The pleasures that Pleasure describes are mundane to the point of tedium, trite beyond cliché. And the music itself is, despite the strength of Feist’s voice, mostly intolerable.

Though it shrouds itself in chaos, Bottomless Pit is ultimately Death Grips’ most straightforward, morbid, and brutal report from the deep end yet. Like watching a great beast eat itself, there is little in the way of elegance or grand design to this music, yet it remains throttling nonetheless, as relentlessly blunt as it is overwhelmingly meaningless.

Peppered with dissatisfying, mommy-daddy emotastic lyrics, Jeff Tweedy impressions, and Four Tet-inspired, stop-on-a-dime, into-something-totally-unrelated segues that don't really belong on a country-twinged "let's hang out, drink, and make a record, dudes" kind of affair.

There’s enough texture and variety to Drop to make it a consistently engaging listen, although on a song-by-song basis, it doesn’t quite stack up to the albums preceding it.

The Flying Club Cup is a good album. If you’re a fan of "Gulag Orkestar," it’s probably a great album. But aside from 'Cliquot,' it’s more of the same.

Pink is muddy as a bowl of bad split pea soup, and twice as hammy.

Drunk’s a chill listen, but it’s also a restless one.

There's a professional, assured feeling [to] it, but its nagging lack of innovation or [a] truly memorable melody leaves me a little cold.

More or less adapting his own approach to sound with the sonic atmosphere and materials provided to him by the filmmakers, he managed to create a work that, guided by their vision, ties a satisfying knot between the two disparate ends of his catalog. Lacking the singularly textual and conceptual punch of his recent work, it’s both a practice in versatility and a sign that there’s still something of an enigma to Oneohtrix Point Never after all these years.

It's unfortunate that 13 & God neither succeeds nor fails.

If you are looking for light-as-air indie rock doused in melancholy, you won't do better than We, The Vehicles.

The album is too overbearing to be much fun and too paint-by-the-numbers to feel dangerous.

It is an album of specks dancing in the dust in an amorphous bubble of babble and bawling thoughts, yearning to be unthought.

The Center Won’t Hold is what most respected musicologists would term a “good album with some great songs.”

Reassemblage already feels peculiarly familiar, but the residue it leaves behind is oddly intangible.

Simply put, the music on Swing Lo can't support its great ideas. To quote Dylan, "a song is anything that can walk by itself." Maybe time will prove me completely and utterly wrong, but as far as I can tell, nothing on Swing Lo walks by itself.

Fuck Buttons have created an aural ibuprofen, an auditory Novocaine.

Pillars of Ash is the body in transition, all crumble and ovation, an album that celebrates a human voice and exists in a world without it.

To the band’s credit, the album does warm-up to the listener with consecutive listens, but Blitzen Trapper will have to play some reputable live shows in order to distinguish themselves from the indie rock masses.

While it’s not as compelling as Endless Summer, it’s the closest Fennesz has come to returning to that plateau.

Very straightforward Interpol-lite.

As with other Bats albums, Free All the Monsters' charming modesty is a hair's breadth away from monotonous.

Physicalist is indeed a luscious, bubbly record to behold; just don’t expect its preordained patterns to hold many surprises.

Psychic simply doesn’t leave a lasting memory when one considers the work as a whole.

The sounds sometimes crash and collide rather than meld together, whereas elsewhere, paradoxically, they slide off the ear, a little over-anonymous yet falling short of the unique grey palette of an act like Japan.

As a whole, On Your Own Love Again is a somewhat murkier affair.

It’s a perfectly respectable, fun dance record, but I just wish its grooves came more naturally.

If the too-often twinned strands of listener preference can be unwound, hopefully it will be remembered as the most-heard Isis album, not the greatest.