With They Want My Soul, Spoon expertly aligns their trademark raucousness with bouts of sobriety, thoughtfulness, and anguish.
V is almost cinematic, conjuring up rich, kaleidoscopic vistas as the band transforms from stoned-out beach bums to wide-eyed globetrotters.
Trouble in Paradise is an album with some very forgettable space in between its handful of bright spots.
A Sunny Day in Glasgow’s fourth album is a compelling, if slightly discombobulated, rock pastiche.
Röyksopp and Robyn’s sounds share so much sonic DNA that their team-up is almost self-defeating.
With the release of their fourth album, Nabuma Rubberband, Little Dragon has completed a slow but striking transformation.
I Never Learn finds Li completely turning her back on the glossy pop she was edging toward on previous albums.
For all its faults, Singles represents a band stepping into its prime.
The band’s offbeat lyrical imagery and crunchy guitar-drum combinations work to enhance the album’s messy, unpretentious charm.
The shadowy, flirtatious Present Tense is Wild Beasts’ most cohesive effort yet.
Morning Phase represents not only a return to form, but also serves as one of Beck’s most graceful efforts.
Voices rarely has a chance to establish any momentum before getting tripped up by its own inconsistency.
Wonderland is Dan Deacon visiting Brazil, a pop party rife with cartoony effects.
After the Disco is a yawner made by two artists whose impressive discography makes its failure that much more confounding.
Dunes is essentially a disillusioned adult’s perspective on the idealism of their halcyon days.
Blood Orange’s sophomore effort details a chronicle of alienation and broken romance with slow, melancholic, ‘90s-gazing jams.
Free Your Mind reveals some wear and tear on Cut Copy’s synth-pop formula.
Night Time, My Time might just be the sort of gaunt, darkly painted neurosis needed to combat popular music’s deluge of silly and crude self-affirmations.
Active Child’s Rapor EP is the artist’s most confident release to date.
Lousy with Sylvianbriar is perhaps Of Montreal’s most lifeless album to date.