There are moments on Transfiguration of Vincent for which words fail-- particularly the cover of David Bowie's "Let's Dance", where Ward's low-key, acoustic delivery reveals a surprisingly emotional, fragile piece-- and while that may be an extremely uncomfortable position for a music reviewer, for a listener, it's the best place you could possibly be.
An enveloping, mysterious record that marries the idealism of "the future of tomorrow today" to the stark reality of the post-millennial present and finds beauty and fascination in the tussle between melody and rhythm.
What they do well might be best exemplified by “I Believe in a Thing Called Love,” which most effectively pairs their sense of theatricality and grandiosity with their penchant for great pop hooks.
Music that resonates with as much emotional weight and vital abandon is rare, and though I'm less inclined to look for answers in the mix than revel in its chaos, Everything Is Good Here/Please Come Home is a commendable, heady experience.
The constant sobriety of the rest of these tracks does wear thin now and then ... but the somber fables of Castaways and Cutouts remain compelling nonetheless.
You Are Free is not a perfect record, but it contains one, detailing the sound of American regret with a singular voice, scrutinized only because of its owner.
Suffice to say, Menomena are a hugely creative band, and with I Am the Fun Blame Monster, they've managed to make an album that's extremely accessible yet entirely unconventional.
Colin Meloy's songwriting makes this band one of the strongest working today. His melodies are so perfect and his words so substantial that it reminds you how much slack you cut most other bands.
While it may be impressive that the unified and cohesive vision of Give Up was the result of a par avion collaboration, it's anything but surprising given the talent behind it and the immense chemistry shared by these two musicians.
Despite its admittedly slight flaws, Vaudeville Villain goes head-to-head with Doom's other 2003 project, King Geedorah's Take Me to Your Leader, for what stands as the hip-hop album of the year thus far.
Half-formed thoughts, departed lovers, music on the gramophone, the sun's last rays.
Lightning Bolt have gone even artier on us with Wonderful Rainbow, and by balancing their strong-armed aesthetic with unexpected dynamics, they're now proving themselves as artists with actual range, a band that can deliver beyond the novelty that got people talking; perhaps for the first time on a broad scale, Lightning Bolt will have them listening instead.
Big Boi's Speakerboxxx coolly upstages its counterpart: Although it, too, provides the world with one earthshaking single, it differs from The Love Below in that it also manages to maintain a consistent level of brilliance and emotional complexity.
Magnolia Electric Co. is the sound of change. It may be uncertain whether this is the journey of a man moving towards what he wants to become, or away from what he has been, but it's a great ride regardless.
Take Me to Your Leader will excite you in a way most hip-hop projects just aren't able: It's not straining for credibility nor putting effort into being revelatory; it just is.
Bursting immediately at its seams with the serrated dual guitar blast of "Yellow Number Three" and "Built in Girls"' steam-engine roar, Secaucus welcomes with a warm immediacy rare in even the most revered pop treasures, and a density whose every layer hides another secret synth melody, jagged hook or vocal harmony. The depth of realization in this record is unparalleled: every angle is perfected.
The prospect of hip-hop's finest producers laying down tracks for the final LP from the rap world's brightest talent has made The Black Album one of the most anticipated rap records of the decade. What's stunning is that it delivers rap's greatest career-ender since Outkast's Stankonia.
Freely moving in and out of cycles, able to coalesce or evanesce in a heartbeat, straight up and down, or else banging about like a toddler on the pot shelf, Rounds funnels every element through the drum, which always remains at the forefront of the mix.
At the end of the day, Guitar Romantic is simply a fucking awesome power-pop record that would've been just as relevant and engaging twenty-five years ago, and will undoubtedly be just as fun twenty-five years down the road. It may seem glaringly retro on the surface, but The Exploding Hearts have released an album that is, at its core, ageless.
On his debut album, Boy in Da Corner, 18 year-old Dizzee Rascal instantly stakes a claim that East London is hip-hop's next great international outpost.
They may not be able to get away with milking this formula for many more albums, but for now, Room on Fire's eleven songs find them drowsily getting away with what they do best.
An album like this extends far beyond your speakers, guiding you through an impossibly rich, detailed world of sound while also giving you room to explore it yourself; you don't listen to Dead Cities, Red Seas & Lost Ghosts, you inhabit it.
Not simply an excellent album, Chutes Too Narrow is also a powerful testament to pop music's capacity for depth, beauty and expressiveness.
As tied to the 60s as it is, Up in Flames can ... be described as "psychedelic." The way the absolutely huge "Bijoux" swirls with Wilsonian harmonies, layers of chords, music boxes, percussion explosions and orchestral samples, I swear it almost takes on a Boredoms cast-- not in terms of aggression, but as a primal celebration of the possibility of sound.
For its moments of gravity and excellence, Hail to the Thief is an arrow, pointing toward the clearly darker, more frenetic territory the band have up to now only poked at curiously.
The record is stacked with impressive space for Stevens' shimmering geography, and it manages a melancholy beauty; Michigan is a frost-bound tone poem in which average people live out their victories and defeats with a shadowy, dignified grace.
Bands like The Rapture have sent their message: The rock show was not meant to be a collegiate study. We have all stopped caring what snotty academics find acceptable, because now there is real, true, palpable fun, and it is the greatest liberation.