They were unadulterated shredders, too, as Capitol's extensive reissues of Siamese Dream (1993) and its predecessor, Gish (1991), remind us in bountiful fashion.

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.

Fantasy is the sound of an artist who is so far from shunning the spotlight that the firepower of the wattage pointed at him is a full-on supernova.

The Stones mined its [sessions] results for years to come, creating little else of value otherwise and entering the nostalgia-act phase of their career, effectively making Some Girls the last gasp of credible new music by the self-proclaimed World's Greatest Rock and Roll Band.

Nirvana launch into a 90-minute onslaught of fugly-beautiful grunge-guitar fury.

Paired with an artful book that spins the tale of these sides and their place in Woody's world by Guthrie historian Ed Cray and Rounder co-founder Bill Nowlin, these four CDs are a superb introduction to an artist whose influence extends to Dylan, Springsteen, and, indeed, nearly all American music that followed on his dusty heels.

Teeming with B-sides, live tracks, and demos, much of it previously unreleased, 21 is both exhaustive and indispensable.

Matador's two-disc Nicene Creedence Edition (nyuk nyuk) goes way beyond the original 12-song release, adding a whopping 31 additional cuts: outtakes, B-sides, compilation tracks, and live radio sessions, all of them top-notch.

Ocean brings substance with style, rather than style demanding to be considered substance.

The Stooges' third and final studio album before their recent reunion--remains a uniquely visceral listening experience, a confrontational slab of psychedelic punk made in the dead zone between psychedelia's demise and punk's birth.

It feels endless — in a good way.

The album itself--melodically inventive, melodramatic, and incredibly rocking--sounds about the same as it did when it was first reissued in the '90s.

Nearly a quarter-century in, Faith isn't timeless, but it fits into an '80s time capsule where horns, cheesy-sounding drum machines, and four-day-old stubble were the standard.

Here, he recruits a cast of producers ranging from the familiar (Dungeon Family compatriots Mr. DJ and Organized Noize) to the surprisingly appropriate (Scott Storch, Lil Jon) to craft a palette of dexterous futurist funk that seems to be a logical successor to the groundwork laid by 2003's Speakerboxxx.

Why anyone would want to be subjected to such gloom is a good question, except that Burial is a witch with the kind of drum programming that leaves no choice in the matter.

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

Merriweather Post Pavilion further smoothes out their sound, and though it's full of cool, orchestrated beauty, it lacks the playfulness and spontaneity that endeared so many to this group.

I Was Trying doesn't top "Is Dead," but it does keep Crime in Stereo on track toward the strange and unfamiliar. That might be the best compliment of all.

The fact that Greatest Story didn't drop on a major just attests to how perverted the industry is. That said, the delicious and anthemic Just Blaze beats, money cameos, and precise orchestration that spoiled deals afforded render this the last great major-label rap album of all time - even though it's on an indie.

Bad as Me, his first album of new material in seven years, is a tour de force of wise ol' swagger and new-century blues.

Although it’s not a major departure, Dear Science, does have a more open, brighter sound than "Return to Cookie Mountain."

Experimental without sacrificing anything in terms of hooks or melody, passionate yet never overbearing, and clever without giving in to the urge to indulge, it places TV on the Radio on a plane with no peers.

Black Thought comes as brutish as ever, and their now-standard cast of collaborators (P.O.R.N. and Dice Raw) sound more at ease over these lanky beats than they did on more combustible previous efforts.

With the help of Moreno, Harland, and bassist Matt Penman, Parks turns the sound of contemporary pop into real jazz--his own.

Lonerism is a life raft for the abyss of song-induced self-reflection it inspires.

Here, as on Red Album, they keep finding new ways to make old Black Sabbath tricks seem fresh.

From the opening "Variation 1" to the acoustic closer, "Sous le ciel de Paris," Ribot's phrasing is slow and contemplative, so each elegantly chiseled note stands as a beatific example of his virtuosity.

Its stories of survivors and struggling lovers have a wistfulness that spills from the lyrics into the tone of David Hidalgo’s vocal performances and the warm guitar lines, which draw on blues, classic rock, and traditional Mexican musical flourishes.

Gira's career has been one of violations and risks; there are plenty here. However, his trademark brand of post-rock/ambient alienation may finally leave listeners indifferent.

They were unadulterated shredders, too, as Capitol's extensive reissues of Siamese Dream (1993) and its predecessor, Gish (1991), remind us in bountiful fashion.

House of Balloons is a gorgeous album that pairs moody beats and samples with morbid lines about drugs and late-night encounters, all of it caulked with sex.

Despite the deceptive pop-song outlines and strong grooves, just about every piece emphasizes the rich weave of voices, and on originals like 'The View from Blue Mountain' and 'Twilight of the Dogs,' Douglas extends forms you think you know to take you someplace new.

Amid the carnage and the stink of loss, PJ Harvey creates inspiring beauty.

w h o k i l l may be strange on first pass, but only by its uniqueness, a music whose microgenre would disappear in a whiff were Ms. Garbus to have never stumbled upon it within her.

The sweetest instrument, however, is Wyatt’s voice, whose fragile, high, quavering tone is honest to the core.

It's at once majestic and gentle, a deep breath and a sigh that declares Vernon's transcendence of the turmoil and technique of his unique breakout record and establishes him as an artist who knows exactly what he's doing. Hallelujah.

The rotating cast of vocalists and the Saturday-night spirit of the instrumentation are together more welcoming than anything the DFA has dropped in years.

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.

Halcyon Digest is the perfect LP to spin twice, love unrepentantly, and walk away from. This refreshing tonic (poured from the cash bar of overrated newer bands) is straight from the heart of Mr. Bradford Cox, poet and purveyor of Deerhunter's zen pop psych.

Compared to 1996's Harmacy, Barlow's maudlin tendencies are relatively reined in throughout Bakesale's 15 straightforward rockers.

Eschewing fleshed-out pop maps in favor of shiny fragments works oddly well for this duo, especially given the breadth and depth of the subject matter.

Cosmogramma is decidedly more, uh, cosmic, than his 2008 "Los Angeles," in its atmospheric spiral away from the beat and toward a more free-flowing collage of instrumentation.

Koi No Yokan is not only the year's best metal-rock-space-pop album--it's also the finest Deftones album, front to back, to date.

On Shields, they achieve a fluid synthesis: Rossen and Droste still share vocal duties, but they often tag-team the same track, trading off lines and writing melodies for one another's voices. Their styles coalesce so smoothly, it's often difficult to tell where one singer-songwriter starts and the other ends.

The Truth Is Here is his second perfect disc in that many years and just earned a spot in my Top Five Alive column.

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

Yet as welcome as it is to have Newman’s acerbic wit back, it remains a singular pleasure to listen to a simple, devastating ballad like 'Losing You,' which is wrapped up in sympathetic strings and absolutely devoid of irony.

On I See the Sign, even the quietest moments sound bold.

Diotima is poetry, classical allusion, the consideration of platonic love and our place in history. It is searing shards, intricately arranged, forward-moving, stretching to infinity--lurching, faltering, and then thundering for passages that stop time and levitate your world.

Like a perfectly attired woman, the National are fleetingly alluring, never gaudy, subtly enchanting.

Rook is flush with the hallmarks of Shearwater’s style, from high-wire drama to near-hymnal stillness. Although its songs aren’t as uniformly good as those on 2006’s "Palo Santo."

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

Anyone expecting a return to the slick cinemafunk of ’90s Portishead will be taken aback by Third, but though the album never reaches the eureka moments of old, it’s a welcome step into new territory and a more than satisfying downer dose to set against the onset of sunny days and ice cream.

Rock-stardom is not necessarily what you hear beckoning on Sub Pop’s 20th-anniversary reissue of Bleach, which comes with a sludgy live set taped at Portland’s Pine Street Theatre in 1990. In a way, though, that only makes this program of lumpen lumberjack-metal moves more interesting.

Although a three-song offering that sounds like something scraped together using leftovers from a four-year-old album may seem a letdown, it's not, if only because, in those four years, many have tried to mimic Burial's sound but to no avail.

From the ironically melodic “Death Penalty” to the militaristic “Rearview,” this duo have executed one of the greatest roughneck opuses this side of last century. Let’s hope it’s not a one-off.

The only thing Dirty Projectors' fifth album leaves me wishing for is a fifth rating star to wedge in.

Good News is the sound of a gifted writer declaring his humanity in all its filthy, fucked-up glory.

As eclectic as the disc is, it never strays from that warm sense of familiarity.

As frontman Craig Finn tries singing instead of just reciting and the band hang tighter around their major-chord riffs, the music sounds older than ever, recalling beautiful-loser ’70s rock like Thin Lizzy’s “The Boys Are Back in Town” and Bruce Springsteen’s “Jungleland.”

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

Maybe it’s Lambert’s dark, rocking side that makes her ballads sound so disarmingly tender, sweet, and vulnerable.

He’s no slouch in his endless catalogue of exhumed pop tropes, and here he treats radio pop’s past with the all-encompassing vagueness of its title.

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.

The organic, timeless quality of that voice--especially haunting on Helm's own tale of a farmer's struggle, 'Growing Trade'--is offset by the sweetness of his daughter Amy's harmony singing, as well as by bright eddies of slide guitar and mandolin, all of it creating an appealing balance.

If Apollo Kids is a warm-up, we can expect monster things from Ghost in the New Year.

El-P's least ambitious record.

As its title hints, this overstuffed album of addictive party starters seems likely to be stuck in our present for a long time to come.

Ire Works is good science tarnished slightly by one bad experiment.

Sticking mostly to his usual tenor sax instead of adopting Parker's alto, Lovano isolates the strands of Parker's musical DNA and shows how they're part of the music's ongoing regeneration.

In their music... the Decemberists are more confident and willing to stretch out than ever before.

For their ninth studio album, the Welsh quintet go heavy on vamps, riffs, and refrains; the result is their most spontaneous and blissfully lax effort since 2000's "Mwng."

Sweet Warrior finds him spinning epic yarns instead of heroic solos.

On his third Iron & Wine full-length, he goes for his biggest sound yet, but the production is mere window dressing for some of his best songwriting.

The trick to El Camino is how steady it runs; whereas past left turns have been distractions, this is what happens when the pedal is floored.

[It delivers] 55 minutes of pit-in-your-gut tension from two of bass music's foremost masterminds.

All rappers ride on the claim that they’re the best, but on III Wayne makes his case.

Lewis may be covering territory that a lot of other artists tread, but he's earnest and soulful, injecting the romantic lyrics with a smoothness that reminds me of Avalon-era Roxy Music.

The simplicity of the punk-driven songwriting and the bare, urgent honesty of vocalist/guitarist Hutch Harris’ delivery drive home the album’s political points with startling effectiveness.

The son has a strong, pleasing voice and an easy facility with the sort of æthereal, filigree guitar picking that served the father so well.

They don't make bands like this anymore.

Two Dancers is expressive without being effusive, polished without sounding stilted, and provocatively playful.

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.

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.

This is his best since his 2000 collaboration with Eric Clapton, "Riding with the King."

It's supposedly winnowed down to seven excellent tracks you can pay for, versus an album-of-the-year candidate you can cop free legally (for now).

The music is neither bastardized nor precious, just a riveting reflection of the ongoing allure and paradox that is the Congo.

The same goes for nearly every cut in this hip-hop opera, a rare work of rap that simultaneously inspires self-confidence and aggravation with the broken world around us.

Their third record proves that even the most militant punk songs are often best served by a stripped-down aesthetic.

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.

Ellison excels everywhere else, keeping the beats brisk and the instrumentation organic and lively.

One of the more interesting rock albums in recent memory.

Attack on Memory is simultaneously abrasive and sentimental; it's a self-deprecating soundtrack for a new generation of adolescent loneliness.

This barrage of relentless noise and pummeling rhythms, when coupled with Garden Window's amorphous arrangements, can make the album claustrophobic, monotonous, and overwhelming. But the record's redeemed by its range.

Thirty-some years in, the Beasties are as sharp, hilarious, funky, and escapist as they've ever been.

For the most part, it's like a time-travel expedition back to when My Bloody Valentine ruled the land of college dorms everywhere - and pretty in pink was the way to be.

It offers a peppy antidote to You and Me, their especially downbeat 2008 offering, walking you through all the requisite Walkmen emotions: chipper resentment ("Blue As Your Blood," "Woe Is Me"), resignation ("All My Great Designs"), hung-over longing ("Torch Song"). But it's "Juveniles," the opener, that consolidates in one track all we expect the Walkmen to deliver.