All told, 333’s latter two-thirds are full of similar highlights, individually enjoyable but somewhat piecemeal as a collection. It’s full of threads that almost come together and, more importantly, a generous swathe of playlist fodder, but I can’t say I’m a huge fan of having three semi-distinct aftertastes in my mouth at the same time. Tinashe’s voice is impressive throughout, even if some songs don’t allow for the most engaging performances.

Sling does what all excellent folk records should: tell a story, and provide a glimpse inside the narrator's mind during that process. Sling's only real fault is that the melodies don't stick, but knowing the plight behind Claire's music makes it worth returning to again and again. Albums like that always seem to win us over in the end.

The Shepherd's Dog proves that Beam is worthy of the attention that he is given and actually a brilliant musical mind rather than some guy who got lucky enough to make a great album in his bedroom.

Many of these tracks do just straight up bang on an instinctual level. But in those times that this does work, when this really gets down to being something that ignites the mind and the heart, it does so very much in spite of its intellectual and artistic veneer, and not because of it.

songs is Lenker’s most complete, her most personal work; her least comprehensible, but her most comprehensive.

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.

Black Milk has simply made a completely unique statement in what is typically a pretty stale genre, and with Tronic he has confirmed his status as one of the best.

As it stands, it’s just another Vampire Weekend album, except the songs are less catchy and more sterile this time around.

eternal sunshine, at 35 minutes, doesn’t leave much of an impression, its titular statement of pretty regard for memories lost and time regained ultimately registering not as a platform for yearning nor as a vehicle for regret nor as ironic joke nor social commentary but as the broadest possible thread of aesthetic inspiration for pretty regard for such immaterial concepts as memories, time, gain, loss. The songwriting is the main culprit

It’s post-apocalyptic, and it’s a gorgeous awakening for a band that continues to define the standard within its genre.

Down and dirty, it grooves by on soulful power chords and Carney's relentless hammering of his kit.

It’s a respectable record with easily enough depth and conviction to hint at something thoroughly vital, but it folds so much of itself along lines too deeply creased into forms too clean-edged to bear the kind of authorial stamp its many raw qualities beg for.

Tha Carter III is scattershot, which oddly strengthens its faults, as if any lull in quality means that the next batch of producers can just reset the formula.

The overwhelming sense Everything’s Fine leaves you with is that at some point a deep engagement with your artistic craft starts to look a lot like love--love between artists, between artist and audience, and finally a radical love for the world itself, even and especially because we know things will never be fine.

For now their debut release shows great promise, deftly combining the ferocity of punk with soul-baring lyricism.

It's a remarkably restless and hungry 40 minutes of music, maybe bordering on scattershot, if not for one thing holding it all together. That would be De Souza's own vocals. Put simply, she gives the best performance of the year on this album, her powerhouse voice bursting out of the seams of every song like it simply can't be contained.

Excessive, sexual, and catchy, UGK has crafted the most definitive template for the southern rap record. Sadly, it'll be their last.

A very, very impressive album all around.

Ghosts, at surface level, appears to be cut from the same futuristic mold with its uninviting and foreboding artwork and premise, but closer inspection finds album no. 8 to be the artist's most approachable album to date.

Target Earth is the speed, technicality and thrashy weirdness of the band's earliest album enveloped in a modern package that is also able to retain its own vibe and personality.

On Meir, Kvelertak prove that it's actually okay to play happy metal without appearing saccharine or contrived.

It's not only a testament to her sheer persistence as an artist, but also a powerful soul record that showcases her remarkable vocal talent with a concise collection of expertly performed songs.

It makes for a surprisingly fun and varied record. Yet, that's not to say that the record is without its foibles. The biggest problem is Die Knowing never comes into its own.

Alpha is easily the band's most accessible album to date.

In its best moments, Day to Day basks in routine humdrum, making it a bit more magical.

Hours upon hours of material is present for listeners, the hardcore and the uninitiated alike, to indulge in; the five-pound box provides listeners with a potentially new outlook on this underappreciated era of King Crimson, and is guaranteed to be worth the price of entry just for the fleeting mellotron strains of “Lizard” alone.

Yolk in the Fur is a statement album. It’s an experience that flows effortlessly, combining a glistening, guitar-driven atmosphere with romantically-charged lyrics that make the whole thing nearly impossible to resist.

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.