The revelation in Gossamer is Angelakos's inner voice.

From moment to moment, Never's oddball quality can be a blessing, but it becomes more of a curse when the moment passes and there's little besides disparate pieces to hold onto.

Although the band's sonic stew isn't particularly remarkable or consistent (instrumentation oscillates between warm and comforting, and distant and anemic), their lyrics have a peculiar charm that keeps them alluring.

MTMTMK is infinitely more fascinating when it's pushing the envelope, mixing weirdness and darkness into the radiant multi-culti stew.

With one foot rooted in the past, the band is yet pushing forward, with an album that promises longevity and, maybe, greatness.

It's nothing new, sure, but it's proof that mining from the past is a surefire way to keep things sounding familiar yet fresh.

Smith seems to struggle with whether he wants to write emotional pop songs or dark experimental soundscapes, but the push and pull between the two sentiments is ultimately gorgeous.

1991 is all about the bubble-popping lushness of "Van Vogue" and the hall-of-mirrors shimmer of "Liquorice." It's also about the summer, and showing more of Banks than just her breakout hit.

Even if he's stuck in the past, Lewis's best songs feel timeless.

With their debut full-length, Brooklyn pop quintet Friends have released the best pop album of the summer.

When Longstreth uses his newfound focus to shake up his methods... the results are often startling.

[At times on Wild Peace] you might wonder if Echo Lake are merely a caricature of every previous shoegaze and dream-pop outfit. What saves the duo is how splendidly their iridescent sounds can evoke a moment, allowing listeners to lose themselves in the music.

Throw It to the Universe, number six on the docket by the sextet, keeps pace with past efforts despite dragging at times.

Cosmically in tune and harmony-rich, they excel in presenting their colorful, kaleidoscopic view of the world.

All of this should be terrible or grating, but because it kisses and licks every flaw and quirk with such purposeful gusto, the result is immensely entertaining and kind of magical.

It's a refined sense of balance that sets her apart from Grouper and Julia Holter, artists to whom Evans is too often compared.

The year's most outstanding rock album.

Her fourth album is arguably her funniest ... but also her leanest and most melodically daring.

Take this, the album's third legit release (which, by the way, sounds so balls you can practically hear the dank nugs), pop it in, turn out all the lights, face Mecca, and bow down.

Less polished than its predecessor, 2009's Fantasies, Synthetica brings all the varied influences and styles together in perfect synchronization.

Aside from the highlights, though, other cuts here fall short of album quality, especially the last three selections, which are paint-by-number displays of chops and over-seriousness.

Yes, there are some colorful, more fully realized moments toward the end, but all the mumbling and fussing it takes to get there is murder.

Loose, loud, and fun.

If there was ever a worry of the Hives maturing- or simply becoming less like the Hives - there isn't anymore.

Diver is depressingly one-note, trimming back the band's scope and muscle. For some reason, Callan Clendenin sings every line in the same tiring, vacant croon, and its charm fades with each track, as does the Garageband-style production.

An inspired, exhilarating spectacle that makes good on its gang vocals, feel-good (but not cheesy) lyrics, pleasantly muddy production, and galloping sense of self-confidence.

Feel-good nostalgia meets the stoned Dazed and Confused-types and the glam-punks halfway. The album's fuzzed-out appeal ... makes it a summer go-to disc.

Kozelek's guitar playing is predictably tremendous, what with all those incessant triads and nervous arpeggios. But at 17(!) tracks, many of them floundering for melody and meaning, this is the first SKM release to spin its wheels.

It's hard to find many flaws in this new disc from Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros.

Past Time was mostly content to present Grass Widow's aesthetic--cooing, ethereal gang vocals, sinewy guitars, a general state of breeziness--as opposed to Internal Logic, where those things are part of far more memorable songs.

Fire from the Sky fully returns the band to what made Shadows Fall so appealing in the first place--without taking a step backward.

For a while, Magic Hour - the band's fourth full-length - lives up to the promise of its hilarious, zebra-centric-2001: A Space Odyssey cover art. But the wheels fall off with "Year of Living Dangerously," a campy, aimless doodle not even rescued by its random violin solo.

El-P's least ambitious record.

This is the longest the band has had the same lineup, which adds to the overall tightness from start to finish.

Craft Spells certainly live up to their name on this six-song EP, with the charm of its effortless, pixie-light production and the warm, plangent harp sounds of their major-key melodies.

If at times the album works as dancefloor aerobic-pop, its true utility is in providing the soundtrack for two people to get lost in the vortex dance of each other's eternal-seeming embrace.

Sonically, it's jaw-dropping, particularly on headphones: every cymbal splash and synth squiggle purr up-close and personal. But most of these 10 tracks are so subtle, they might drift past unnoticed if you're not listening hard enough.

This stirring collection makes Father John Misty's debut one of the best solo efforts this year, a true freak-folk standout.

Dr Dee's well-defined boundaries mean it lacks the sense of adventure found in previous efforts, but Albarn deserves kudos for such artistic fearlessness.

The Only Place [is] better-sung, slower, [and] expansively produced.

The only (and major) downside to the record is how it contains no standout tracks or surprising twists if you're already into Reagan-era hardcore.

Bloom is a sonic boomerang: resist if you must, but you'll inevitably end up right back where you started - sucked into their heavenly sonic utopia.

Not only does this new song cycle retain the Euro-tastic sheen of its predecessor, it outdoes it in sheer dance-floor whump.

Although the Cribs are very good at what they do, the songwriting on the album just feels tired and unfocused.

Enlisting uber-producer Jacknife Lee (Bloc Party, Kasabian, R.E.M.) has brought some magic that keeps the mid-'90s flame--if not eternal--then at least at a reliable glow.

The music here is visceral enough that it holds its own in the legacy of the project.

The dreamwave immersion and haunting power of Hunter's vocals invite comparisons to fellow Baltimore mood-wizards Beach House, but whereas Teen Dream aimed for beauty even at its darkest, Lower Dens keeps things weird.

Johnny Jewel's trademark retro-futuro-electro production sound underpins this 16-track set with a dreamy, after-the-afterparty atmosphere that feels like it could go on all night long.

Out of the Game is melodically smart and consistently rewarding.

Danceable escapism for Urban Outfitters shopping that won't make you question the prices, much less start a riot.

Polished, tuneful, and utterly unmemorable.

Despite the raucous vibe, Diamond Rugs is flawed - scattered, unfocused, and rather long, at 14 tracks.

This is a subdued, atmospheric affair, rooted in bangs-in-the-face, black-polish-on-the-fingernails '80s rock.

Like the Go-Betweens or the Field Mice, Europe is top-notch indie-pop, with upbeat music and literate lyrics coated in a wistfulness that can be debilitating if you indulge in it too often.

On "Cynic's New Year," Portland, Ore., indie-folk duo Horse Feathers stick so firmly to their sonic guns that it becomes tightly constricting.

It's like a late-aughts hipster cocktail.

In a sense, the veil is lifted ever-so-slightly with this new [album]: although they still wump you with weird on sonic gauntlets like "Molochwalker" and the title track, they also hit on some great choruses and comprehensible songcraft that, unlike most of their earlier work, is commendable for something other than the effort it took to create it.

If world domination is in question, hooks could be more defined, production could be less flat, and Paternoster's yodel most resembles the forgotten Lunachicks. But she and this Brunswick, New Jersey–born trio have staked an impressive claim.

His most compelling collection of songs in years.

Beware and Be Grateful's main flaw: an occasional quirk overload.

The great news is that even the bad news is good news: Alabama Shakes have a hell of a lot of growing to do, but even their slightest tunes pack a punch.

Spine Hits as a whole is a tighter operation, less intended to soundtrack your mushroom trip, but a worthy attempt to bridge the gap to the mainstream.

As dense and diggable as it may be, however, its sheer quantity of intel and change-ups can be euphorically overwhelming.

Anyone's pop cynicism should have a hard time getting out of bed on this one.

Their most subdued effort yet.

One of his best, no doubt, and arguably one of the best-sounding records so far this year.

A Wasteland Companion isn't a sonic tidal wave, per se - it's built on some of the folk troubadour's quietest, most intimate tunes in years. But where emotions are concerned, it pummels.

Great Lake Swimmers' sugar-sweet ditties easily drift in one ear and, unfortunately, out the other.

Luckily for fans of music and controversy alike, Madonna's compulsions reap musical dividends as she continues to bang into a dance-tastic G-spot, and the results are part sour, part sweet.

The structural maturity, in this case, is merely a Trojan horse, meant to smuggle in the music's core brutality in a facade of lean indie mournfulness.

There's some obligatory Velvet Underground deference, like the jumpy "Hey Jane," but for the most part the new disc is more in line with the soaring sing-a-long brilliance of "So Long You Pretty Things" and the simplistic "Too Late."

Initially, the album seems to lack focus, save a steady burn of fury. But the anarchy's in the lack of cohesion, opening with the hand-clapping force of "Burn a Miracle" and progressing manically toward the melodic woe of "Peace Out".

Pleasant enough, and skillful, but all too familiar.

The tracks are re-released here, along with some extras, and mostly betray a songwriter still finding his own voice.

The sound is as swoon-inducing as it is complex. A brilliant debut full-length.

One of the more interesting rock albums in recent memory.

It may be just another platter of product from this Richmond, Virginia, crew, fit for mosh pit incitements, but it's also a harrowing and hypnotic package of wound-up, meticulously arranged aggro-bombs by a veteran team of low-end hatemongers.

Whereas some attempts to hybridize indie rock and electronic music are forced or awkward, Miike Snow gets its right by paying as much attention to their uncluttered celestial melodies as they do to their beats.

For all its robust, pristinely recorded eclecticism, Rhine Gold holds together beautifully, thanks to Makrigiannis's angelic tenor, which soothes and stirs in equal measure.

Rot Gut, Domestic never sugarcoats its uglier tendencies, and yet the uncompromising--and uncomfortable--nature of the music is oddly compelling.

Reissued last year, the debut Icky Mettle had their most celebrated pop songs ("Web in Front," "Wrong," "Plumb Line") but the follow-up Vee Vee was just as great, and thicker.

Lissy Trullie sounds simultaneously hungry and tepid, as if Trullie wants to make a big splash, but her album lacks the conviction or vision to make it happen.

The General Strike sticks to the same supposedly state-smashing standards that drove the previous six or so albums from these Pittsburgh-bred punks into redundancy.

Mixed Emotions is a shiny bear-hug of an album--sometimes short on fresh ideas, but never lacking in heart.

It's arguably Mercer's and the Shins' most satisfying achievement.

The bulk of Roses is like a spring day in the first week of May - not exactly shocking, but sunny and warm.

A lovely, thoughtful album.

Zoo is a fine tribute to [often-compared band]Wire's heavier side, alternating between powerful, lumbering riffs and manic splatters of guitar noise.

Giving us a taste of what this genre [shoegaze]could encompass with a modernized touch.

One Second of Love is artfully crafted.

Rad Times is a towering paean to a time that never was, when too much was never enough, and a three-minute song could gloriously last forever.

Although there's still a menacing pulse to be found, anything constituting traditional dubstep is largely forgone.

His inaugural gathering of bona-fide solo work summons an aura of full-blown tranquility.

As a post-Occupy album, it's less ripped-from-the-headlines and more cribbed-from-older-and-better-ideas.

The disc largely lacks the memorable song- writing Merritt is known for, and that deficit is only compounded by the misguided production.

It's exactly the kind of album one imagines Bird could whip up on a lazy Sunday afternoon after a cat-nap.

This showcases Stewart's proclivity for macabre imagery and borderline perversion waging war with his pop-songwriting expertise.

A curiosity from a true talent.