Oxymoron, the rapper's third full-length and first for Interscope, is powered by the sturdy widescreen hedonism of Dr. Dre's The Chronic, full of well-rapped and witty lyrics about doing dirtbaggy things over top-shelf, endlessly fascinating, forever-morphing beats.
Fans of TVOTR's early density and difficulty might get dismayed at their gradual transformation into the thinking stoner's Coldplay. But it's impossible to listen to Seeds' luxurious fuzz and think that this is a band who mean to be anything but fat and in love.
Nashville has the deepest grab-bag in contemporary pop right now, but nothing else comes together like Eric Church in the wild.
Lese Majesty feels more now, than then. In mirroring and transcending the schizoid, rootless form of digital society, it's an attempt to help people cope with the culture.
His patron saints appear to be Harry Nilsson and yacht rockers like 10cc, and rarely are either channeled with this little cheese and this much panache. He merges these influences with what's quickly become his signature guitar sound, an effortless style that can be playfully discordant.
In a career fraught with obsessions over the perfection-imperfection dichotomy, it turns out to be a blessing that she put pop and its various pressures on the backburner just to deliver some real summertime sadness.
We already expected pastoral folk-rock with dewy thickets of guitar lines that ripple like a pond. But they've internalized the difference between relaxation and an aural shrug.
Lead vocalist/head louche Greg Dulli's dark obsessions and predatory narrators manage to sound as erotically entrancing as he pushes 50 as they did when he was courting 25, aging gracefully like a snifter of peaty scotch rather than a cup of flat beer.
The album is another leap forward for the producer, refining his sense of songcraft and expanding his instrumental palette without sanding down his rough edges in the slightest.
On pom pom ... he's finally able to fully marry the two divergent sides of his personality: his effortless knack for reeling off torrents of sincere bubblegum beauty and his irreverent sense of humor.
Clark has made an album free of the one issue that hamstrung its three predecessors: the sense that every turn was plotted in advance, that the fun was hemmed in by a kind of deliberateness.
From the lyrics to the beats, the pleasure of Piñata is in the details.
On Here and Nowhere Else, which was produced by John Congleto, Baldi and Co. take the best bits from Albini's tutelage, apply them to lo-fi pop-punk structures and infuse all of it with tightly wound angst.
The album doesn't so much broaden Twigs' scope as reinforce it. Over 10 songs and 42 minutes, Twigs seems unconcerned with minting easy hooks or delivering discrete moments; instead, she sustains vibe.
As all-consuming a ritual as rock music is capable of giving us, and also as viscerally, joyously life-affirming.
Like Daft Punk, Terje looks to the past's version of futurism to transcend today's numbed-out consensus beats.
Listening to 1000 Forms Of Fear, you can hear how strong Furler's influence is on the pop stars with whom she works.
Once it all sinks in, the self-released approach, scrapped-together band, and 29-minute running time should only shock those who expected this to be a huge statement by Grace on anyone's terms but her own.
As intellectual and introverted as Krell often is, he’s at his best when he and the music simply let go.
Soul achieves the nearly impossible with Spoon’s most eclectic set yet.
Although its emotional intensity is at first nearly overwhelming, Nikki Nack gets similarly crazy with hooks, which makes it more daring because it ups the stakes even higher.
Get over Herring's Shatner-like earnestness like you did with Destroyer's Kenny G moves on Kaputt and you'll unlock the furrowed brows, baggy eyes and bulging veins beneath the metronomic perfection.
This guy has written 40-plus albums of material, so it's saying something that Benji is one of his more challenging listens.
You wouldn't assume a troubled backstory from the music — Lewis has channeled her grievances into a statement of life-affirming and ebullient guitar pop.
These performances never surrender to the anxiety of influence: All those comparisons are mere reference points for a loose aesthetic that values sustained chordal vamps above all else.
Simultaneously spare and just as fully fleshed out as it needs to be, Dream is a perfect distillation of Granduciel's wide-open claustrophobia. The sound is more expansive than ever, even as its maker's songs seem more personal and less universal.