Veteran Congolese street-corner band Konono No. 1 chant and whistle, play electrified thumb pianos, and pound intricate rhythms on sheets of metal as well as congas, feeding the hypnotic, cacophonous results through car-battery-powered amps and huge megaphones mounted on poles. Something truly new in pop music? Maybe not, but the blend of beats and noise sure feels fresh. —Steve Kiviat

The dancehall- and techno-informed microgenre of grime is Britain’s best-yet response to American hiphop. And compilation Run the Road is its fiercest statement. A barrage of off-kilter beats, Atari melodies, and Blighty slang, this de facto manifesto contains the funkiest, most infectious avant-garde music 2005 had to offer. —Brent Burton

“There’s no such thing as fake titties,” Tommy Lee once opined, and there’s no such thing as fake indie-rock divas, either. Sure, if you grew up worshiping Astrud Gilberto’s desafinado charm and Tracey Thorn’s outsider cool, you may regard Leslie Feist as a bossa-come-lately poseur. But she wrings poignancy from her limited instrument as alluringly as either, Interscope deal be damned. —Andrew Beaujon

Fans of Justin Broadrick’s previous acts, Napalm Death and Godflesh, already knew that the guy could do heavy. Few, however, suspected that he could also write dreamy, shoegazery pop. Jesu, the hooky-as-hell debut from Broadrick’s new post-metal concern is—pleasant surprise—both at the same time: a Loveless for the Sabbath Bloody Sabbath set. —Brent Burton

Back when the Kool-Aid Man donned a fat gold chain and dropped science about his sugary goodness, he unwittingly strained relations between cartoon characters and rappers. But career collaborator MF Doom, copyright crusader Danger Mouse, and a slew of Adult Swim regulars have repaired the damage with an album that sounds like tuning into Saturday morning with Friday night’s drunk still intact. —Sarah Godfrey

Let us now praise former Fall guys—and promptly forget ’em, because damn if Mark E. Smith hasn’t proved the auteur theory by making this album with a novice crew. It’s a characteristic, near-classic display of tail-chasing grooves and slurred rants whose only weak spot is the obligatory cover version. —Mark Jenkins

The best pop music from New Zealand has always taken the familiar and made it sound alien—like something that could exist only on the other side of the world. In the case of this Auckland sextet, it’s Pet Sounds–era Beach Boys, ever so slightly electrofied, given an almost dubby spaciousness, and hitched to lyrics about zebras. —Leonard Roberge

Don’t pity the poor singers who’ve passed from the outland of critics’ darlings into the exile of “Another good effort from…” At least not this one: England’s most timelessly poetic songwriter, free of the burden of impending stardom, clearly had a fine old time writing, playing, and producing an album in his garage. —Pamela Murray Winters

Bruce’s best since The River finds him waxing, as usual, working-man poetic and, as unusual, working-man pornographic. (See “Reno” for the sexy but sad details.) The disc’s movie-soundtrack strings can be a drag, it’s true, but its bulletproof melodies and dead-on lyrical aim are enough to give Devils & Dust a satanic majesty. —Shannon Zimmerman

Alan Sparhawk canceled Low’s spring tour in support of this album, muttering about everything from “post-traumatic stress disorder” to “good old-fashioned two-faced asshole-ness.” He should get over it already: The combination of his and wife Mimi Parker’s voices is just as jaw-droppingly beautiful set against full-throated rock as it was with the group’s spare early efforts. —Andrew Beaujon