This New Jersey quartet is one well-oiled muscle, and they flex it to hypnotic effect for 40-plus minutes.

Danilova has crafted perhaps the year's most emphatically romantic record--defiant, loyal, indomitable.

As always, Apathy wins on account of the metaphors he spatters across tracks like so much blood, sweat, and tears.

In the M83 universe, emotion comes before logic, and for all 72 fascinating minutes, Gonzalez has you in the palm of his sweaty hand.

They might have lost a little bit of character, but thankfully Big Troubles remain reliable writers of catchy pop songs.

High Places v. Mankind, took just criticism for being a run-of-the-mill indie record with no charisma, Original Colors is a more than respectable rebound.

On the whole, Forever is downcast, introspective, and melodic.

There is no mistaking, Parade is Keene at his best.

It's a grower--don't go in without some time to invest, or the desire to listen multiple times and peel apart these lavishly constructed layers.

Shadow's densest and longest work at first sounds like an overstylized, underwritten retread with lots of superfluous cuts sporting names like "Tedium." But it eventually rewards hard listening.

Metals packs more sonic punch than its 2007 predecessor, but the problem here is not with recording quality--it's libido.

The 10-minute penultimate track "Tumtum," in particular, is a tiny masterpiece of mood, stamina, and insistent rhythm, built sparingly on overlapping percussion and waves of sound. More of this kind of thing is what will squeak Boom Bip farther from the then and the now, and closer to what comes afterward.

Ashes & Fire is as close as it gets to the brilliance of his first post-Whiskeytown offering, Heartbreaker.

Unlike liars, fakers, and bullshit artists, he backs up his name and claim with anecdotal gems aplenty.

Balam Acab have crafted a fully fleshed-out record, with enticing dimension and its own subtle meanings.

The Whole Love feels like a truly audacious studio record, jam-packed with instruments, ideas, and the sort of restless creativity that marked 2002's game-changer, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.

Dee Dee delivers an album that sounds like Chrissie Hynde backed by Hüsker Dü. Only in Dreams could make you wonder what other indie bands would jump up and thrive if only they had steamroller production.

Langford and co-vocalist Sally Timms lead listeners through tales of country, God, and man with a weather-beaten grace that would make Nick Cave fans squeal.

It's one of 2011's finest pop records: 10 tracks of dreamy, weirdo hi-fi pop that grooves, sparkles, and hums with clipped beats and smooth drums.

At times, the free-association gets to be a bit much, but it's all held afloat by trampoline beats from a stud cast that includes the likes of Diplo and El-P, all channeling Magoo-era Timbaland, Kelis-era Neptunes, and Hov-era Panjabi MC.

Hysterical is built for the long haul, and it appears, after a patch of rocky terrain, that Clap Your Hands are too.

For the most part, Velociraptor! is a stellar representation of K-sabes magnificence and dexterity.

For the most part the band play it straight, delivering a fresh fistful of metal.

Strange Mercy becomes more intriguing the more you listen to it--even if that means you also get further away from comprehending its idiosyncrasy.

The first thing they did right was actually to be a band: to write songs, and tour with them, before recording. The result is a tight, energetic sound with elements of punk, heavy rock, and new wave.

The reason Father, Son, Holy Ghost is so uniquely, imperfectly swell is because the band plainly give fuck-all about convention or stylistic uniformity.

This album is infectious.

The fact that Paley and Francis wrote this album together over the course of three afternoons and then recorded it in two is part of its charm. There are no big guitars and not much percussion. What you get is two compelling performers and their songs, backed by a couple of Muscle Shoals aces, bass player David Hood (yes, Patterson's dad) and Spooner Oldham.