For the most part Threace careens joyfully through a series of angular, happy-to-be-alive polyrhythms that are primal in their appeal.

Many songs here warrant praise, but those spontaneous wild riffs have sadly been sacrificed, along with a bit of singer James Petralli’s gnarled, impassioned bite.

Tender Madness is raw, yet alluring; it is unapologetically punk, with a better work ethic.

The torrid, languid, gritty tones of Tuscon—as a lyrical set piece as well as an active, ire-filled ambient swell--so overwhelm Gelb’s every spiritual and physical inch, it’s as if sand and silt oozes from his pores on moments.

Wenu Wenu is a jubilant seven-track song suite that showcases the genre’s rhythmic and lyrical versatility.

This barebones form is less than accessible, but Krug took the risk and consequently produced the most authentic collection of music he’s ever created.

Grossi’s signature touches are all here—the angelic soprano, arpeggiating synths and grooving percussion all bundle the EP together nicely--while the guest appearances provide distinctiveness to an effort that may have otherwise been too cohesive.

Ferreira’s artfully trashy synthpop is a little bit Ladytron austerity, a greater bit Blondie ferocity, and her songcraft is, well, rather astonishing.

Back To Forever strives for mainstream acceptance, and in doing so dilutes Lissie’s strengths.

Brian Oblivion’s knack for delivering ’60s and ’70s guitar riffs and singer Madeline Follin’s slender voice shine through the dissonance at the most unexpected and welcome moments.

They never fully submerge themselves into new territory with this album, which becomes both the band’s main strength and weakness.

Big Wheel and Others represents McCombs’ most transient yet memorable volume of song-carved verse yet.

The most compelling moments (“I Am Dust” and the title track) are like mechanized, sci-fi mini-operas, awesomely grandiose and yet disturbingly proximate enough to breathe all that fear right down your neck through your spine.

With Siberia, their first effort in four years, they’ve reversed their polarity, finally hardened into simple, elemental rock goodness.

Morrison turns his ever-honest eyes towards fatherhood and commitment, while the band balance his emotional vulnerability on thin lines of guitar, dangling the whole thing over a churning ocean of rhythm.

Glacier is a journey.

The self-titled album is Maricich’s wobbly reboot after a seven-year absence, and if nothing else, she’s certainly learned the power of the bass.

The record feels experimental and alive because of it. That unpredictability breeds some missteps but for the most part the album is peppered with pleasant, sometimes unsettling surprises.

Ranaldo and his band are unparalleled musicians but have fallen prey to a disaster that normally besets younger bands--a great sound and nothing said.

Hunters isn’t a perfect album, reliant as it is on Almeida’s chirpy, slurry tendencies to bring the joys, but it’s a nice start.

It’s 11 songs of nonstop, downright raunchy blues with lyrics that ooze malcontent and feminism.

Joshua Epstein and Daniel Zott’s latest effort fires on all cylinders throughout (pun intended), continuing their successful blend of modern electronics and a Beach Boys approach to melody and vocal harmony.

Sylvianbriar brings a sunny openness to of Montreal’s ever-evolving cache with its sweeping changes in styles and instrumentation and adherence to more traditional song structures.

He’s taken a sharply intimate and original turn from his debut solo effort and the result is a catalogue of 14--surprise!--super-chill tunes, consistent front to back, although none necessarily a standout.

Two songs from the EP made the cut for the album (“Ready For the Weekend” and, predictably, “I Love It”) and though the latter--a Charli XCX co-written club banger--still stands out high above the rest of the album’s tracks, the songs that comprise This Is...Icona Pop are even larger and louder than their predecessors.

Ambitiously creative though that may be, the results are mixed; while some tracks glisten with Eno-esque ambience, the forced wordplay on others (even delivered stunningly by Mesirow’s Björk-like voice) shatters the mood.

The band sounds more polished than ever, especially when they shed their folk roots, but the funky riffs (“Feel the Chill,” “Drive On Up”) owe more to Songs in the Key of Life than Highway 61 Revisited.

The fearsome, intellectual vitality of her funk-metal-electro freak-outs would surely put any teenager to shame.