Chrome Dreams II is effective despite the sonic clash because, on both the new material and the leftovers, the loud ('Spirit Road') and the soft (the soul ballad 'Ever After'), it’s unified by its call to give props to spirit and humanity, a sentiment that, whatever it’s wrapped in, never gets old.

The keyboards that colored his swan dive into dance music before he re-embraced rock with 2005’s Body of Song are simply another subtle layer of muscle for this sinewy disc.

The spirited chants and intricate beats give Fool’s Gold unity, and the precision is inviting. They never break from their tight sound with a boldly original gesture, but there’s no need to risk spoiling this fun set of songs.

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

After years of Boston's repping itself on the national stage with scally caps and mime make-up, the promising prospect of a blog-stoking, pant-tightening, fresh-making outfit like the Pit feels long overdue. The good news is, it sounds only slightly so.

New Moon is their most purposeful beast yet.

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.

Although rooted in history, this album’s themes and passion are timeless.

Wilco (The Album) finds the band looser and more assertive than they were on their two previous efforts.

Carry on, ye bearded gods.

Musically, the septet are as colorful as ever, only more resonant and with fewer xylophones--plus a newfound emphasis on rhythmic muscle.

It's more like the album we should all discover after they've broken through with their second or third long-player, when we'll all be a lot more forgiving.

Mascis's unique talents have ossified into a signature, so discerning any difference between this set of tunes and, say, his solo albums of the early oughts or latter-day Dinosaur Jr. albums is tough work. If, to you, that means more awesome Mascis crunchwork, then be psyched, because this record slays, the rocking is sloppy-yet-tight, and nothing on here would sound like a drag if tossed into a setlist amongst older classics.

There are times when Upper Air could be some clandestine jam session in the wilderness.

The revelation in Gossamer is Angelakos's inner voice.

Luna fans will be pleased.

The result is as baleful and forlorn as most dance pop is swishy and effervescent.

Jay dawns that ever-frustrating mush-mouth flow throughout the LP's duration, and only sounds awake when his bars are bookended by Kanye.

The smart, funny, fanclub chants herein, each as catchy as Willie Mays in the ’54 Fall Classic, are gemlike tributes to the characters who’ve made that diamond shine, from Satchel Paige to Fernando Valenzuela.

Their wail-and-bash raison d'etre continues to bring more intense, absurd listening pleasure than any other noise band on the planet.

Foals haven't lost their math-rock edge; they've infused it with fun.

Peyroux still sounds like Peyroux, only more so. Which isn't a bad thing either.

Strangelet... seems like the work of a man who hasn’t aged a day since he figured out what kind of music he wanted to make.

At War with the Mystics is as accessibly odd as Yoshimi but more scattered and darker.

[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.

There’s atmosphere, sure, but it’s less sad-guy sitting room and more 22nd-century juke joint.

But that's just it; much here is good, even great, but it's all too familiar.

Their stuttering, airy synths would serve as an appropriate soundtrack to a nightclub in Heaven.