Kishi Bashi that feels like a mission, and it’s that same sense of purpose that drives Omoiyari to be the most beautiful and impactful piece of his catalogue.

It’s not a reversal of normal Flying Lotus material. We’re still dealing with confusion exemplified as a messy but ultimately rewarding tracklist, fear exemplified as music that is just off enough that it could feel terrifying, depression exemplified as little quirks and late starts scattered like jacks and marbles. The difference is that, for once, he’s not trying to fight it all off.

Dedicated is good, but it doesn’t whirl with the same destructive force; in that sense, it is Carly Rae’s first genuine failure in a decade.

Injury Reserve is as cohesive a hip-hop album as one can hope. This is thanks, in large part, to Parker’s ever-so-versatile production, though also, I think, Groggs’ and, in particular, Ritchie’s growing scepticism with modern hip-hop culture, and a heightened awareness of its pretensions.

IGOR is not by any means Tyler's best work, and at times deliberately plays against his strengths in order to keep the listener off-guard--this pays dividends in the stunning "I THINK" and "A BOY IS A GUN", less so on the repetitive and cloying "RUNNING OUT OF TIME" and "ARE WE STILL FRIENDS？". What it is, though, is a form of ragged beat-tape minimalist that Tyler wears extremely well.

Ultimately, A Fine Mess is a subpar offering that sounds like you’d imagine it to: a handful of B-sides with varying degrees of enjoyment, made worse by a myriad of problems. Devoted fans should find a meagre portion of redemption here, but to the casual listener this will bring little enjoyment to the table.

The pacing of the album is a little more sluggish than normal. It’s clear it was a conscious effort to savour this intergalactic soundscape and add more detail, but it’s aftereffects certainly carry over excess baggage. It’s not a bad album by any means and if you like his work, this will deliver in all the ways you’d expect, but in that regard that’s half the problem.

A record imbued with the distance between people and places, the impermanence of stories and emotions, and one that finds it ever so hard to stay in one place for too long. ... It’s a damn fine National album.

This is a fantastic return that shows the artistic thrust we’ve come to expect from the band, but it’s done in a way that sheds their controversial desires for good, honest songwriting. It’s probably the most vastly experimental offering to date, next to Rosenrot, but it makes sure to add a trove of tasteful elements from previous sounds while it’s doing it.

Afflicted in the end with a touch of offputting sameyness, LEGACY! LEGACY! nonetheless has remarkable staying power and a gracious ambition to in some small way materially improve the world of which it is an image. Aesthetic or not, that's worth something.

Agora is a lot of things, but one thing it is not is corny. But in the process he has sacrificed a whole lot of virtues. Where Fennesz once generated productive frisson in the mind-body continuum of his listeners, now his music stares blankly at them, as if hoping that their and not his affective dispositions will create the passion that sustains worthwhile musical practice.

He appears to have trusted his instincts and let his wildest artistic ambitions loose and breathe on their own. The mood of Fear in a Handful of Dust conjures all sorts of imagery, especially of the mysterious. Amon Tobin’s evolution as a writer and producer is felt, having some of the most engaging and depthful moments of his career.

In the end, what you’re left with is a generic rock album with a couple of noteworthy moments and an aftertaste that will probably alienate a few long-time fans of the band.

The rambling nature of Finn’s delivery adds to the immersive storytelling, where listeners are focused on Finn’s lyrics--and what’s going to happen next to the characters in these stories--rather than worrying about hooks, riffs, or even the music at all. That isn’t to say that the album offers nothing in that area, but when Finn decides to figuratively dot his i’s, it feels like you’ve arrived at a momentous occasion.

ARIZONA BABY is Kevin's most diverse album yet in production, veering from Southern-tinged slappers to euphoric rushes of R&B to more Blond(e)-inspired meanderings, but an emotional vulnerability that follows on from "MARCH" and the like pulls these disparate songs together into something more.

What a gorgeous, powerful album of self-discovery this is.

It’s a very digestible and fun debut LP.

It's easy to imagine a superior album being made from sequencing it with the best of its predecessor. But there's a simple, unassuming quality that would be lost if you did.

A standalone masterpiece. It’s the kind of album capable of captivating a new audience; an evolution from traditional Irish troubadour folk that is both dark and masterful.

Sulphur English is both a career spanning bow on an admirable decade and a determined look toward the future.

Morbid Stuff is a worthy follow up to The Dream Is Over in all the right ways--giving fans everything they asked for with some amusing curveballs. It’s a complete thrill from front to back that manages to retain the band’s whacky nature while making some inspiring progressions forward. You can't get much closer to a modern punk classic than this.

Interview Music is a record as dense and conflicted as the frontman’s gobbledygook would have us believe he is as a writer. Whereas before his depictions were flavorful and bolstered by solid REM-like rock songs from his surrounding team, here highlight pickings for intelligent insights are slim, and Idlewild as a whole sound lost and in the process of aging horribly.

It is difficult to even listen to individual songs because they flow into each other so well that it feels wrong to skip around. That said, this is her strongest collection of songs yet.

This can be a polarizing LP, especially for fans who are turned on by their poppier side (myself included) or ‘90s works. In spite of that, I believe this musical vertigo is actually a minutely crafted conceptual piece that represents a peak in their career.

On the Line as a whole never feels manufactured, or, really, like anything less than Lewis telling it to you straight.

When We Fall Asleep, Where Do We Go is a volatile launching pad. This is anything but a safe debut, which could make Eilish a star In her own right--in the realm of dark pop--or alternatively could see her collapse under the weight of her enormous aspirations. It’ll be a wild ride either way, with plenty of dissention along the way.

It may not garner the same kind of fond appreciation that fans have for The Mysterious Production of Eggs, or Break It Yourself, but this album is less a niche corner of the folk genre and more an illustrious banner for all to appreciate. In Bird’s vast canon of genre experimentation, there’s room for at least one big time indie-rock record--and this fills those shoes quite well.

LP3 is a house built brick by brick with patient songwriting--lush arrangements that blossom over a lengthy period of time, cultivating in fully fleshed out songs. Where’s LP1’s charm largely came from its high energy and juvenile tone, LP3 is the labor of seasoned musicians.

On Panorama, they show themselves to be one of the tightest units in music, writing groove after memorable groove. Guitars, bass, and drums meld seamlessly, with no component vying for attention above the others. What stands out is how rarely the guitarists resort to palm mutes, heavy distortion, or even fast strumming. There is an almost improvisational aspect to the music in a lot of these songs.

This is an album that might be best digested in smaller doses, in order to avoid the feeling that all these songs sort of just wash each other out--but there’s no denying that Blaqk Audio have stumbled onto something really entertaining here.

In the end, The Brian Jonestown Massacre isn’t among the band’s top 3, most accomplished efforts, however, it represents very well the gist of their sound. Moreover, it is one of their most consistent and cohesive LPs, offering something for most fans out there.

What we have here is an album crafted by two high-profile artists that manages to live up to the names involved. It’s somewhat unexpected just how well they mesh, though, crafting songs that don’t sound the part of a first-time collaboration.

Czarface Meets Ghostface won't shake up any lives, and if we're being perfectly honest not too many of us will be spinning it when the year is out. That's alright, though--it's not designed as some timeless classic statement. Sounding free from the burden of expectation from their storied careers, for the first time in a long time, this is the sound of legends cutting loose a little bit.

Flowers at the Scene features influences from various decades of pop, classic/art rock, jazz and successfully experiments to offer an eclectic and rewarding collection of stand-alone tracks.

Her delicate fingerpicking and shimmering vibrato carried her across state lines, oceans, into record deals and mixing rooms. The juxtaposition is apt: Beware of the Dogs is Stella adjusting the scales, shifting seamlessly between intimate and all-encompassing.

Black is fully replete with every sound Weezer could think to chuck on it, from "Too Many Thoughts in My Head"'s crazy funk guitar to Pat's double-tracked kits and looping beats to the labyrinthine, breathtaking basslines.

Good at Falling makes little headway into its own unique musical space, that’s something fans can hopefully expect in the future as Bain continues to distance herself from this vigilantly-traced launching pad. For now, here’s to another round of synth-laden pop balladry.

Phoenix is much more than what floats to its surface, and far greater than the sum of its parts. It's an album of stories.

In essence, this album sounds like Death Magic if Trent Reznor had gotten a hold of it. They’ve subverted the congenial elements associated with their last record to make some of the band’s darkest incarnations yet.

Few albums can make such bold statements without seeming heavy-handed, but Jacklin’s sophomore effort feels as natural as the words rolling off her tongue.

Can’t Say I Ain’t Country is an amalgamation of country-pop’s worst features. It’s country without the grit or emotion; pop without any of the fun or hooks.

These slightly above average hooks/melodies deserve better. I deserve better. So tell me it’s over.

Girl With Basket of Fruit is the only record Xiu Xiu could've possibly made after what was the impossibly positive, yet unsure-sounding Forget back in 2017. The music contained on the album is hyper-aggressive, manic, even unpredictable at times, but that's the magic of what Jamie Stewart is doing, for better or worse.

The songs that hew closer to pop than hip-hop are the strongest because they show the most confidence, both vocally and musically. That there is even a disparity, however, points to the biggest problem with thank u, next: its occasional lack of a clear identity.

For its faults, Gallipoli is nice. It’s pleasant. But it’s the type of nice that makes you wonder if there was any substance there at all.

There’s so much room for everything to breath and flourish. Olympic Girls takes it slow, and we’re given the perfect chance for reflection through the mid-tempo bliss.

The majority of this new record feels stuck in a chordal rut. The dynamic tension between the musical surface and the tonal depth is alive and well, but Disappeared serves as an excellent reminder that good rock music needs more than just ideas to thrive.

Nighttime Birds and Morning Stars fears not experimentation, and has the chops to occasionally shine through with awe-inspiring beauty. It’s worth it to not have a front-to-back ear pleaser when the peaks are this brilliant.

The limber Assume Form finds Blake with a new lease on life. We were lucky to have something as insightful and forward-thinking as James Blake; we’re luckier still to have this one.

The disappointingly flat production was applied to a set of tracks that more often present themselves as sketches rather than fully fleshed songs. Moreover, this LP just gently passes you by, revealing itself to be devoid of any truly memorable songs.

It’s full of charming melodies, carefully placed harmonies, and biting lyrics from two of the most influential songwriters around. Some days you just get lucky.

When the last few tracks roll around, it becomes clear that Tobacco and Aes are sticking with the same formula for the album’s duration. Tobacco will gradually layer more variously-filtered keys, Aes will find something to chant for the chorus, and then some distorted vocals will close the track out. Two albums of this might get tiring, but for 34 minutes, it works perfectly despite the predictability.

As Buke and Gase ebb and flow from one creative whim to the next, Scholars marks one of the oddest and most intriguing albums of the early year.

This is the kind of record that never loses sight of a desire to learn and change. Whenever Remind Me Tomorrow circles in on starry-eyed nostalgia -- that vile, misleading thing -- it rearranges the fabric of its composition and converts idealism to retrospect.

What we end up with here is Angelo De Augustine’s most brazen step forward to date. Tomb sees him not buried, but bursting forth with flourishing atmospheres.

A non-household album by an oft-overlooked electronic artist/producer, Queen of Golden Dogs is an intriguing, mysteriously intelligent dark horse of a record. Fans of broader electronic/experimental pieces, prepare to be delighted in the delirious lunacy of Vessel’s apex-to-date.

First Flower feels like a reclusive album emotionally, lyrically, and musically--but it’s one that actively strives to break through. It feels like being trapped inside your own thoughts, battling with the kinds of choices that incrementally alter your life on a daily basis.

This album is Madeline’s garden, a flourishing melodic/electronic progression from Night Night’s straightforward indie-pop, and a shell-shattering statement of confidence to boot. Kenney has come into full bloom, and Perfect Shapes will forever capture that moment.

This is a damn good record that is worth your time. Sink into Collapse, and let it sweep you up in its collage of vast, intricate atmospheres.

Every loop [of "Nowhere2go"] reveals another layer to the undulating beat, but for the first time thus far it's Earl taking the spotlight, rising above the track with a tired yet hopeful rap that's so melodic he's nearly singing. And in case you were worried the boy wouldn't spit, it's followed quickly by "December 24", a song dating back years under the name "Bad Acid" which provides the strongest link to the more aggressive and conventional early 2010s Earl.

Great albums don’t need to define a generation or open doors to other worlds, they just need to make great music--and Inquiry does exactly that. It’s a batch of quality pop songs--nothing more, nothing less.

The album endears itself with a simpler style and digestible runtime provided the ridiculous 60s synths and wee-ooh vocals don't immediately turn you off. It clearly will not go down in anyone's book as a classic release, but for a change it's a Pumpkins album that's aware of that fact, cleverly baking that unassuming simplicity into every note and half-nonsense lyric.

It’s a series of surprisingly coherent and original steps forward, followed by a series of steps both backwards and sideways. I’d venture to say that’s better than continuing to rummage around the status quo at least, even if the cumulative results are still decidedly average.

FM! might have personality, but it's of the more obnoxious and self-obsessed "Get the Fuck Off My Dick" variety, and there's simply not enough quality on display to justify its own brief and largely annoying existence. Next.

Maybe this album is the fire; the guitar melodies on songs like Strong References and Avoidarama certainly blaze a scorching trail through the middle of rhythm section. But on a record where those blistering tones are juxtaposed against lines like ”Find an oven, stick my head in”, I’m assuming that tenacity isn’t a by-product of optimism so much as it is a spiteful response to expectation and convention. That, my guys, is more punk than vandalizing GG Allin’s gravestone.

Architects have never shied away from clarion calls to action, but this is the band at their most inspiring and effectual, filling in the empty space left behind after a monumental loss. It is an epitaph that nonetheless suggests a bright future ahead.

Despite avoiding it for a period of time, Yorke came through with his best solo album yet. He assuredly created a multi-layered horror soundtrack that serves as an engrossing confection of new musical landscapes in its own right while being essential to the film’s effect.

It’s clearly leagues below what they’re capable of, but they’re at least moving forward with the styles of music that they want to create, uninhibited by expectations rooted in the past. This is essentially a synth-pop album, one that is at times exciting and unconventional and at other times tasteless and rudimentary.

Any piece that can cover an emotional spectrum ranging from gruff cries all the way to handclaps must have a lot to offer. ... Step aside Nickelback, there’s a new sheriff in town and his name is Imagine Dragons.

Musically, the release doesn’t live up to the promise of the vocals. There’s not much here beyond standard indie. Nonetheless, it is very pleasant to listen to.

If you’ve enjoyed Holter to this point, it is worth investing the necessary time. Aviary touches every corner of her sound, resulting in an enchanting, if slightly dizzying, fifth album.

Whatever voodoo made their unapproachable sound so damn fun and cathartic is completely gone. In its place is a something altogether darker and uglier, but ultimately more brilliant and enrapturing than ever before. You Won't Get What You Want is Daughters finest moment and everything I’ve wanted.

The frustrating desire for something daring or interesting is never satiated. To be blunt, Evolution is essentially a blander version of Immortalized, which was the flavourless porridge version of Asylum, which was the graham cracker version of Indestructible. Even the song titles are uninspired.

There isn’t enough content in Mudboy to make it much other than a vibe. There are traces of A$AP Ferg, Waka Flocka Flame, and OG Maco locked beneath its consistently muddy sound. But there isn’t enough nuance or ‘moments’ to make it worth repeated listens (like Sheck’s mentor, Travis Scott).

[Untitled] is not a comfortable listen. It feels like something not meant for our ears--an incredibly spiritual and private moment that’s bound to compelling scripture and woeful, debilitating memories. It’s unfiltered passion that evades qualification; something to which we’d be performing a disservice by assigning a title.

While its current state still qualifies it for a highly regarded honorable mention and a high degree of critical and commercial anticipation for what's to come on Vaxis Acts II through IV.

A well-earned victory lap for a band that pulled itself back from the brink of oblivion to sound stronger than ever. A source of pure joy, indeed.

This album finds Kasher engaging with capitalism in a way not heard since “Dorothy at Forty”, but while that song pointed out the excesses of the stereotypical American dream, songs like “Under the Rainbow” lament the deletion of that dream from our lives.

The run starting at "XO" is the real DROGAS Light: a summery shimmer of pop-rap which hits breathtaking highs with the delicate jazzy musings of "King Nas", or "Happy Timbuck2 Day"'s Tribe Called Quest-esque tribute to a legendary Chicago DJ. The other album, where the Wave section of the album name is derived, which loosely comprises the first half of the album and revolves around a mythical group of vengeful drowned slaves, isn't just Lupe Fiasco's best but easily one of the greatest albums I've heard in recent memory.

Konoyo is a heavy album, emotionally speaking, in a way that is difficult to explain, yet can be expressed in a way that only someone like Tim Hecker would know. By destroying, contorting and reconfiguring these sounds, Hecker draws out the most visceral emotions in himself via soundwaves--his music being his therapy, and us, the audience, being his witness to his solemn excursion into his very soul. It's all too beautiful.

Love in Shadow is a startlingly unique addition to the band's catalog, and the most dynamic and interesting album that Aaron Turner has ever created. It's easy to see the multitude of cracks and smudges that besmirch this messy record. It's even easier, however, to just sit back and enjoy one of metal's weirdest and most fascinating releases of the year.

Brockhampton's simplest album, a choose-your-own-adventure funhouse where the experience is as hilarious or as touching as the mindset you go in with.

Realistically, Ta13oo is extremely satisfying from a consumption standpoint. It’s everything I’d want from a rap album this year.

Eery other song on the album has great lines that are now more easily understandable to boot. Pig Destroyer may have switched from a chainsaw that cuts quickly to a hacksaw that takes a bit longer, but they’re still creating phantom limbs, and the blood and viscera are still present.

This LP successfully condenses Spiritualized’s discography into a cohesive, 48-minute listen.

Big Red Machine is an exercise in expectation and follow-through, and in how throwing a bunch of good ideas at a song doesn’t make a good song, nor a bunch of great tracks onto vinyl wax a great album.

Patient, attentive listeners that take the time to find Magus’s secrets will be justly rewarded, as there’s a lot to be dissected here.

It wouldn’t be a Pineapple Thief record if we weren’t served some moody tracks. There are less than usual (no complaints about that) and often spiced with louder sections throughout.

Grande is adding herself to several distinct sonic palates, putting her own indelible stamp on fundamentally disparate productions while letting them exist in different spaces. It doesn’t sound as free and natural as much of her previous work, but maybe that awkward hollowness is the point.

It's not necessarily a masterpiece nor was it ever meant to be a grand statement that'd capture everyone's attention; a low-key unveiling is more fitting, for it's the Collective's return to form, except in a way that nobody expected.

It’s an album utterly relatable because love, and heartbreak, are universal. It’s also something so amazingly personal that no one could precisely duplicate it, because every experience is specific to Tomberlin’s journey. That’s At Weddings: passion, devastation, depression , and strength rolled into one. It’s tenacious, and it’s beautiful.

There’s such a rush to these songs and, resultingly, it feels like Mitski is hurrying to capture something before it dissolves into smoke. It’s ephemeral because life is.

Nearer My God establishes itself as emo's first definitive document on digital-age despair.