While fun, some of the foursome’s unique sound is sorely absent.

Between their ferocious instrumentation and a razor-sharp understanding of who they are, these New Yorkers hope to usher in a return to the city’s two-finger salute heyday. So far, so good.

It’s an album that wears its weirdness on its sleeve, but it’s the best kind of weird, and a joy to listen to.

This is a record of painful, plaintive soul-searching.

The result is a band that has found their collective groove.

The results sees The Hold Steady with an in-your-face, rapid fire record that’s arena-ready and their most ambitious to date.

Russell brings a touch of the old South to all he surveys. Same here.

The music on this explosive new album is as tightly coiled as early Sabbath, but their terrifyingly detuned guitars, brickbat rhythmic chaos and contributions from Lungfish’s Daniel Higgs imbue the proceedings with an overwhelming air of apocalyptic doom.

Whether making us dance or encouraging us to think, Kelis is always out to fatten us up with her musical menu.

It’s a fresh thrash of emotion from a supremely talented, if dysfunctional, band.

While the lovelorn energy of Mayfield’s country ballads are often obfuscated by guitar fuzz, the new crunch fits her nicely.

The album’s enthralling fusion of electronica and soul proves that Faker’s glass foundation is a prism showing his colorful range.

Fans of Animal Collective may enter the Slasher House and revel in Tare’s fun-sized treats, but others might be too disappointed by the tricks, remaining contented with the Haunted Graffiti next door.

Longtime fans will relish the return as Greg Dulli’s voice--full of longing, sex and anger--has never sounded better; new listeners will marvel at the drama that was so prevalent in bands from the ’90s, and that can be so lacking now.

In 2014, Woods still stand tall, having morphed from a lo-fi weirdo electric folk band on their own fringe label into a veritable lighthouse on the now populous independent coast.

On this fourth full-length, their existential musings are bolder than ever.

The band managed to keep the self-recorded Wasted Years crisp and orderly without editing any of the performances.

Songs like “Cold Sweat” and “Toreador” force overly tweaked, retouched and obviously catchy hooks down our throats. Luckily, that buzzkill dissolves with the thumping psych-blues of “Brothers and Sisters.”

Doom Abuse is a cathartic slap in the face from a band that sounds completely revitalized after its multi-year slumber.

It’s a good look for him and an excellent return of the Mac.

Barbara and Ethan Gruska return with springtime melodies, dreamy folk pop and R & B-influenced dance numbers.

It should establish Willson as not just an artist to watch, but to eagerly want more from.

Cloud Nothings, with teeth clenched tight and feedback flowing aplenty, rock a blue streak without letting a single moment go by hook-free.

Where WIXIW was the intricately ordered product of a hundred thousand small decisions, Mess is a sloppy, outward-turned--and, it has to be said, uneven--quagmire built with the kind of swagger that dares you to use its own title against it.

On Singles, their first for 4AD, the band perfect the persuasive and pervasive nature of pop.

This album has a vibrant crosscut of all GBV’s personalities, and for that they deserve applause.

The band experiments with world music (“Are You What You Want To Be?”) and psychedelia (“Pseudologia Fantastic,” “A Beginner’s Guide To Destroying The Moon”) but falls short.

This is a promising new approach and one that Tycho sounds genuinely thrilled to be exploring.