At just 25 minutes, these 10 tracks zip quick, but their aural, emotional weightiness demands compression.

They're more punk at 70 than a truckload of Sex Pistols 45s, and still decimate every other band in your record collection.

The acoustic "Hold No Guns" and yawning dirge "You've Haunted Me All My Life" spin austere--dramatic--but ring flat. Even so, Death Cab for Cutie's breakup ballads remain anthemic and radio-ready.

Earl Sweatshirt finally reconciles those influences and the voices inside his own head on sophomore effort I Don't Like Shit, I Don't Go Outside.

You're inclined to not like the too-self-aware man of I Love You, Honeybear, rejecting his moodiness because you can't stand another white man taking himself so fucking seriously. Then again, making fun of him is just falling into his trap.

Like his piano chops, his lyrics are no-frills expressions, ripe and ready to be groomed into something even bigger.

It's a well-grooved vision filled with stunning images and sobering emotions.

Production rings crisp as the title track jolts at the outset with a speakeasy strut that turns to jumping jive on "Wanna Be Your Man," while chugging percussion and horns drive "Underground."

Sophomore effort Let the Good Times Roll continues similarly [as 2012 debut, Signs & Signifier] without sinking into more of the same.

The Oregonians' confident comeback is balls-out bold, the threepiece returning with fresh vitality.

What a Terrible World, What a Beautiful World isn't a concept LP or any kind of statement of higher purpose. Instead, it simply illuminates the Decemberists' inviolate strengths.

The real treat in hearing Dylan rework tunes like "Autumn Leaves" is a slow-motion, humanistic view of how he finds the song's critical path.

Stepping upward into the macro, the album's landmark achievement lies in Kendrick Lamar's elevation of hip-hop into subtle invisibility, his blackness not exclusively tied to the rapper image.

Immediate viscerality that rewards close attention.

A mixed bag for the devoted.

The results are predictably top-notch.

Though far from cohesive, the album instead showcases Carlile's range, and suggests she can conquer any direction she chooses, or maybe even all of them.

Houndmouth pulls it all together into a packed album without faltering.

The general tone is that of the least fun dance group in the world, with Gill still spraying noise like a Strat thrown down a staircase across the works.

Sour Soul eschews the Tony Starks comic book concept narrative of the past two efforts in favor of some good old-fashioned coke rap and braggadocio.

One can easily imagine these instrumentals finding a happy home at the National Air & Space Museum.

It's not fair to hold Viet Cong's hype against them, but an album this ordinary points to a generation of indie-rock writers trying, and failing, to pretend the bubble hasn't burst.

No mold-breaking here, and for that we're grateful.

The L.A.-based songwriter's fifth LP finds him focused solidly in the present. Fear still mines enough scarred grit to match Bingham's distinctive rasp.

It's one-note, sure, but we're rooting for Rae Sremmurd.

Timeless? No, but go make out on the dance floor.

With a couple of exceptions, Earle's songwriting never reaches the peak of his previous work.

As always, the contrast between Adam Franklin's smooth pipes and his and Jimmy Hartridge's strident six-strings provides the sonic setting, enabling Swervedriver to put the brawn back in beauty.