Sparkle Hard remains an entirely worthwhile pursuit that resides within the upper echelon of Malkmus’ post-Pavement output. The way he experiments and progresses his sound is admirable, and it has resulted in some must-hear moments on this very record.

Ultimately, Killing Time is another solid collection of songs from Bayside... Yet another base hit, but still no game-winning home run.

Lamentations keeps you on your toes for its expansive, one hour time span. Even after multiple listens, the layers keep unfolding. William Basinski delivered one of his finest records by choosing to fragment his creative flow and explore dark ambient territories.

Sometimes, Forever is the most colorful album of Allison’s career, but once all her skeletons are revealed, that’s when she’ll reach her true peak. Until that moment arrives, this is the most convincing and complete package from Soccer Mommy to date.

WORLD WIDE WHACK is just another example of how Tierra Whack is so good at carefully removing the barriers between vocal performances, genres, and even emotions that it always ends up looking like no trouble at all.

All of The Migration’s greatest moments showcase a band at the top of its game, quelling the anxiety fans possessed during the record’s inception.

Eternal Blue’s introduction makes way for it’s more poignant and celebrated ending.

Upon repeated listens, Our Love reveals itself as quite the complicated record; nothing ever stays still for very long, whether that’s Snaith’s serpentine compositions or his lyrics, so often cast in shadows as they are triumphantly lit up.

Radical is by no means a reinvention or revelation for the band, but I wouldn't want it to be. In refusing to fix what ain't broke, ETID prove themselves once more as the reigning king of their peculiar, blood-splattered bouncy-castle.

Fragile, mysterious, and powerful, Preservation is one of the most elusively passionate albums of the year.

God’s Country is a sordid treat. It’s too personably grounded and idiosyncratically voiced to be mistaken for anyone else’s recycled diatribe; it punches up tenaciously every step of the way; it’s ready for the end of days, and it hates itself for this with a vengeance. What’s the appeal? It’s bloody wonderful.

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.

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.

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.