There are listeners that will be drawn to and make much of the brightest moments on The Enduring Spirit: the breezy string work at the beginning and in the middle section of “Will of Whispers”; the guitar tone and most theatrical moments in “Servants of Possibility,” which may put some in the mind of Steve Howe, c. 1971; the long slide through melodic atmospherics in the second half of “The Enduring Spirit of Calamity.” This reviewer prefers the tougher stuff.

You could say that not much happens in Shone a Rainbow Light On, that it moves slowly and doesn’t progress in any linear way, but that would be missing out on the blessed stillness and calm that lives in these tracks.

There’s a good deal of spoken word on this album, the sort of poetry that’s meant to inspire but seems a little overblown. It’s part of the genre, obviously, and it gets swallowed, soon enough, by groove. But you have to stick with it through the flute-scented rites of “First Peoples,” the downtempo intro to “Re-Memory” to get to the music. I could do without it, personally. The music, though, is pretty great.

There’s the sparklingly Beatles-esque “Daddy’s Gone,” the bright, Mellotron-laced “Evening Star Supercharger,” and “The Scull of Lucia” is reminiscent of Radiohead’s “No Surprises,” with a naïve, music-box feel to its melodies. It’s in Bird Machine’s heavier moments, though, where the album really hits home — and the loss of a unique artist is most keenly felt.

Political protest was baked into her music, often in very explicit ways. Performing “prayer for amerikkka pt 1&2,” from 2019’s FLY or DIE II: bird dogs of paradise in Switzerland, she reminded her audience, “it’s not always time to be neutral.” Speaking truth to power (or audiences, anyway) is one thing, but branch engaged in the arguably more difficult political project of community-building.

It amounts to a frustrating end to a frustrating record, one where some great sounds and ideas aren’t fully worked through into wholly successful songs.

Barely a moment passes without her voice proudly standing front and center, leading the listener through bittersweet songs that surrender to the ebb and flow of how it feels to be a twenty-something woman in twenty-first-century America.

Backed by twinkling music-box guitars, a line such as “I knew the moment that I saw you that my life would never by the same” feels too sugar-sweet to resonate. The musical chemistry evident among Meek’s band of talented players thankfully overpowers this tendency for the most part.

Goulden sublimely aw-fuck-it delivery makes nearly everything sound sardonic, but there’s a bottom note of pure yearning here. The song [“Southern Rock”] smolders most of the way, and then bursts into flame in a rollicking chorus.

Fans will consider the show essential for its historical significance and the quality of the setlist, but the album’s energy pushes it beyond a completist live album, making Live in Brooklyn 2011 a wonderful cap to one of experimental rock’s greatest discographies.

Welshpool Frillies digs right back into the basics. It slaps in the most elemental way, on clanging power chords and thumping rhythms and Pollard’s bright absurdities cranked to top volume.

Keeping Secrets feels like, itself, a bit of a hidden gem, murmured at you rather than shouted, a quiet one but a grower.

Their take on classic guitar rock sometimes lapses into a mid-tempo morass but Bush Tetras have been a constant state of evolving for nearly four decades. Sley and Place are still compelling presences, and it’s good to have them back.

A Trip to Bolatanga is on strong ground. The combination of nyabinghi hand drumming, booming kick drum, funky guitar, house-ready piano accents and bobbing clarinet on “Accra Electronica” sounding simultaneously of this time and timeless, and there’s no denying the beats’ substantial bang, which both demands and rewards volume deals.

The magic of I’ve Got Me comes in the way that brutal sentiment comes dancing in on skittery melody and how coruscating lines conform so neatly to classic song structure. Joanna Sternberg makes tales of betrayal and non-conformity sound like tunes from 1930s black and white musicals, and that’s an accomplishment.

Despite their darkest moments and constant shifts in tempo, tone and style Being Dead sound totally in control. The kitchen sink maybe threatened with an unmooring but Where Horses Would Run is greater than its many parts, held together by sheer joy of music making and the commitment of the trio to give free rein to their instincts.

These songs are massive, yet also bent and personal in a way that lets you in even as they blow you back against the wall.

The instrumental parts patiently map out their terrain, Harvey intones her vivid poetry, often backed by long-time collaborator John Parish’s affecting voice, then the song will stand aside. It’s only on repeat listens and by drawing threads between the individual songs that the beauty of the whole begins to take form.

Listen and you’ll feel a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. The music is rigorous but fun.

The emotional excavation Jayda G has done with her sophomore album is admirable to witness and a joy to hear.

The record is better when the music does the talking, as it usually does for Divide and Dissolve.

This is an impressive statement from a band that’s still forming itself. Its sound is distinctive and compelling, but still audibly shifting as they go. It’s hard to imagine where they might end up ten or even five years out, but my guess is it’ll be someplace cool and very different from where they are now.

You can hear both elements jostling for precedence, the celebratory euphoria of live performance filtering through the doubts and uncertainties and complications of extended time in one’s own head. It’s the combination that’s so thrilling here, in a sound that swirls and envelopes and jitters but remains just out of reach, like the dream of a dream of a dream of life before.

If you like your punk rock distilled to purity, every idea boiled down to staccato essence, then pony up for Sweeping Promises. It’s bright and nervy, nodding towards funk but with all the grime scrubbed out of the seams.

Though none of these eight songs are anything less than fun, dynamic, and intensely listenable, lead single “Housefly” is probably the pick of the bunch; it arrives early, hits hard, and is the most economically arranged of all the songs.

In Black Duck, they draw on many different aspects of their respective, eclectic backgrounds, flitting freely from sun-drenched cosmic country, to driving kraut rock, to radiant, enveloping ambiences, all played so expertly that it seems effortless, though it probably isn’t.

Her voice, pure and high with a lemon-y sharp tang, is a mesmerizing thing, all on its own, and more than a conduit for the traditional and original songs she delivers here.

This Is the Kit’s new album, Careful Of Your Keepers, has a wonderfully languid, rolling, fluid quality.