Calculated yet impulsive, Young Fathers prove Scottish hip-hop's viability.

There's more melody here than on previous Mastodon albums; opener 'Oblivion' even has a sweetly grungy Alice in Chains breakdown. And Brendan O'Brien's production does increase the fist-pumping factor in 'Divinations' and 'Crack the Skye'--the latter of which bites some of Metallica's Black Album rumble. But this is still a forbiddingly dense piece of post-prog rock.

This is Stevie Wonder or Yo La Tengo territory, fearlessly approaching touchy-feely domestic ground where many fear to tread. They own it, too.

There's so much going on, all of it so intricately plotted and clean, that you're left to wonder: by the time the rest of the electronic community catches up, what will Sepalcure be onto next?

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.

This fifth studio album is a humbly gorgeous collection, propelling an already dynamic band into even more dramatic, heart-wrenching territory.

As perfect as Twilight is, though, Surtur Rising houses it handily.

Bazan has, it's reported, fallen out with God and off the wagon, and those tumbles get painful airtime on his solid first solo LP, Curse Your Branches.

For a band known more for untamed drones and out-there sonics, Totaled's tempering of pop and experimentation is a welcome new feel.

America is a beguiling, remarkable work, a deep, carefully measured, completely idiosyncratic breath released on the dawn of a promising day.

That means you get Stickles roaring about being told he'll always be a loser over full-throttle indie-Springsteen arrangements replete with bleating Clarence Clemons saxophone lines, pavement-pounding marching-band drums, and loads of drunk-dude Dropkick Murphys gang-vocal chants.

Phoenix deal with an American genre on its own terms--and in its own language--far better than most homegrown bands.

Callahan sprinkles his world-weary perspective with enough wry humor to make the album pleasant and endearing.

Rock Music is free of both the maudlin and the mundane, and oddly rousing, too.

Tortoise's John McEntire steps in for long-time producer Roger Moutenot, but any of these songs would fit perfectly on the band's last half-dozen albums.

Yet even when relying less on atmospheric synths and playing with a full-band set up ("The Shakes"), Parallax misses early rock's tautness and grit.

If a breathy, acoustic aquarium is up your alley, then take the dive and swim alongside Porterfield's magical lyricism.

Four records deep, Pissed Jeans may have trimmed some heaviness, but they open space for discovery.

The one-woman choir may seem eccentric, but by the last of these nine vignettes, Barwick has accomplished what few purveyors of such pristine beauty can. Through its oddities, The Magic Place shines.

Fear of a Blank Planet is not only their most vintage-sounding album, it’s also their best.

Their third album is classic hardcore punk: loud, thrashing, and out of control, but with just enough goofy humor to make it easy to swallow.

Comfortably normal, the War on Drugs make for a nice tonic to the sometimes overly weird attitudes of modern indie-psych bands.

Townes does what a tribute album should do: Earle evokes the essence of the honoree without giving up a smidgen of his own individuality.

For the Ghosts Within descends into a strange netherworld bordered by art pop, jazz, and classical that few seek to visit.

Past Life Martyred Saints is more focused and confident than the work of many of Andersen's peers. It's likely we've not even heard her best yet. And even if not, this is pretty sweet as is.

Easy review: three tracks, each between 10 and 29 minutes, every moment electric.

He's mastered the tuneful shrug, the song that sounds unfinished and tossed off but sticks fast to your brain and keeps revealing a depth you hadn't noticed.

[Sonic Youth's] most openly “mature” disc, possibly their best since ’95’s Washing Machine, maybe even the almighty Daydream Nation.